D 

■■■  ~  rt 

0 

u 

m 

0 

^ 

9 

CD 

r-i 

1 

9 

03 

2 

53 

6 

0 

:g 

/ 

.  <■  i 


■:  ■■:    ~ ''    ^-JL  '•^  >;   ; 


^4  1    V,W5  . 


.a^cMM^kiAMk: 


UNlVtRSiTf  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIE90 


«.mr;:'';«>* 


immmiiiiii 

'o^^  01014  4558 


'} 


-  ..^c 


F 


■  /-   ^ 


A, 


C-' 


r  \? 


I 


f  A 


f I  #  #  1, 


I    I 


^2^^5»- 


•rnE 


POETICAL    WOKKS 


THOMAS    MOORE 


A  NEW  COLLATED  EDinON. 


TO    WaiCn    13    ADDED, 


AN     ORIGINAL     MEMOIR, 
BY  M.   BALMANNO. 


[lU   THIS   EDITION,    TIIE   NAMES,    WHICH,    FOE   PERSONAL    AND    POLITICAL   CONSIDERATIONS,   WERE    LEFT    BLANK,    ARE    NOW    FOR 
THE    FIRST   TIME    FILLED    CP,   RENDERING   THE   OBSCDRE    PASSAGES     PERFCCTLT   INTELLIQIBLE.] 


TWO    VOLUMES    COMPLETE  IN   ONE. 


JOHNSON".    FRY    AND    COMPANY, 

27    BEEKMAN    STREET. 


Entered,  accordiug  to  Act  of  Congrew,  by 

JOHNSON,  FRY  is  CO., 

Lo  th«  Clerk'*  Otlice  of  the  District  Couit  of  llie  United  States  for  the  Southern  District 

of  New  York. 


TO  THE 


MAEQUIS    OF    LANSDOWNB, 


ra  GEATErUL  BEUEUBBASOE  Ot 


HEART,!   fOETY    YEARS  OP   MUTUAL   ACQUAINTANCE   AND   PRIENDSHt? 


ASB  INSOBIBED, 


WITH    fBB    BIHCEKSKT    FEKLINQS    CV    ArrECTlOM    AKO    BESraTI?, 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


CONTENTS  TO  VOLUME  I. 


Biogiapliical  and  Lilernry  notices  ol  tho  Author xiii 

THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 

t^dilcr's  Remarks 1 

Preface 3 

First  Angel'a  Story 5 

Second  An^ePs  Story 9 

Third  Augel's  Story 20 

Notes 24 

lUtSII   MELODIES. 

Editor'3  Remarka 20 

Preface 26 

Go  where  Glory  wails  thee 27 

War  Song,    Remember  the  glories  of  Drien  the  Brave ....  27 

Erin!  the  Tear  and  the  Smile  in  thine  Eyes 27 

Oh  !  breathe  not  his  Name 28 

When  he  who  adores  thee ." 28 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 28 

Fly  nut  yet 23 

Oh,  think  not  my  spirits  are  always  as  light 28 

riiough  tho  last  glimpse  of  Erin  with  sorrow  I  see 29 

Rich  and  roi'e  were  the  gems  she  wore 29 

Asa  beam  o'er  the  face  of  the  waters  may  glow 29 

The  meeting  of  the  \\d.B,s 29 

How  dear  to  mc  the  hour 30 

Take  back  the  virgin  page.    Written  on  returning  a  blank 

book 30 

The  Legacy 30 

How  oft  has  the  Benshee  cried 30 

Wo  may  roam  through  this  world 31 

Eveleen's  Bower 31 

Let  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old 31 

The  Song  of  Fionnuala 32 

Como,  send  round  the  wine 32 

Sublime  was  tlie  warning 32 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms 32 

Erin,  oh  Erin 33 

Drink  to  her 33 

Oh,  blame  not  the  Bard 33 

While  gazing  on  the  moon's  light 34 

Hi  Omens .  34 

Boforo  the  Battle 34 

After  the  Battle 35 

Tis  sweet  to  think 35 

The  Irish  Peasant  to  his  Mistress 35 

On  Music 36 

It  is  not  the  tear  at  this  moment  shed 36 

The  Origin  of  the  Harp 36 

Love's  yoting  Dream 36 

The  Prince's  Day 37 

VVeop  on,  weep  on 37 

i.osbia  hath  a  bearaiug  eyo ;. . .  37 


I  saw  thy  form  in  youthful  prime 38 

By  that  Jake,  whoso  gloomy  shore 38 

She  is  far  tVom  the  land 39 

Nay,  tell  me  not,  dear 39 

Avenging  and  bright 39 

What  the  bee  is  to  the  floweret 39 

Love  and  the  Novice 40 

This  life  is  all  checkered  with  plcaaurea  and  woes 40 

Oh,  the  shamrock 40 

At  the  raid  hour  of  night 41 

One  bumper  at  parlihg 4] 

'Tis  the  last  rof.e  of  summer 4; 

The  young  May  moon 43 

The  Rlinstrel-boy 42 

The  Song  of  O'Ruark,  Prince  of  BrcITni 42 

Oh,  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own  - . . , 42 

Faxewel!  I  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour 43 

Oh,  doubt  me  not 43 

You  remeiiiber,  Ellen 43 

I'd  mourn  tbo  hopes 41 

Come  o'er  tho  Rer, 41 

Has  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded 4"! 

No,  not  mors  welcome 45 

When  first  I  m-A  thee ]5 

Uliile  history's  muse 45 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooin.g 40 

Where  is  the  slave 46 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom 40 

'Tis  gone,  and  for  ever 47 

I  saw  fcom  the  beach 47 

Fill  the  bumper  fair 47 

Dear  harp  of  my  country 4fl 

My  gentle  harp 49 

In  the  morning  of  lifo 48 

As  slow  our  ship 49 

\Vhen  cold  in  the  earth 49 

Remember  thee 50 

Wreathe  the  bowl 50 

Whene'er  I  see  those  smiling  eyes 50 

If  thou'lt  be  mine 51 

To  Ladies'  Eyes .  51 

Forget  not  the  Field 51 

They  may  rail  at  this  life 5ii 

Oh  for  the  swords  of  former  time 52 

St.  Senanus  and  the  Lady 52 

Ne'er  ask  tUe  hour 52 

Sail  on,  sail  on 53 

The  Parallel 53 

Prink  of  this  cup 53 

The  Fortune-Teller 5-1 

Oh,  ye  dead 54 

O'Donohue's  Mistress 54 

Echo K 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Objbinqact  nol ^^ 

Thee,  ihce,  only  thee ^ 

Bhall  the  birp,  (hen,  besi.enl 55 

Ob.  •.U«r  9i«hl  i-iichniitili;^ ^^ 

Sweet  InnisrallcD ^*5 

Twas  fn«  of  ihow  drc.ima 57 

Fdlnrsi :  p'lt  on  uwbiie 57 

Quick!  ir«r  luive  bill  a  ajcoiid   53 

Aiitl  duth  iKii  a  ineeliDg  like  tlits 58 

The  .Moinl;»:a  fprile 59 

As  vaiiqiitsh'd  Erin 59 

DcaroutidV  Song 59 

They  know  not  id)  heart (JO 

1  widb  1  was  by  that  dim  lake CO 

She  9>in;oriovc GO 

Sin2.  sin^— Music  was  given GO 

Thuu;^'h  huin>>te  the  banquet Gl 

Bins,  s«eet  llorp Gl 

Sunir  uf  the  Callle  Eve Gl 

Tlie  wiuutenii'/  Bard G-2 

.Alone  m  cruwds  (u  wander  on G~ 

V\*-  a  s«crei  :o  lull  lUee G2 

fuoit  of  Inntsfail C3 

XUv  Nlghl  Dunce G3 

There  nm  suunds  or  mirth 03 

Oh  :   Arrunm»ri%  loved  Armninure 04 

Lay  bi»  swcnl  by  his  side G4 

Oil.  could  wedfi  with  this  world  or  ours 04 

The  wlue<up  is  circling C4 

Tlie  dri'uin  uf  thosu  days 03 

Frum  tins  huLir  the  pledge  in  given 03 

Silence  is  in  uiir  rc::>lal  halls 03 

O  an),  thou  best  and  brijfhtest GO 

Fear  nut  thn^,  wbik*  aruiind  thee 00 

The  ((iirland  1  w;nd  thee OU 

Editor's  Puatscrlpl 07 

Xoles 09 

NATIONAL  AIRS. 

Prcf-ice 73 

A  Tciupte  l«»  Friendship,    (^punish  Air) 73 

Flow  u)i,  ihiiii  sliinini;  rivor.    (rorlii^iese  Air) 73 

All  that's  bright  mtisl  Inde.    (Indian  Air) 74 

Those  vtpniiig  bells.    (Air.— The  Uells  of  St.  felumburgh)  74 

6o  warmly  we  met.    (Ilungiirinu  Air) 74 

Fhoiitd  ih'tM  fund  hopes.    (Portnifitese  Air) 74 

Reiison.  Fully,  and  Uuuiity.    (Italian  Air) 73 

Faro  Ihre  well,  thuu  lovely  onu!     (Sicilian  Air) 75 

IXni  thou  nMneinbir.    (PorMgiieso  Air) 75 

Oh.  Diini>  tn  mo  whi!n  d:iyhi;ht  set!*.    '.Venetian  Air.} 70 

on.  In  Iht;  ftilly  iiiKht.    (Scotch  Air)  70 

Hark!  Iho  «f4{H'rhymn  Is  steidlng.    (Russian  Air) 70 

l^ve  and  ll«i|w.     (SwUs  Alr>  .- 70 

Fhtirv  ctiiofs  a  time.    (Ccrman  Air) 77 

My  harp  has  (HIV  unchiin^iii{(  Ihomu.    (-Swedish  Air) 77 

Oh.  »'»'»<.!  rx-n  when  (IrU  we  hivod.     ((^.ishmerlan  Air)  77 

|V,r..  I...  „r.. I  lUnv.     (t*culch  Air) 77 

C'                          .rid  Ceniiu.    (French  Air) 73 

It..                     Ai.tl.    (Old  KnKlUh  Air) 78 

(.  ,ly  wKiod*  Iho  caMani'l.    (MiiUe«o  Air) 78 

|.«i»n  n  hMr.i'flMtv.    M-nn^f  i«'d'>'*i!in  Air) 70 

.    (French  Air) 70 

.'iieso  Air) 70 

..  70 

..  70 

.  mt 

..  eu 

. .  ta 

t                                                    '...> 80 

^                                               Mr) 61 

Obi  d«f   «  I    -,       ill  ,          »  rt*nru     \,r                                                                 fil 


PACB 

When  first  that  smile.     (Veneliaa  Air)  81 

Peaco  to  the  slumberers!     (Catulonian  Air'i 81 

When  ihon  shall  wander.    (Sicilian  Air) S2 

Who'll  buy  my  Luve-knols?    (Portuguese  Air) M 

See,  the  dawn  irom  heaven.    (To  aii  Air  sung  nt  Rome,  on 

Chrisimud  Ew) S2 

Nets  and  Ciigt-s.     (Swedish  Air) M 

When  Ihroujih  the  Piazzetla.     (Venetian  Air) 83 

Go,  ituw,  and  dream.     (Sicilian  Air) 83 

Take  hence  the  bowl.    (Nenpoiiiau  .Vir) t3 

Farewell,  Theresa !    (Vonelitui  .-Vir) ?3 

How  ofl,  when  watching  stars.    (Savoyard  Air) 84 

When  the  first  summer  bee.    (German  Air) 84 

Though  'tis  all  but  a  dream.    (French  Air) 61 

When  the  wine-cup  is  siniJing.    (Italian  Air)  i?^l 

Where  shall  we  bury  our  shamo ?    (Nespolitan  Air) 83 

Ne'er  talk  of  wisdom's  gloomy  schools.    (.Mahratta  Air) . .  83 

Here  sleeps  the  bard.    (Iligliland  Air) 85 

Do  nut  say  (bat  life  is  waning 85 

The  Guzeiic 85 

No— leave  my  heart  to  rest 80 

Where  are  llie  visions 80 

Wind  thy  horn,  my  hunter-boy 80 

Oh,  guard  our  aOl'Ction 80 

Slumber,  oh  slumber 80 

Bring  the  bright  garlands  hither 87 

ir  in  loving,  sinking 87 

Thou  luv'st  no  more 87 

When  abroad  in  the  world 87 

Keep  Uiuse  eyes  still  purely  mine 87 

Uupu  cuuie  again 88 

When  niglit  brings  thu  hour 88 

Like  one  who,  doomed 88 

When  love  is  kind 83 

IIuw  shall  I  woo  V , 89 

Spring  and  Autumn 89 

Love  alone 89 

editor's  Posltcript 90 

Notes 80 

SACRED  SONGS, 

Thou  art,  O  God.    (Air.— Unknown) 91 

The  bird,  lei  loose.    (Air.— Ueethoven) 91 

Fallen  is  thy  throne.     (Air.— Martini) 01 

Who  18  the  maidV    St.  Jerome's  love.    (.\ir. — Deethoven)  93 

This  world  is  nil  a  Oeeting  show.    (Air.— Stevenson) 92 

Ob  Tliou  who  ilry'st  tho  mourner's  tear.    (.\ir.— llaydn)..  92 

Weep  nut  for  tho^^e.     (Air.— Avison) 03 

The  Hirf  shall  be  my  Iragraul  shrine.     (Air.— Stevenson). .  93 

Sound  ihe  loud  timbrel.     Miriam's  Song.    (.\ir.— .VvJaun)  03 

Go,  lei  mo  weep.    (Air. — Slevonson) 04 

Come  not,  O  Lord.    (Air.— Haydn) 94 

Were  not  the  sinful  Mury's  tears.    (.Vir. — Stevenson) 1)4 

As  down  in  the  sunless  retreats.    (.Mr.— lluydn) 04 

But  who  sliutl  Heo.    (Air. — Stevenson) 91 

Almiylily  God.    Chorus  of  priests.     (Air.— iMoxnrl) 05 

Oh  fair!  oh  purest!    St.  Augusliiiu  to  his  sister.     (.Mr.— 

Moore) 05 

Angel  of  Charily.    (Air.— Handel) 05 

nehtild  tho  sun.    (Air.— Lord  Mofnlnglon) 05 

Lord,  who  shall  bear  that  day,     (Air.— Dr.  Uuyce) 00 

Oh,  teach  me  tu  lovu  tlieo.    (Air.— Haydn) OC 

Wei'p.  children  of  Israel.    (.Mr.— Steveufon) 00 

Llk*'  momltig,  when  her  early  l-reeze.     ^Alr.— Het'lho\cn)  OC 

Cnint.,  ju  diRCwUDoliiie.     (Air.— Gr>iuiun) 07 

Awake,  arlfie,  thy  Light  is  come.     (Air.~-Stuvenson;          ■  07 

Then)  In  a  bleak  desert.    (Air,— CrOM^oiillnl) 07 

Pilice  (Ir»t  Thy  word.     (Air.- Nlch<.|(i»  Freeman) Orf 

lliirk  :  *1)R  the  bree/.n.    (Air.~-UouBHMin) 03 

Where  Is  your  dwelling,  yu  nalnted?    (Air.— lloesu) 08 

lldw  llffhlly  mmiuls  iho  muifo*«  wliiv     ^Mr.*— 'Anmi}  inu\ie)  OU 


CONTENTS. 


Go  forth  to  the  mount.    (Air.— Stevenson) 99 

[a  it  not  sweet  to  think,  hereafter.    (Air.— Haydn) OD 

War  against  Babylon.    (Air.— Novello) 90 

Notes 100 

EVENINGS  IN  GREECE. 

Prel'uco 10- 

First  Evening l'^2 

Second  Evening 11^9 

Notes 1 19 

THE  FUDGES  IN  PARIS. 

Preface 1-0 

I^elter  I.  From  Miss  Biddy  Fudge  to  Miss  Dorothy ,  of 

Clonkilty,  in  Ireland 1-1 

Letter  II.  From  Phil.  Fudge,  Esq.,  to  the  Lord  Viscount 

Castlereagh 122 

Letter  III.  From  Mr.  Bob  Fudge  to  Richiird ,  Esq 124 

Letter  IV.  From  Phclim  Connor  to 125 

Letter  V.  From  Miss  Biddy  Fud^e  to  Miss  Dorothy . .   12G 

Letter  VI.  From   Phil.  Fud^ro,  Esq.  to  his  brother  Tim 

Fudge,  Esq.  barrister  at  law 128 

Letter  VIL  From  Phelim  Connor  to 130 

Letter  VIIL  From  Mr.  Bob  Fudge  to  Richard ,  Esq.. .  132 

Letter  IX.  From  Phil.  Fudge,  Esq.  to  the  Lord  Viscount 

Castlereagh 134 

Letter  X.  From  Miss  Biddy  Fudge  to  Miss  Dorotliy . .  137 

Letter  XL  From  Phelim  Conner  to 13D 

Letter  XIL  From  Miss  Biddy  Fudge  to  Miss  Dorothy 139 

Notes 1^ 

THE  FUDGES  IN  ENGLAND. 

Preface MG 

Letter  I.  From  Patrick  Magan,  Esq.,  to  the  Rev.  Richard 
,  Curate  of ,  in  Ireland 14G 

Letter  II.  From  Miss  Biddy  Fudge,  to  Mrs.  Elizabeth 147 

Letter  III.  From  Miss  Fanny  Fudge,  to  her  cousin.  Miss 

Kitty .    Stanzas  (enclosed)   to  my  Shadow ;   or, 

Why  ?— What  ?— How  ? M9 

Letter  IV.  From  Patrick  Magan,  Esq.,  to  the  Rev.  Rich- 
ard   152 

Letter  V.  From  Larry  0'*Brnnigan,  in  England,  to  his  wife 

Judy,  at  Muilinafad 153 

Letter  VL  From  Miss  Biddy  Fudge,  to  Mrs.  Elizabeth 151 

Letter  VII.  From  Mias  Fanny  Fudge,  to  her  cousin,  Miss 
Kitty .    Irregular  Ode 157 

Letter  Vlll.  From  Bob  Fudge,  Esq.,  to  tlic  Rev.  Mortimer 
O'Mulligan V.9 

Letler  IX.  From  Larry  O'llr.inig.in  to  his  wife  Judy 100 

Letter  X.  From  the  Rev.  Mortimer  O'MuIligan,  to  the 
Rev. 161 

Letter  XI.  From  Patrick  Magan,  Esq.,  to  the  Rev.  Richard 

1G3 

Notes ■- li>4 

FABLES  FOR  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE. 

Dedication.    To  Lord  Byron 166 

Editor's  Preface IGG 

Moore's  Preface 166 

Fable  1.  The  Dissolution  of  the  Holy  Alliance.    A  Dream.  168 

Fable  IL  The  Looking-Class 169 

Fable  IIL  The  Torch  of  Liberty 171 

Fable  IV.  The  Fly  and  the  Bullock 172 

Fable  V.  Church  and  State 173 

Fable  VL  The  Little  Grand  Lama 174 

Fable  Vll.  The  Extinguishers 17B 

ruble  VHL  Louis  Fourteenth's  Wig 177 

Notes 170 

ODFS  OF  ANACREON. 

t)cdie;ilion  to  his  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Wales loO 

Remiirks  on  Anarreon ISO 


L  I  saw  tho  smiling  bard  of  jileasnrc ...  184 

IL  Give  me  the  harp  of  epic  song 184 

III,  Listen  to  the  Muse's  lyre 1&* 

IV.  Vulcaii!  hear  your  glorious  task 18-1 

V.  Sculptor,  wouldst  thou  glad  my  soul 185 

VI.  As  lute  I  sought  the  spangled  bowers 185 

VII.  The  women  tell  me  every  day 1S5 

VIII.  I  care  not  for  the  idle  Btatc 185 

IX.  I  pray  thee,  by  the  gods  above ISfl 

X.  How  am  I  to  punish  thee ISS 

XL  "Tell  me,  gentle  youth,!  i)ray  thee" 18G 

XIL  They  tell  how  ALys,  wihl  with  love 186 

XII L  I  will,  I  will,  the  coufiict's  past ISG 

XIV.  Count  me,  on  the  summer  trees 187 

XV.  TuU  me,  why,  my  sweetest  dove 18? 

XVI.  Thou,  whose  soft  and  rosy  hues 1S8 

XVIL  And  now,  with  all  thy  pencil's  truth 188 

XVHL  Now  the  star  of  day  is  high 189 

XIX.  Here  recline  you,  gentle  maid 189 

XX.  One  day  the  Muses  twined  the  hands 189 

XXI.  Observe  when  mother  earth  is  dry 189 

XXII.  The  Phrygian  rock,  that  braves  the  storm 189 

XXHL  I  often  wish  this  languid  lyre 190 

XXIV.  To  all  that  breathe  the  air  of  heaven 190 

XXV.  Once  in  each  revolving  year 193 

XXVI.  Thy  harp  may  sing  of  Troy's  alarm 191 

XXVIL  We  read  the  flying  courser's  name 191 

XXVIU.  As,  by  his  Lemnian  forge's  flame I'JI 

XXIX.  Vcs — loving  is  n  painful  thrill 191 

XXX.  'Twas  in  a  mocking  dream  of  night 191 

XXXI.  Arin'd  with  hyacinlhino  rod   192 

XXXII.  Strew  me  a  fragrant  bed  of  leaves 102 

XXXIU. 'Twas  noon  of  night,  when  round  tho  pole 192 

XXXIV.  Oh  thou,  of  all  creation  blest 193 

XXXV.  Cupid  once  upon  a  bed 193 

XXXVI.  If  hoarded  gold  possess'd  the  power 193 

XXXVU.  'Twas  night,  and  many  a  circling  bowl 193 

XXXVIII.  Let  us  drain  the  nectar's  howl 194 

XXXIX.  How  I  love  the  festive  boy 104 

XL.  I  know  that  Heaven  hatli  sent  me  here 194 

XLI.  When  Spring  adorns  the  dewy  scene 1&4 

XLII.  Yes,  be  the  glorious  revel  mine 194 

XLIH.  While  our  rosy  fillets  shed 195 

XLIV.  Buds  of  roses,  virgin  flowers 195 

XLV.  Within  this  goblel.  rich  and  deep 195 

XLVI.  Behold  the  young,  Ihu*  rosy  Spring 195 

XL VI I.  'Tis  true,  my  fading  years  decline 196 

XLVIIL  When  my  thirsty  soul  I  steep 196 

XLIX.  When  Bacchus,  Jove's  immortal  boy 196 

L,  When  wine  I  quaff,  before  my  eyes  . 196 

LL  Fly  not  thus,  my  brow  of  snow 197 

LH.  Away,  away,  ye  men  of  rules  197 

Llir.  When  I  behold  the  leslive  train 197 

LIV.  :\lethinks,  the  pictured  bull  we  see 197 

LV.  While  we  invoke  the  wreathed  spring 198 

I.VI.  He,  who  instructs  the  \oullifuI  crow 193 

LVIL  Whose  was  the  arlist-hand  tliat  spread 199 

LVIIL  When  Gold,  as  fleet  as  zephyr's  pinion 199 

LIX.  Ripen'd  by  the  solar  beam 199 

LX.  .-Vwake  to  life,  my  sleeping  shell 200 

LXI.  Youth's  endearing  cliarms  are  fled 200 

LXH.  Fill  me,  boy,  as  deep  a  draught 201 

LXIII.  To  Love,  the  soft  and  blooming  child 201 

LXIV.  Haste  thee,  nymph,  whose  well-aim'd  spear  ...  201 

LXV.  Like  some  wiiulon  filly  sporting 201 

LXVL  To  thee,  the  Q. icon  of  nymphs  divine 201 

LXVH.  Rich  in  bliss,  I  proudly  scorn 20: 

LXVIH.  Now  Neptinio's  moath  our  sky  deforms 20i 

LXIX.  They  wove  tho  loljs  band  to  deck 202 

LXX.  A  broken  cake  with  honey  sweet -. 2(S 

LXXT.  With  t  verity  ch:.^rd5  ray  fere  ii  bnus: 3t)9 


CCiNTEIS'TS. 


TiGK 

LXXII.  Fare  Iheo  we)l.  pcrfjdloua  maid 20-3 

lAXIII.  A-nhiloI  bloora'd  a  happy  flower ^>- 

LXXl V.  Munarch  Love,  resistless  boy 202 

LXXV.  Spirit' of  Lore,  whose  locks  uuroll'd 203 

LXXVI.  llUber,  penile  Muse  of  mine 203 

LXXVIL  Woidd  that  I  were  a  tuneful  lyre 203 

LXXVIIF.  When  Cupid  sees  how  thickly  now 203 

Capid.  whose  lamp  has  lent  the  ray 203 

Ia'I  me  resiffn  this  wicked  breath 203 

I  know  thou  luv'st  a  brimming  measure 2U3 

1  fear  that  love  disturbs  my  rest 203 

From  dread  I^ucidia's  frowning  steep 203 

Mix  me.  child,  a  cup  divine 203 

EPIGRAMS  FROM  TIJE  ANTHOLOGLA. 

Nulice 204 

Klegy  on  Anacrcon 204 

On  Auacreun 204 

Ob  stranger  I  if  Anacreon's  shell 204 

At  It-ngth  thy  golden  huurs  have  wiu^'d  their  flight 204 

Xotea 205 

SATIRICAL  A.VD  UL'MOROUS  POEMS. 

Editor's  Remarks 218 

ToSir  Hudson  Lowe 220 

Amatory  Colloquy  between  Hank  and  Government 220 

Dialogu«t  between  a  Sovereign  and  a  One  Pound  Note 220 

An  Expostulation  to  Lord  King 221 

Tho  Sinking  Fund  cried 222 

'Jde  to  the  Goddess  Ceres.    By  Sir  Thomas  Lelhbridge. . .  222 

A  Hymn  of  Welcome  nfter  the  Recess 223 

Memorabilia  of  Last  Week 224 

All  tn  the  Family  Way.    A  new  Pastoral  BiUlad 224 

Ballad  fur  the  Cambridge  Election 225 

Mr.  Roger  Doilsworth 223 

Copy  uf  an  Intercepted  Dispatch.    From  his  Excellency 
Don  Sirepitoso  Dinbolo,  Envoy  Extraordinary  to  his 

Satanic  Majesty 220 

The  Millennium.    Suggested  by  tho  lato  Work  of  the  Rot. 

.Mr.  lrvlnt(  on  *'  Prophecy" 226 

Tho  Three  Doctors 2i7 

Epitaph  un  a  Tuft-hunter 2-.;8 

Odo  lo  a  Hal 22a 

News  for  Cttimtry  Cousins 228 

A  ViBlon.    Dy  tho  Author  of  Cbrlslnbel 229 

Tho  Petition  of  tho  Orangemen  of  Ireland 230 

Cott'm  and  Com.     A  Diuloguo 231 

The  Canonl/Atlon  of  Saint  Bultcrworth 231 

An  InranUiliiin.     Hung  by  the  Hubble  Spirit 232 

A  Drrnm  of  Turtle.     By  Sir  W.  Curtis 2:12 

Tho  Donkt-y  and  his  Panntcra.    A  Fable 233 

Odp  lo  the  Hubllmo  Porto 2:i3 

Com  and  Catholics 234 

A  Ca»*»  of  Ltbcl , . . .  231 

IJIersry  Ailirrlitproent 235 

Tb»   Iriib  Hlftvr 23(i 

*  Wo  to  Frrdknand 23C 

Mai  ««Tiiia  WlK 037 

TYw  |Vri*tnklrs  and  Ihn  t*oc(istik    A  HalmriKundlan  Hymn  238 

Nrw  Cffralion  of  Pc^m.    Batch  Ih*'  Flml 2:tH 

Hpvfl^h  on  Ihn  l'mbn*IU  Quevlion.    By  I^rd  Kldoti 2:ttl 

A  Pailoral  Ballad.     By  J  ihtt  Dull 240 

A  lat«  Hfnt*  at  Hwano^o, JHO 

Wnn!  Woe! ....,,,,, , 241 

Ti«t  pwir  UTrlp* 241 

''**-'-^  242 

i*"  '•«•    n^  a  Ihin-ly  krpl  la  Town 243 

Th-  "  and  llm  •*  iVad  Lion" 243 

f**'  1 an 

^-  irvwnlOovrrntuoDlor  IrtUad S4I 


PAca 

Tlie  Limbo  of  lost  Reputations.    A  Dream 244 

How  to  Write  by  Proxy 245 

Imitation  of  the  Inferno  of  Dante 210 

Lament  for  the  Loss  of  Lord  Bathuist's  Tail 2-17 

The  Cherries.    A  Parable 247 

Stan/as  written  in  Anticipation  of  Defeat 248 

Ode  to  the  Woods  and  Forests.    By  one  of  I  lie  Board 248 

Stanzas  from  the  Banks  of  the  Shannon 249 

The  Annual  Pill 249 

*'  If  "  and  "Perhaps" 25U 

Write  on,  Write  on.     A  Ballad 251 

Song  of  ihe  Departing  Spirit  of  Tithe 251 

The  Euthanasia  of  Van 255 

To  the  Reverend .    One  of  the  sixteen  Requlsitionists 

of  Noltingham 252 

Irish  Antiquities 253 

A  curious  Fact 253 

New-fashioned  Eclioes 254 

Incantation.    From  the  New  Tragedy  of  "The  Brunswick- 

ers". 254 

How  to  make  a  good  PoHticiau 255 

Epistle  of  Condolence.    From  a  Slave  Lord  to  a  Cotton 

Lord 258 

The  Ghost  of  Miltiades 250 

Alarming  Intelligence— Revolution  in  the  Dictionary— One 

Oalt  at  the  Head  of  it 257 

Resolutions  passed  at  a  lule  .Meeting  of  Reverends  and 

Riglit  Reverends 257 

Sir  Andrew's  Drea.n 25S 

A  Blue  Love  Song.    To  Miss  Martiueau 259 

Sunday  Ethics.    A  Scotch  Ode 259 

Awful  Event SOU 

The  Numbering  of  the  Clergy.    P;irody  on  Sir  Charles  Man. 

William-s's  famous  Odo  200 

A  Sad  Case ..., 200 

A  Dream  of  Mindoslan 201 

The  Brunswick  Club 201 

Proposals  for  n  Gynircocracy.     Addressed  lo  a  late  Radi- 
cal Meeting 20-3 

Lord  Henley  and  St.  Cecilia 203 

Advertisement 203 

Missing 203 

Tho  Danco  of  Bishops;  or,  The  Episcopal  Quadrille.     A 

Dream 204 

Dick  ....     A  Character 205 

A  Corrected  Report  of  some  lalo  Speeches Cfw 

Moral  PoHitions.    A  Dream 200 

The  Mad  Tory  and  the  Comet.    Founded  un  a  late  Distrosu- 

iny  Incident 206 

From  tho  Ihm.  Henry lo  Lady  Emma 207 

Triumph  of  Bigotry 208 

Tranwlatitm  from  the  Gull  Language 21)8 

Notions  on  Reform.    By  a  Modern  Reformer 2G9 

Tory  Pledges 26ft 

St.  Jeromo  on  Earlh.    First  Visit 270 

St.  Jeromo  on  Earth.    Second  Visit 271 

Thoughts  on  Tar-barrels.      (Vido   Description   of  a   lute 

File) 271 

Tho  ConvuUiilitm 279 

To  the  Rev.  Charles  Overton,  Curnto  of  Romnlkirk 272 

Scene  from  n  Play,  acted  at  Oxford,  called  tsMulriculallon'*  273 

Loto  Tithe  Caso 273 

Fool's  Paradise.     Dream  tho  I-'imt 274 

Tho  Rector  and  his  Curate  ;  or.  One  Pound  Two 275 

Paddy's  Metamorphosis 273 

Cocker  on  Church  Reform.    Founded  upon  some  lato  Cut- 

culatloni 375 

l^ii  llommoH  Aulomntes 57b 

How  lo  make  One's  Self  «  Peer.     Acconling  to  the  iirwe«t 

R('C''lpl,nsdl<irliised  In  n  lato  HernUlio  Work 277 

Tbo  Duku  U  the  Liid irH 


CONTENTS. 


vn 


Epistle  from  Erusmug  on  Kiirth  to  Cicci'o  in  llio  Slwuies  ..  279 
Lines  on  tlio  Ufi)arturo  of  Lords  Casllereagh  unci  Sltnvart 

for  ttic  Continent 279 

To  tlie  Sliip  in  wliich  Lord  Casllcrcagli  sailed  for  the  Conti- 
nent    270 

Sketch  of  tho  First  Act  of  anew  Romantic  Drama 280 

Animal  Masnetism 280 

Tho  Song  of  the  Box 2S1 

Announcement  of  n  new  Thalaba.    Addressed  to  Robert 

Southey,  Esq 283 

Rival  Topics.    An  Extrtivafjanza 283 

The  lliiy  Statesman,    lly  a  Tory 283 

Loiter  from  I^nrry  O'Branigan  to  tho  Rev.  Murtagh  O'Mul- 

ligan 283 

Musings  of  an  Unreformed  Peer 284 

Tho  Reverend  Pamphleteer.    .\  Romantic  Ballad 284 

A  Recent  Dialogue 235 

The  Wellington  Spa 285 

A  Character 286 

Aflhost  Story 286 

Thoughts  on  tho  late  destructive  Propositions  of  the  Tories, 

By  a  Common  Councilman ■ 287 

Anticipated  Meeting  of  tho  British  Association  in  the  year 

283G 287 

Songs  of  the  Church.    No.  1 289 

Epistle  from  Henry  of  Exeter  to  John  of  Tuam 289 

Song  of  Old  Puck 200 

Police  Reports.    Case  of  Imposture 290 

Relleclions.    Addressed  to  the  Author  of  tlie  Article  on  the 

Church,  in  the  last  Number  of  tho  Quarterly  Review. .  291 
New  Grand  Exhibition  of  Models  of  the  two  Houses  of 

Parliament 293 

Announcement  of  a  new  grand  Acceleration  Company  for 

the  Promotion  of  the  Speed  of  Literature 292 

Some  Account  of  the  late  Dinner  to  Dan 293 

New  Hospital  for  Sick  Literati 294 

Religion  and  Trade 294 

Musings,  suggested  by  the  late  Promotion  of  Mrs.  Nether- 
coat  295 

Intended  Tribute  to  the  Author  of  an  Article  in  the  last 
Number  of  the  Quarterly  Rcview,'entitled  "  Romanism 

in  Ireland" 295 

Grand  Dinner  of  Type  and  Co.    A  poor  Poofs  Dream —  296 

Church  Extension 297 

Latest  Accounts  from  Olympus 297 

Tho  Triumphs  of  Farce 298 

Thoughts  on  Patrons,  Puffs,  and  other  Matters.    In  an 

f:pistle  fromT.  M.  to  S.  R 299 

Tlioughts  on  Mischief.    By  Lord  Stanley.    (His  first  At- 
tempt in  Verse) 300 

Epistle  from  Captain  Rock  to  Lord  Lyndhurst 301 

Captain  Rock  in  London.    Letter  from  tho  Captain  to 

Terry  All,  Esq 301 

Notes 303 

CORRUPTION,  AND  INTOLERANCE: 
Two  Poems.    Addressed  to  an  Englishman  bt  an  Irishman. 
Moore's  Preface 310 

CORRUJ-TION 311 

Intolerance.    A  Satire 314 

Appendix 315 

Notes 317 

THE  SKEPTIC:  A  Philosophies.  Satire 322 

Picface 322 

Notsi 325 


TWOPENNY  POST-BAG. 
By  Tuomas  Brown  thk  Younoer. 

Dedication.    To  Stephen  Woolriche^Esq 3-:^ 

Preface 327 

Preface  to  the  Fourteenth  Edition.    By  a  Friend  of  the 
Author 328 

INTERCEPTED  LETTERS,  ETC. 
Letter  I.    From  the  Princess  Charlotte  of  Wales  to  the 

Lady  Barbara  Ashley 329 

Letter  II.    From  Col.  M\Malion  to  Goold  Francis  Leckic, 

Esq 330 

Postscript  331 

Letter  III.    From  George  Prince  Regent  to  the  Earl  of 

Yarmouth 331 

Letter  IV.    From  the  Right  Hon.  Patrick  Duigenan  to 

the  Right  Hon.  Sir  John  Nicholl 332 

Letter  V.    From  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Cork    to 

Lady 333 

Postscript 333 

Letter  VI.    From  Abdullah  in  London,  to  Moliassan  in 

Ispahan 333 

Gazel. ., 334 

Letter  VII.    From  Messrs.  Lackington  and  Co.  to 

,Esq 334 

Letter  VIII.    From  Colonel  Thomas  to Skiffing- 

ton,  Esq 335 

Appendix 336 

Letter  IV.    Pago  332 3;i6 

Letter  Vlt.    Page  334 337 

Notes 339 

LEGENDARY  BALLADS. 

Dedication  to  the  Miss  Fieldings 341 

The  Voice 311 

Cupid  and  Psyche 311 

Hero  and  Leander 343 

Tho  Leaf  and  the  Fountain 342 

Cephalus  and  Procris 343 

Youth  and  Age 343 

The  Dying  Warrior 343 

The  Magic  Mirror 343 

The  Pilgrim 344 

1  he  high-born  Ladye 344 

The  Indian  Boat 345 

The  Stranger 345 

Notes 340 

A  MELOLOGUE  UPON  NATIONAL  MUSIC 347 

Advertisement 347 

SET  OF  GLEES. 
MUSIC   BY   MOORE. 

The  Meeting  of  the  Ships 349 

Ilip,  hip,  hurrah! 349 

Hush,  hush! 349 

Tho  Parting  before  the  Battle 350 

The  Watchman.    A  Trio 350 

Say,  what  shall  we  dance  ? 350 

The  Evening  Gun 330 

SONGS  FROM  M.  P. ;  OR,  THE  BLUE  STOCKING. 

Songs .   351,  352 

Boat  Glee 352 

Cupid's  Lottery S.ia 

Song 352 


COI^TENTS  TO  VOLUME  II. 


LALLA  ROOKIl. 

PaCB 

DedicatioG 1 

The  Veiled  Prophet  of  Kiiorassan 3 

Paradise  AND  THE  Peri 28 

The  Fire-\VorsiiippeR3 35 

The  Light  of  tiii  IIaram 59 

Notes G9 


JUVENILE  POr.'aS. 

Prcrace,  by  the  Editor 

Dedication  to  Joseph  Atkinson,  Esq 

I'Viigments  of  Colleffo  Exercises 

Is  there  no  call,  no  consecrating  cause 

Variety 

To  a  Doy  with  a  Watch.    Written  for  a  friend. 

Song 

To 


i^ong 

Song 

Reuben  and  Rose. 

Did  not 

To 


A  Tale  of  Romance. 


To  i\!rs ,  on  some  calumnies  against  her  char- 
acter  

Anacreontic 

To  


To  Julia,  in  allusion  to  some  illiber.al  crilicisras 

To  Julia 

The  Shrine.    To 

To  a  lady,  with  some  manuscript  Poems,  on  leaving  the 

counll-y 

To  Julia 

To  


Nature's  Labels.    A  fragment  . . . . 

To  Ju  lia.    On  her  birthday 

A  Reflection  at  Sea 

Cloris  and  Fanny 

The  Shield 

To  Julia,  weeping 

Dreams.     To 

To  Rosa.    ^Vrittcn  during  illness. 
Song 


The  Sale  of  Loves  . 

To 

To 


On  the  Death  of  a  Lady 

Inconstancy 

The  Natal  Genius.  A  dream.    To ,  the  morning 

of  her  birthday 

Elegiac  Stanzas,  supposed  to  be  written  by  Jul'ia,  on  the 

death  of  her  brother 

To  the  large  and  beiuliful  Miss        .  .  .  ,  in  aliusion  to 

some  p,iitiifrship  in  !i  Inilcry  ^luire.     Inijir^unptu 

1! 


A  Dream 

To 

Anacreontic 

To  Julia 

Hymn  of  a  Virgin  of  Delphi,  at  the  tomb  of  her  mother. . . 

Sympathy.    To  Julia 

The  Tear  

The  Saako 

To  Rosa 

Elegiac  Stanzas 

Love  and  Marriage 

Anacreontic 

The  Surprise 

To  Miss ,  on  her  asking  the  anther  why  she  had 

sleepless  nights 

The  Wonder 

Lying ... 

A  nacreontie 

The  Philosopher  Arislippus  to  a  Lamp,  which  had  been 

given  him  by  Lais 

To  Mrs. ,  on  her  beautiful  translation  of  Voiture*s  Kiss 

Rondeau  

Song 

To  Rosa.,,, 

\Vritten  in  a  commonplaco  book,  called 

Follies" 

To  Rosa 

Light  sounds  the  Harp 

From  the  Greek  of  Meleager 


The  Book  of 


The  Resemblance  

Fanny,  dearest 

The  Ring.    To 

To  the  Invisi  ble  G  ir! 

The  Ring.    A  tale 

To ,  on  seeing  her  with  a  while  veil 

and  a  rich  girdle 

Written  on  the  blank  leaf  ofa  Lady*a  commonplace  book. 

To  Mrs.  Bl ,  written  in  her  album 

To  Cara,  after  an  interval  of  absence 

To  Cai'a,  on  the  dawning  of  a  new-year's  day 

To ,  1801 

The  Genuis  of  Harmony.    An  irregular  ode 

I  found  her  not— the  chamber  scem"d 

To  Mrs.  Henry  Tighe,  on  reading  her  "  Psyche"' 

From  the  High  Priest  of  Apollo  to  a  Virgin  of  Delphi 

Fragment 

A  Night  Thought 

The  Kiss 


Tlis  Catalogue 

Imitation  of  Catullus  to  himself  . . 
Oh  womau,  if  through  sinful  wile. 


rMBm 
07 

97 

97 
98 

93 
08 
98 
99 
99 
99 
99 
53 
10.1 

loi: 

100 
100 
101 

101 
102 
102 

mi 

103 

103 
103 
103 
104 
1U4 
101 
KM 
103 
105 
106 
100 
109 
109 
109 

no 
111 
111 
111 

112 
llil 
113 
lU 
114 
114 
114 
114 
115 
lU 


CONTENTS. 


Soiucnso 

Epigram,  froia  Ihe  French  . 

On  I  squinling  Poetess 

To 


To  Kosa 

Toriiillis 

To  a  UJy  on  her  Biogiug 

Sony.    On  Ihe  birthday  of  lira.  - 

i™> 

Song. 


Written  in  Ireland, 


Addressed  to  1.  Atkinson, 


.Vonility.    A  familiar  epistle. 

Esq.,  M.  R.  I.  A..» 

The  TelHale  Lyre 

Peace  and  Ulory.    Written  on  the  approach  of  war 

Sonj 

Love  and  Reason 

Nay,  do  not  weep,  my  Fanny  dear 

.\?pasia 

rho  Grecian  Girl's  Droam  of  the  Blessed  Islands.    To  her 

lover  

To  Cue.    Imitated  from  .Maitial 

The  Wreath  and  the  Chain 

To 

To 'a  Picture 

Frajnienl  of  a  Mythological  llj-mn  to  Love 

To  liis  Serene  Highness  the  Duke  of  Montpensier,  on  his 

portrait  of  the  Lady  Adelaide  Forbes 

The  Fall  of  Hebe.    .\  dilhyrambic  ode 

Uiii;^  and  Seals 

To  .Miss  Susan  Deckford.    On  her  singing 

Impromptu,  on  leaving  some  friends 

A  Warning,    To 

To 

Woman 

To 

A  V  ision  of  Philosophy 

ToMn 


To  l.aily  llcaihcotc,  on  »a  oM  ring  found  at  Tuiibridgo 

Wells 

TIic  Devil  among  the  Scholars.    A  fragment 

Nolt*s    

P0E.M3  RELATING  TO  AMERICA. 

Dedication,  to  Frrincis,  Karl  of  Moira 

To  l.ord  Viscount  Strangrnnl.    Aboard  the  Pliaeton  n*igate, 

oITthu  Azores,  by  moonlight 

Hancas 

To  Iho  FlylngKlsh 

To  MiM  Moore.    From  Norfolk,  In  Virginia, Nov.  Ifl03  .... 
A  Ballad.    Tlio  Ijiko  of  the  Dismal  Swamp.     Written  nt 

Notfttlk,  In  Vincinla 

To  Uie  Ma/chionrM  Dowager  of  Donegal,    From  Bermuda, 

January,  IHOI 

To  Gr<»r«e  Mur[{an,  F.»q.,  ofNorfolk,  Virginia.    I'Vom  Ber- 
muda, January,  1^04 ; 

I.lnr*  wrilten  In  a  storm  at  sea 

Odf«  to  N"'a  :— 

Nay,  l^mpt  mi*  not  to  love  agnin 

I  pray  you,  Irl  u«  roam  no  moro 

You  r*"-!  It  In  th*-**-  «|M'll-borind  eyes 

A  Dmm  of  Antiquity 

Writ— |M*ar«  to  thy  hnarl,  though  another's  It  bo 

U  I  mm  yntMlirr  wavv,  my  dear 

The  Honw  Hplrll  

•*  n.twrry  bank 

\  ''■  \nli<|up 

a  word  of  thin? 

'  .  r«-|.     From  Itcrm'ida 

I/.    Wtiii-nnI (111.  Ii...i.,i.  friaaie. 


lis 
llG 
110 
IIU 
US 
lie 
116 

117 
117 

117 
lid 
119 
119 
120 
l-.'O 
IJl 

121 
122 
12-2 
123 
123 
123 

124 
1S4 

12G 
12G 
120 
127 
127 
127 
123 
128 
1-29 

129 
130 
132 


win  ■•<  April 


I'lri 

HO 
I4G 
117 
147 
MB 
149 
149 
149 
1,10 
ISO 

131 
111 


To  the  Lord  Viscount  Forbes.    From  tbo  city  of  Washing- 
ton    151 

Lines  written  on  leaving  Philadelpnia 152 

Lines  written  at  the  Cohoes,  or  Falls  of  the  .Mohawk  river  1.13 

Song  of  the  Evil  Spirit  of  the  Wo"'ls 153 

To  the  Honorable  W,  11.  Spencci'.    From  BuSalo,  upon 

L;ike  Erie 154 

Ballad  Stanzas * 155 

A  Canadian  Boat  .Song.    Written  ou  the  river  St.  Lawrence  155 
To  tlic  Lady  Charlotte  R;iwdon.    From  the  banks  of  the 

St.  Lawrence , 155 

Impromptu,  after  a  visit  to -Mrs.  ,  of  Montl'cal 157 

Written  on  passing  Dcadman's  Island,  in  tlio  Gulf  of  St. 

Lawrence,  late  in  the  evening,  September,  1804 157 

To  the  Boston  tVigate,  ou  leaving  Halifax  for  Eugl^a-i,  Oc- 
tober, 1804 „ 158 

Notes Iji) 

BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC, 

To-day,  dearest  I  is  ours IG;, 

W'lien  on  the  lip  the  sigh  delays IG.i 

The  East  Indian 163 

Here,  take  my  heart 1G4 

Oh,  call  it  by  some  belter  name IGl 

Poor  wounded  heart 104 

Poor  broken  llower 164 

The  pretty  rose-tree 104 

The  young  Muleteers  of  Granada 1G5 

Shine  out,  stars! 105 

Tell  her,  oh,  tell  her 105 

Nights  of  music 105 

Our  first  young  love IOC 

Black  and  blue  eyes 100 

Dear  Funny IOC 

From  life  without  freedom lOG 

Here's  the  bower lt>G 

1  saw  the  moon  rise  clear.    (A  Finland  love  song) 107 

Love  and  the  Sun-dial 107 

Love  and  Time 107 

Love's  light  Suminer-cloiid 167 

Love,  wand'rin^  through  the  golden  maze  lOD 

.Merrily  every  bosom  boundetlu    (The  Tyroleso  song  of  lib- 
erty)   108 

Romeinber  the  time.    (The  Castilian  maid) 108 

Oh,  soon  return 108 

Love  thee  ■; 169 

One  dear  sinilo 169 

Yes,  yes,  when  tlie  bloom 109 

The  day  of  love 10!) 

LuHilanian  War  Song 170 

The  you  ng  Rose 170 

\Vhen  ^uidst  the  gay  I  meet 170 

When  twilight  dews 170 

Young  Jessica 170 

How  happy  onco  171 

I  love  but  thee 171 

Lot  joy  nlono  bo  romomber'd  now 171 

Love  thee,  dearest'/  lovo  thee? 171 

My  heart  and  lute 172 

Peace,  peaco  to  him  that's  gone 17'J 

Hose  of  the  desert 172 

' lis  idl  for  Iheo ■. .   173 

The  song  of  tho  olden  timii..' 173 

Wiike  thee,  my  dear,. 173 

The  Hoys  of  Iho  Alps 173 

I'or  then  alone 173 

Hnr  la^l  words,  nt  parting 174 

Let's  lake  this  world  ns  some  wldo  scene 174 

love's  Victory Hi 

Pong  of  llerrules  to  Ills  Daiiffblor 174 

Thu  Urcum  of  llumo ...  I7S 


CONTENTB. 


They  tell  me  tliou'rt  the  favcr'd  guest 175 

The  youn^  Indian  Maid.. IT.'j 

The  Homeward  March ITii 

Wake  ujj,  sweet  melody 176 

Culm  be  thy  sleep 176 

The  Exile 176 

The  Tnncy  Fair 177 

If  thou  wouldst  ha\'e  rae  sing  and  play 177 

Still  when  daylight 177 

The  Summer  Webs 177 

Mind  not  though  daylight 173 

They  met  but  once 178 

With  moonlight  beaming 178 

Child's  Song.    From  a  Masque 178 

The  halcyon  hangs  o'er  ocean 179 

The  world  was  hush'd 179 

The  two  Loves 170 

The  Legend  of  Puck  the  Fairy 179 

Beauty  and  Song 180 

When  thou  art  nigh 180 

Song  of  a  Hyperborean 180 

Thou  bidd'st  me  sing 18t 

Cupid  armed 181 

Round  the  world  goes 181 

Oh,  do  not  look  so  bright  and  blest 181 

The  Musical  Box 182 

When  to  sad  music  silent  you  listen 182 

The  Language  of  Flowers 182 

Ttc  dawn  is  breaking  o'er  us 182 

Noies 163 

THE  SUMMER  FETE. 

Dedication 184 

Ihe  Summer  Fete 1S4 

Song 186 

Song 188 

Trio   189 

Song 189 

Waltz  Duet 190 

Song 191 

Song  and  Trio 191 

eoiig 192 

Song 102 

Song  and  Trio 193 

Song 1 93 

Holes 194 

SONGS  FROM  THE  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY. 

Here  at  thy  tomb.    (Dy  Meleagcr) lO-j 

Sale  uf  Cupid.    (By  Meleager) 195 

To  weave  a  garland  for  tbo  rose.     {By  Paul  the  Silen- 

tiary) 195 

Why  does  she  so  long  delay  ?    (By  Paul  the  Silentiary)  ...  196 
Twin'st  thou  with  lofty  wreath  thy  brow.    (By  Paul  tlie 

Silentiary) 196 

When  the  sad  word.    (By  Paul  the  Silentiary) 19G 

My  Mopsa  is  little.    (By  Philodemus) lUG 

Still,  like  dew  in  silence  falling.    (By  Meleagcr) 197 

Up,  sailor-boy,  'lis  day 197 

In  Myrtle  Wreaths.    (By  Alcajus) 197 

UNPUBLl.SIIED  SONGS,  &.c. 

Ask  not  if  still  Hove 198 

Dear  ?  yes 193 

Unbind  thee,  love 193 

Tnere's  something  sti'ange,    (A  buffo  song) 198 

Not  from  thee 199 

Guess,  guess 199 

When  Love,  who  ruled 199 

Btill  thou  fliest COO 


Tl-.cn  first  from  Love :,00 

Hush,  sweet  lute 200 

Bright  moon 200 

Long  years  have  pnss'd 201 

Dreaming  for  ever 201 

Though  lightly  sounds  the  song  I  sing 2Ul 

The  Russian  lover 201 

RHYMES  ON  THE  ROAD. 

Introductory  Rhymes 502 

Extract  I ,  203 

Extract  II 204 

Extract  HI 204 

Extract  IV 205 

^Extract  V 205 

Extract  VI 20C 

Extract  VII 207 

Extract  VIII 207 

Extract  IX 206 

Extract  X 20fi 

Extract  XI 2OS 

Extract  XII 210 

Extract  Xlir 211 

Extract  XIV 212 

Extract  XV 214 

Extract  XVI 215 

Notes 217 

POLITICAL  AND  SATIRICAL  POEMS. 

The  Insurrection  of  the  Papers,    A  Dream 220 

Parody  of  a  celebrated  Letter 220 

Anacreontic  to  a  Plumassier 222 

Extracts  from  Iho  Diary  of  a  Politician 223 

Epigram 223 

King  Crack  and  his  Idols.  Written  after  the  lato  negotia- 
tion for  a  new  Ministry 223 

What's  my  Thought  like? 223 

Epigram.    Dialogue  between  a  Catholic  Delegate  and  His 

Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  Cumberland 224 

Wreaths  for  the  Ministers.    An  Anacreontic 224 

Epigram.    Dialogue  between  a  Dowager  and  her  Maid  on 

the  night  of  Lord  Yarmouth's  fete 224 

Horace.    Ode  XI.  Lib.  IL    Freely  translated  by  the  Prince 

Regent 224 

Horace.  Ode  XXU.  Lib.  L  Freely  translated  by  Lord  El- 
don  225 

The  New  Costume  of  the  ftlinisters 225 

Correspondence  between  a  Lcdy  and  Gentleman,  upon  the 
advantage  of  (what  is  calledj  "having  Law  on  one*3 

aide" 226 

Occasional  Address  for  the  Opening  of  the  New  Theatre  of 
St.  Stephen,  intended  to  have  been  spoken  by  the  Pro- 
prietor in  full  Costume,  on  the  24th  of  November,  1812  226 

The  Sale  of  the  Tools 227 

Little  Man  and  Little  Soul.    A  Ballad 223 

Keinforcements  for  Lord  Wellington 223 

Horace.    Ode  I.  Lib.  III.     A  Fragment 229 

Horace.  Ode  XXXVIII.  Lib.  L  A  Fragment.  Translated 
by  a  Treasury  Clerk,  while  waiting  dinner  for  the  Righl 

Hon,  George  Rose 229 

Impromptu.  Upon  being  obliged  to  leave  a  pleas&nt  par- 
ty from  the  want  of  a  pair  of  breeches  to  dress  for  diu- 

ner  in 229 

Lord  Wellington  and  the  Ministers 229 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Mr.  Perceval 229 

Fum  and  Hum,  the  two  birds  of  royalty 229 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Sheridan 230 

Epistle  from  Tom  Crib  to  Big  Ben,  concerning  some  foul 

play  in  a  late  transaction 231 

Notes .  23a 


xu 


CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

TAGS 

OecMional  Epilogne,  spoken  by  >Ir.  Corry,  in  Uie  charac- 
ter of  V.nid,  aOer  the  play  of  the  Dramatist,  at  the 

Kilkenny  Theatre -"^ 

Extract  frum  a  Prologue  written  and  spoken  by  the 
Author,  at  Ibo  Opening  of  the  Kilkenny  Theatre,  Octo- 
ber, 1603 ^ 

The  Sylph's  Ball ^^ 

f  ^emonjstrancc *'  " 

>Ir  Oirlh-day ^'^ 

lancy -" 

Song.    Fanny,  dearest ; ™ 

Translalious  from  Catulhis -3' 

Tibullusto  Sulpicia ^^ 

Im'ilaliui).    From  the  French 238 

Innlaliott  to  Dinner,  addressed  10  Lord  Lansdowue 238 

\cr3C3  to  the  Poet  Crnbbe's  Inkstand.    Written  .May,  1832.  239 
To   Caroline,   Viscountess  Vallelort.    Written  at  Lacock 

.\bbey,  January,  1852 2 10 

A  Specutation 240 

To  ray  Mother.    Wrillen  in  a  Pocket-book,  lES 240 

Ixjvoand  llymco 240 

Lines  on  the  Entry  of  the  Austrians  into  Naples,  1S21 211 

Skepticism 241 

A  Juke  Versified 242 

On  the  Death  ofa  Friend 242 

To  Jsmca  Corry,  Esq.,  ot  his  making  me  a  Present  of  a 

Winc<lnilner 2*2 

Fr3^s«a!craClu.<clar 3*3 


FAGI 

What  Shall  I  Sing  thes  ?    To 243 

Country  Dance  and  Quadrille  243 

Gazel 24S 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Joseph  Atkinson,  Esq.,  of  Dublin  . .  24S 

Genius  and  Criticism 246 

To  Lady  Jersey,  on  being  asked  to  write  something  in  her 

Album 246 

To  the  same,  on  looking  through  her  Album 247 

At  night 247 

To  Lady  Holland.    On  Napoleon's  Legacy  ofa  Snuff-box  .  247 

Epilogue.    Written  for  Lady  Ducre's  Tragedy  of  Ina 247 

The  Day-dream 248 

Song 248 

Song  of  the  Poco-curante  Society 249 

Anne  Boleyn.    Translation  from  the  metrical  "  Ilistoire 

d'Anne  Bolcyn" 24D 

The  Dream  of  the  Two  Sisters.    Frota  Danto 249 

Sovereign  Woman.    A  Hallad 250 

Come,  play  me  that  simple  Air  again.    A  Ballad 5^ 

Notes 251 

THE  EPICUREAN:  .\  TiLU 252 

Dedication 252 

A  Letter  to  the  Translator 252 

Notes -  309 

ALCIPIIRON,  A  Fkaghent >1» 

h'oteo B5 


BIOGllAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY  NOTICES  OF  THE 

AUTHOR. 


The  literary  career  of  a  great  author  is  pub- 
lic property,  open  to  the  observation  of  all ; 
but  the  interior  life  is  a  more  hidden  mystery, 
in  proportion  to  its  difficulty  of  access,  stimu- 
lating an  eager  desire  to  behold  him  in  his  daily 
life,  divested  of  exterior  pomp  and  circum- 
stance. To  this  trying  ordeal  men  of  genius 
are  especially  subjected, — happy  for  them  if 
their  sins  and  weaknesses,  instead  of  being  piti- 
lessly assailed,  and  opprobriously  condemned, 
are  allowed,  like  those  of  other  men,  to  pass 
current  as  failings  incidental  to  humanity.  In 
this  respect  Moore  has  been  unusually  fortu- 
nate J  for  though  in  his  early  career,  gay,  bril- 
liant, and  impassioned,  an  enthusiastic  lover 
of  his  country,  and  the  bosom  friend  of  some 
of  those  who  in  the  stormy  struggle  for  liberty 
perished  in  its  cause,  yet  no  shadow  darkens 
his  fame ;  the  evil  arrows  have  glanced  aside, 
and  with  a  name  of  which  Ireland  may  well  be 
proud,  he  now,  at  the  close  of  a  long  and  varied 
life,  awaits  in  the  bosom  of  domestic  peace 
that  inevitable  hour  which  whenever  it  ari-ivcs 
will  deprive  the  world  of  one  in  whom  seemed 
concentrated  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  Minstrel 
Bards,  and  in  whose  vai-ious  melodies  and 
pocmo  every  passion  finds  embodiment  and 
expression.  As  all  personal  reminiscences  of 
">ne  so  distinguished  cannot  fail  to  awaken  a 

.xDWoj-ful  interest,  we  shall  now  make  them 

■oubly  so,  by  transcribing  from  liis  own  nar- 

ation. 

Tl:e  whole  (if  the  poems  contained  in  the 
first,  ft."  veil  as  in  the  greater  part  of  the  sec- 


ond volume,  were  written  between  the  six. 
teenth  and  the  twenty-third  year  of  the  author's 
age.  But  I  had  begun  still  earlier,  not  only  to 
rhyme  but  to  publish.  A  sonnet  to  my  school- 
master, Mr.  Samuel  Whyte,  written  in  my 
fourteenth  year,  appeared  at  the  time  in  a 
Dublm  magazine,  called  the  Anthologia, — the 
first,  and,  I  fear,  almost  only,  creditable  at- 
tempt in  periodical  literature  of  which  Ireland 
has  to  boast.  I  had  even  at  an  earlier  period 
(1793)  sent  to  this  magazine  two  short  pieces 
of  verse,  prefaced  by  a  note  to  the  editor,  re- 
questing the  insertion  of  the  "  following  at- 
tempts of  a  youthful  muse  ;"  and  the  fear  and 
trembling  with  which  I  ventured  upon  this 
step  were  agreeably  dispelled,  not  only  by  the 
appearance  of  the  contributions,  but  still  more 
by  my  finding  myself,  a  few  months  after, 
hailed  as  "  our  esteemed  correspondent,  T.  M." 

It  was  in  the  jiages  of  this  publication, — 
where  the  whole  of  the  poem  was  extracted, — 
that  I  first  met  with  the  Pleasures  of  Memory ; 
and  to  this  day,  when  I  open  the  volume  of 
the  Anthologia  which  contains  it,  the  very 
form  of  the  type  and  color  of  the  paper  brings 
back  vividly  to  my  mind  the  delight  with  which 
I  first  read  that  poem. 

My  schoolmaster,  Mr.  Whyte,  though  amu- 
singly vain,  was  a  good  and  kind-hearted  man 
and,  as  a  teacher  of  public  reading  and  elocu- 
tion, had  long  enjoyed  considerable  reputa^ 
tion.  Nearly  thirty  years  before  I  became  his 
pupil,  Eichard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  then  about 
eight  or  nine  years  of  age,  had  been  placed  by 
Mrs.  Sheridan  under  his  care  :  and,  Strang?- 


XIV 


LITEEAEY  ASB  BIOGEAPHICAL 


to  say,  was,  after  about  a  year's  Uial,  pro- 
nounced, both  by  tutor  and  parent,  to  be  "  an 
incorrigible  dunce."  '  Among  those  who  took 
lessons  from  him  as  private  pupils  were  sever- 
al young  ladies  of  lank,  belonging  to  some  of 
those  great  Irish  families  who  still  continued 
to  lend  to  Ireland  the  enlivening  influence  of 
their  presence,  and  made  their  country-seats, 
through  a  great  part  of  the  year,  the  scenes  of 
refined  as  well  as  hospitable  festivity.  Tlie 
Miss  Montgomcrys,  to  whose  rare  beauty  the 
pencil  of  Sir  Joshua  has  given  immortality, 
were  among  those  whom  my  worthy  preceptor 
most  boasted  of  as  pupils ;  and  his  description 
of  them,  I  remember,  long  haunted  my  boyish 
imagination,  as  though  they  were  not  earthly 
women,  but  some  spiritual  "crcatin-cs  of  the 
clement." 

About  thirty  or  forty  years  before  the  pe- 
riod of  which  I  am  speaking,  an  eager  taste  for 
private  theatrical  performances  had  sprung  up 
among  the  higher  ranks  of  society  in  Ireland ; 
and  at  Carton,  the  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Lein- 
ster,  at  Castlctowm,  Marley,  and  other  great 
houses,  private  plays  were  got  up,  of  which,  in 
r.iost  instances,  the  superintendence  was  in- 
trusted to  Mr.  Whyte,  and  in  general  the  pro- 
lo-jue,  or  the  epilogue,  contributed  by  his  pen. 
At  Marley,  the  scat  of  the  Latouchcs,  where 
the  masque  of  Comus  was  performed  in  the 
year  1T7G,  while  my  old  master  supplied  the 
prologue,  no  less  distinguished  a  hand  than 
that  of  our  "ever-glorious  Grattan,"  furnished 
ihi?  epilogue.  Tills  relic  of  his  pen,  too,  is  the 
more  memorable,  as  being,  I  believe,  the  only 
poetical  composition  he  was  ever  known  to 
produce. 

At  the  time  when  I  fust  began  to  attend 
hiH  fuhool,  Mr.  Whyto  still  continued,  to  the 
no  Hmnil  alarm  of  many  parents,  to  encourage 
II  liiHtc  for  acting  among  his  pujiils.  In  this 
lino  I  was  long  his  favorite  «/(oi«-scholar ;  and 
nninng  the  play -bills  introduced  in  his  volume, 
to  illiiHtmlc  the  ocoasionsof  his  own  i)ro!ogncs 
•nd  o|iil(if{noM,  there  in  one  of  a  play  got  up  in 
the  year  1790,  at  Lady  Borrowcs's  private 
ihratrc  in  Dublin,  whi-re,  among  the  items  of 
Iho  evening' It  pntcrtainmciit,  \h  "  An  Kpilngne, 
A  tyjutftt  Id  St.  J'mirs,  Mnslt'r  Moore."' 

With  acting,  indued,  is  ikssooiatod  tho  very 


first  attempts  at  verse-making  to  wluch  my 
memory  enables  me  to  plead  guilty.  It  was 
at  a  period,  I  think,  even  earlier  than  the  date 
last  mentioned,  that,  while  passing  the  sum- 
mer holidays,  with  a  number  of  other  young 
people,  at  one  of  those  bathins-placcs,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Dublin,  which  aflbrd  such 
fresh  and  healthful  retreats  to  its  inhabitants, 
it  was  proposed  among  us  that  we  should  com- 
buie  together  in  some  theatrical  pcformance  ; 
and  the  Poor  Soldier  and  a  Harlequin  Panto- 
mime being  the  entertainments  agreed  upon, 
the  parts  of  Patrick  and  tho  Motley  hero  fell 
to  n\y  share.  I  was  also  encouraged  to  write 
and  I'ccite  an  appropiiate  epilogue  on  the  oc- 
casion ;  and  the  following  lines,  alluding  to  our 
speedy  return  to  school,  and  remarkable  only 
for  their  having  lived  so  long  in  my  memory, 
formed  part  of  this  juvenile  cllort : — 

Our  Pantaloon,  who  did  so  aged  look, 

Must  now  resume  his  youth,  his  task,  his  book: 

Our  Harlequin,  who  skippM,  laugliM,  danced,  and  diefl. 

Must  now  stand  trembling  by  his  master's  side. 

I  have  thus  been  led  back,  step  by  step, 
from  an  early  date  to  one  still  earlier,  with 
the  view  of  ascertaining,  for  those  who  take 
any  interest  in  literary  biography,  at  what 
period  I  first  showed  an  aptitude  for  tho  now 
common  craft  of  verse-making  ;  and  the  result 
is — so  far  back  in  childhood  lies  the  epoch — 
that  I  am  really  unable  to  s;iy  at  what  age  I 
first  began  to  act,  slug,  and  rhyme. 

To  these  difieront  talents,  siuli  as  they  were, 
the  gay  and  social  habits  prevtiillng  In  Dublin 
afForded  frequent  opportunities  of  display  ; 
while,  at  home,  a  most  amiable  father,  and  a 
mother,  such  as  In  heart  and  head  l>as  larely 
been  equalled,  furnished  mo  with  that  purest 
stimulus  to  exertion — the  desire  to  please 
those  whom  we,  at  once,  most  love  and  most 
respect.  It  was,  I  think,  a  year  or  two  after 
my  entrance  into  college,  that  a  mastiue  writ- 
ten by  myself,  and  of  which  I  had  adiiplcd  one 
of  the  songs  to  the  air  of  Ilaydu's  Spirit-Song, 
was  acted,  under  mir  own  iiiiinblc  roof  in 
Aungicr  street,  by  my  elder  sister,  myself, 
and  one  or  two  other  young  persons.  Tho 
little  drawing-room  over  the  shop  was  our 
grand  place  of  representation,  and  young , 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


XV 


now  an  eminent  professor  of  music  in  Dublin, 
enacted  for  us  the  part  of  orchestra  at  the 
piano-forte. 

It  will  be  seen  from  all  this,  that,  however 
imprudent  and  premature  was  my  first  appear- 
ance in  the  London  wond  as  an  author,  it  is 
only  lucky  that  I  had  r.ot  nmch  earlier  as- 
sumed that  responsible  character  ;  in  which 
ease  the  public  would  probably  have  treated 
my  nursery  productions  in  much  the  same 
manner  in  which  that  sensible  critic,  my  Uncle 
Toby,  would  have  disposed  of  the  "  work 
which  the  great  Lipsius  produced  on  the  day 
he  was  born." 

While  thus  the  turn  I  had  so  early  shown 
for  rhyme  and  song  was,  by  the  gay  and  so- 
ciable circle  in  which  I  lived,  called  so  en- 
couragingly into  play,  a  far  deeper  feeling — 
and,  I  should  hope,  power — was  at  the  same 
time  awakened  in  me  by  the  mighty  change 
then  working  in  the  political  aspect  of  Europe, 
and  the  stirring  influence  it  had  begun  to  exer- 
cise on  the  spirit  and  hopes  of  Ireland.  Born 
of  Catholic  parents,  I  had  come  into  the  world 
with  the  slave's  yoke  around  my  nock  ;  and  it 
was  all  in  vain  that  the  fond  ambition  of  a 
mother  looked  forward  to  the  Bar  as  opening 
a  career  that  might  lead  her  son  to  honor  and 
affluence.  Against  the  young  Papist  all  such 
avenues  to  distinction  were  closed  ;  and  even 
the  University,  the  professed  source  of  public 
education,  was  to  him  "  a  fountain  sealed." 
Can  any  one  now  wonder  that  a  people  thus 
wronged  and  trampled  upon  should  have  hail- 
ed the  first  dazzling  outbreak  of  the  French 
Revolution  as  a  signal  to  tlie  slave,  wherever 
suffering,  that  the  day  of  his  deliverance  was 
near  at  hand.  I  remember  being  taken  by 
my  father  (1792)  to  one  of  the  dinners  given 
in  honor  of  that  great  event,  and  sitting  upon 
the  knee  of  the  chairman  while  the  following 
toast  was  enthusiastically  sent  round — "  May 
the  breezes  from  France  fan  our  Irish  Oak  into 
verdure." 

In  a  lew  months  after  was  passed  the  mem- 
orable Act  of  1793,  sweeping  away  some  of 
the  most  monstrous  of  the  remaining  sanctions 
of  the  penal  code;  and  I  was  myself  among 
the  first  of  the  young  Helots  of  the  land,  who 
hastened  to  avail  themselves  of  the  new  privi- 


lege of  being  educated  in  their  countiy's  Uni 
vcrsity, — though  still  excluded  from  all  share 
in  those  college  honors  and  emoluments  by 
which  the  ambition  of  the  youths  of  the  ascen 
dant  class  was  stimulated  and  rewarded.  As 
I  well  knew  that,  next  to  my  attaining  some 
of  these  distinctions,  my  showing  that  I  de- 
served to  attain  them  would  most  gratify  my 
anxious  mother,  I  entered  as  candidate  for  a 
scholarship,  and  (as  far  as  the  result  of  the  ex- 
amination went)  successfully.  But,  of  course, 
the  mere  barren  credit  of  the  eflbrt  was  all  I 
enjo3'ed  for  my  pains. 

It  was  in  this  year,  (1794,)  or  about  the  be- 
ginning of  the  next,  that  I  remember  having, 
for  the  first  time,  tried  my  hand  at  political 
satire.  In  their  very  worst  times  of  slavery 
and  suffering,  the  happy  disposition  of  my 
countrymen  had  kept  their  cheerfulness  still 
unbroken  and  buoyant ;  and,  at  the  period  of 
which  I  am  speaking,  the  hope  of  a  brighter 
day  dawning  upon  Ireland  had  given  to  the 
society  of  the  middle  classes  in  Dublin  a  more 
than  usual  flow  of  hilarity  and  life.  Among 
other  gay  results  of  this  festive  spirit,  a  club 
or  society  was  instituted  by  some  of  our  most 
convivial  citizens,  one  of  whose  objects  was  to 
burlesque,  good-humoredly,  the  forms  and 
pomps  of  royalty.  With  this  view  they  es- 
tablished a  sort  of  mock  kingdom,  of  which 
Dalkey,  a  small  island  near  Dublin,  was  made 
the  seat,  and  an  eminent  pawnbroker,  named 
Stephen  Armitage,  much  renowned  for  his 
agreeable  singing,  was  the  chosen  and  popular 
monarch. 

Before  public  afiairs  had  become  too  serious 
for  such  j)astime,  it  was  usual  to  celebrate, 
yearly,  at  Dallcey,  the  day  of  this  sovereign's 
accession ;  and,  among  the  gay  scenes  that 
still  live  in  my  memory,  there  are' few  it  re- 
calls with  more  fi-cshness  than  the  celebration, 
on  a  fine  Sunday  in  summer,  of  one  of  these 
anniversaries  of  King  Stephen's  coronation. 
The  picturesque  sea-views  from  that  spot,  the 
gay  crowds  along  the  shores,  the  innumerable 
boats,  full  of  life,  floating  about,  and,  above 
all,  that  true  spirit  of  ynirth  which  the  Irish 
temperament  never  fails  to  lend  to  such  meet- 
ings, rendered  the  whole  a  scene  not  easOy 
forgotten.     Tlic  state  ceremonies  of  tlie  daj 


sn 


BIOGRAPHICAL  Als^D  LITERARY 


were  performed,  with  all  due  gravitj",  -vvithlu 
the  ruins  of  an  ancient  church  that  stands  on 
the  island,  where  his  mock  majesty  bestowed 
the  order  of  knighthood  upon  certain  favored 
personages,  and  among  others,  I  recollect, 
upon  Inclcdon,  the  celebrated  singer,  who 
arose  from  under  the  touch  of  the  royal  sword 
with  the  appropriate  title  of  Sir  Cliarles  Melo- 
dy. There  was  also  selected,  for  the  favors 
of  the  cro>vn  on  that  day,  a  lady  of  no  ordi- 
nary poetic  talent,  Mre.  Battier,  who  had 
gained  much  fame  by  some  spirited  satires  in 
the  manner  of  Churchill,  and  whose  kind  en- 
couragement of  my  early  attempts  in  vereifi- 
cation  was  to  me  a  source  of  much  pride. 
ITiis  lady,  as  was  oflicially  announced,  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  had  been  appointed  his 
majesty's  poetess  laureate,  under  the  style 
and  title  of  Ilcnrietta,  Countess  of  Laurel. 

There  could  hardly  have  been  devised  an 
aptcr  vehicle  for  lively  political  satire  than 
this  gay  travesty  of  monardiical  power,  and 
its  showy  appurtenances,  so  temptingly  sup- 
plied. The  very  day,  indeed,  after  this  com- 
memoration, there  appeared,  in  the  Dalkcy 
slate-gazette,  an  amusing  proclamation  from 
the  king,  offering  a  large  reward,  in  cronebanes, 
(Irish  halfpence,)  to  the  finder  or  finders  of 
his  majesty's  crown,  which,  owing  to  his  "  hav- 
ing me;isured  both  sides  of  the  road"  in  liis 
pedestrian  progress  on  the  preceding  niglit, 
had  unhickily  fallen  from  the  royal  brow. 

It  is  not  to  bo  wondered  at,  that  whatever 
natural  turn  I  tnay  have  possessed  for  the 
lighter  skirmishing  of  satire  should  have  been 
called  into  play  by  so  pleasant  a  field  for  its 
exercise  as  the  state  alfairs  of  the  Dalkcy 
kingdom  nfr)rded  ;  and,  accordingly,  my  first 
uttvmpt  in  tiiU  line  was  an  ode  to  his  Majes- 
ty, King  Stephen,  contrasting  the  happy  state 
of  security  in  which  he  lived  among  his  merry 
liogos,  with  the  "  metal  coach,"  and  other  such 
precautions  against  mob  violence,  which  were 
nnid  to  have  been  Ofloptcd  at  that  time  by  his 
royal  brother  of  England.  Some  portions  of 
thii  juvenile  mpiib  stil  live  in  my  memory  ; 
hut  they  full  far  too  short  of  the  lively  de- 
mandiinfthc  nubjcct  to  bo  worth  prcHcrving, 
f  vim  at  juvenilia. 

Ill  ci.ll.'g,',  till'  firnt  eirruiiiKtuiicc  that  drew 


any  attention  to  my  rhyming  powers  was  mj 
giving  in  a  theme,  in  Englfsh  verse,  at  one  of 
the  quarterly  examinations.  As  the  sort  of 
short  essajs  required  on  those  occasions  were 
considered,  in  general,  as  a  mere  matter  of 
form,  and  were  written,  invariably,  I  believe, 
in  Latin  prose,  the  appearance  of  a  theme  in 
English  verse  could  hardl}'  foil  to  attract  some 
notice.  It  was,  therefore,  with  no  small  anxie- 
ty that,  when  the  moment  for  judging  of  the 
themes  arrived,  I  saw  the  examiners  of  the 
dilferent  divisions  assemble,  as  usual,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  liall  for  that  purpose.  Still 
moi'e  tiying  was  it  when  1  percciv'ed  that  the 
reverend  inquisitor,  in  whose  hands  was;  my 
fate,  had  left  the  rest  of  the  awful  group,  and 
was  bending  his  steps  towards  the  table  where 
I  was  seated.  Leaning  across  to  me,  he  asked 
suspiciously,  whether  the  verses  which  I  had 
just  given  in  were  my  own ;  and,  on  my  an 
swering  in  the  affirmative,  added  these  cheer 
ing  words,  '-They  do  you  great  credit ;  and  I 
shall  not  fail  to  recommend  them  to  the  notice 
of  the  Board."  This  result  of  a  step,  ventured 
upon  with  some  little  fear  and  scruple,  was  of 
course  very  gratifying  to  me  ;  and  the  premium 
I  received  from  the  Board  was  a  well-boinid 
copy  of  the  Travels  of  Anacharsis,  together 
with  a  certificate,  stating,  in  not  very  lofty 
Latin,  that  this  reward  had  hvvn  ccr-vrred 
upon  me,  "propter  laudabilcm  in  versibus 
componendis  progrcssum." 

The  idea  of  attempting  aversion  of  some  of 
the  Songs  or  Odes  of  Anacreon  had  very  early 
occurred  to  me ;  and  a  specimen  of  my  first 
ventures  iu  this  undertaking  may  be  found  in 
the  Duliliii  Magazine  already'  referred  to, 
where,  in  the  number  of  ihat  work  for  Feb- 
ruary, 17!)l,  apjieared  a  "  Paraphrase  of 
Anacreon's  Fifth  Ode,  by  T.  Moore."  As  it 
m.'iy  not  be  uninteresting  to  fiiture  and  better 
translators  of  the  poet  to  compare  this  school 
boy  experiment  with  my  hiler  and  more 
labored  version  of  the  same  ode,  I  shall  hera 
extract  the  specimen  found  in  the  Anthologij, : 

"  l,ct  iix,  will)  thn  cltiatcrlng  viiir, 
Tlio  r(»"o,  l.ovo'»  bliisliInK  Miiwor,  I'lilwlno. 
Fniicy'fl  linnd  iinr  clinpU'rH  wriMithlnit, 
VtirnnI  nwt-tlfi  nrdiiiul  tu  lironth'ni^, 
We'll  Kn>ly  drltik,  lull  Hfiblcln  'Jialttog, 
Al  (yiicliU^  Cun'  HL'ciiriily  hmxIilnK. 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOK. 


xvu 


•*Uo80  I  thou  Ijalmy-Bccnted  flower, 
UearM  by  Spi-iii{;'s  moat  fostering  power. 
Thy  dewy  blossoms,  opcniiif;  brlj;lit, 
To  gods  themselves  can  give  delight ; 
And  Cypria's  child,  with  roses  crown'd, 
Trips  with  each  (Jraco  the  mazy  round. 

"  Bind  my  brows— I'll  tune  the  lyre, 
I*ove  my  rapturous  strains  shall  Ore, 
Near  Bacchus'  gi-ape-encircled  shrine. 
While  roses  fresh  my  brows  entwine, 
Led  by  the  winged  train  of  Pleasures, 
I'll  dance  with  nymphs  to  sportive  measui'es." 

Ill  pursuing  further  this  liglit  task,  the  only 
object  I  had  for  some  time  in  view  was  to  lay 
before  the  Board  a  select  number  of  the  odes 
I  had  then  translated,  with  a  hope, — suggested 
by  the  kind  encouragement  I  had  already  re- 
ceived,— that   they   might  be   considered  as 
deserving  of  some  honor  or  reward.     Having 
experienced  much  hospitable  attention  from 
Doctor  Kearney,  one  of  the  senior  fellows,"  a 
man  of  most  amiable  character,  as  well  as  of 
refined  scholarship,  I  submitted  to  his  perusal 
the  manuscript  of  my  translation  as  far  as  it 
had  then  proceeded,  and  requested  his  advice 
respecting  my  intention  of  laying  it  before  the 
Board.     On  this  latter  point  his  opinion  was 
such  as,  wth  a  little  more  thought,  I  might 
have  anticipated,  namely,  that  he  did  not  see 
how  the  Board  of  the  University  could  lend 
their  sanction,  by  any  public  reward,  to  wri- 
tings so  convivial  and  amatory  as  were  almost 
all  those  of  Anacreon.     He  very  good-natured- 
ly, however,  lauded  my  translation,  and  ad- 
vised me  to  complete  and  publish  it ;  adding, 
I  well  recollect,  "young  people  wll  like  it." 
I  was  also  indebted  to  him  for  the  use,  during 
my  task,  of  Spaletti's  curious  publication,  giv- 
ing a  facsimile  of  those  pages  of  a  MS.  in  the 
Vatican  Library  which  contain  the  Odes,  or 
"  Symposiacs,"  attributed  to  Anacreon.'    And 
here  I  shall  venture    to  add   a   few  passing 
words  on  a  point  which  I  once  should  have 
thought  it  profanation  to  question, — the  au- 
thenticity  of  these  poems.     The   cry   raised 
against  their  genuineness  by  Robertellus  and 
other  enemies  of  Henry  Stephen,  when  that 
eminent  scholar  first  introduced  them  to  the 
learned  world,  may  be  thought  to  have  long 
since  entirely  subsided,  leaving  their  claim  to 
so  ancient  a  paternity  safe  and  unquestioned. 
But  I  am  forced,  however  reluctantly,  to  con- 
c 


loss  that  there  appear  to  me  strong  grounds 
for  pronouncing  those  light  and  beautiful  lyrics 
to  be  merely  modern  faVirications.  Some  of 
the  reasons  that  incline  me  to  adopt  this  un- 
welcome conclusion  are  thus  clearly  stated  by 
the  same  able  scholar,  to  whom  I  am  indebted 
for  the  emendations  of  my  own  juvenile  Greek 
ode : — •"  I  do  not  see  how  it  is  possible,  if 
Anacreon  had  written  chiefly  in  Iambic  dimeter 
verse,  that  Horace  should  have  wholly  neg- 
lected that  metre.  I  may  add  that,  of  those 
fragments  of  Anacreon,  of  whose  genuineness, 
from  internp.l  evidence,  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
almost  all  are  written  in  one  or  other  of  the 
lighter  Horatian  metres,  and  scarcely  one  in 
Iambic  dimeter  verse.  Tliis  may  be  seen  by 
looking  through  the  list  in  Fischer." 

The  unskilful  attempt  at  Greek  verse  from 
my  own  pen,  which  is  found  prefixed  to  the 
Translation,  was  intended  originally  to  illus- 
trate a  picture,  representing  Anacreon  con- 
versing with  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom,  from 
which  the  frontispiece  to  the  first  edition  of 
the  work  was  taken.  Had  I  been  brought  up 
with  a  due  fear  of  the  laws  of  prosody  before 
my  eyes,  I  certainly  should  not  have  dared  to 
submit  so  untutored  a  production  to  the  criti- 
cism of  the  trained  prosodians  of  the  English 
schools.  At  the  same  time,  I  cannot  help 
adding  that,  as  far  as  music,  distinct  from 
metre,  is  concerned,  I  am  much  inclined  to 
prefer  the  ode  as  originally  written  to  its 
present  corrected  shape ;  and  that,  at  all 
events,  I  entertain  but  very  little  doubt  as  to 
which  of  the  two  a  composer  would  most 
willingly  set  to  music. 

For  the  means  of  collecting  the  materials 
of  the  notes  appended  to  the  Translation,  I 
was  chiefly  indebted  to  the  old  library  adjoin- 
ing St.  Patrick's  Cathedral,  called,  from  the 
name  of  the  archbishop  who  founded  it,  Marsh's 
Library.  Through  my  acquaintance  with  the 
deputy  librarian,  the  Uev.  Mr.  Cradock,  I  en- 
joyed the  privilege  of  constant  access  to  this 
collection,  even  at  that  period  of  the  year  when 
it  is  always  closed  to  the  public.  On  these 
occasions  I  used  to  be  locked  in  there  alone ; 
and  to  the  many  solitary  hours  which,  both  at 
the  time  I  jtm  now  speaking  of  and  subse- 
quently, I  passed  in  hunting  through  the  dusty 


lYlU 


BIOGEAPHICAL  AND  LITERAEY. 


tomes  of  this  old  library,  I  owe  much  of  that 
odd  and  out-of-the-way  sort  of  reading  which 
may  be  found  scattered  through  some  of  my 
earlier  writings. 

Early  in  the  year  1790,  while  yet  in  my 
nineteenth  year,  I  left  Ireland,  for  the  first 
lime,  and  proceeded  to  London,  with  the  two 
not  very  congenial  objects,  of  keeping  my 
terms  at  the  Middle  Temple,  and  publishing, 
by  subscription,  my  Translation  of  Anacreon. 
One  of  those  persons  to  whom,  through  the 
active  zeal  of  friends,  some  part  of  my  manu- 
script had  been  submitted  before  it  went  to 
press,  was  Doctor  Laurence,  the  able  friend 
of  Burke. 

llie  testimony  borne  by  so  competent  a 
witness  as  Captain  Hall  to  the  truth  of  my 
sketches  of  (he  beautiful  scenery  of  Bermuda 
is  of  fiir  too  much  value  to  me,  in  my  capa- 
city of  traveller,  to  be  here  omitted  by  me, 
however  conscious  of  but  ill-deserving  the 
praise  he  lavishes  on  me,  as  a  poet.  Not  that 
I  mean  to  pretend  indilTcrence  to  such  kind 
tributes ; — on  the  contrary,  those  arc  always 
the  most  alive  to  praise,  who  feel  inwardly 
least  confidence  in  the  soundness  of  their  own 
title  to  it.  In  the  present  instance,  however, 
my  vanity  (for  so  this  uneasy  feeling  is  always 
called)  seeks  its  food  in  a  diflercnt  direction. 
It  is  not  as  a  poet  I  invoke  the  aid  of  Captain 
Hall's  opinion,  but  as  a  traveller  and  obser- 
ver ;  it  is  not  to  my  intention  I  ask  him  to 
bear  testimony,  but  to  my  mattcr-of-foct. 

"Tlic  most  pK'asing  and  most  exact  descrip- 
tion which  1  know  of  Bermuda,"  says  this  gen- 
tleman, "  is  to  be  found  in  Moore's  Odes  and 
Epi»tle.s,  a  work  published  many  yeare  ago. 
ITie  reason  why  his  account  excels  in  beauty 
as  well  as  In  precision  that  of  other  men  prob- 
ably jg,  that  the  scenes  described  lie  so  much 
Wyond  the  scope  of  ordinary  observation  in 
colder  climates,  and  the  feelings  which  they 
excite  in  the  beholder  are  .so  much  higher  than 
those  produced  by  the  scenery  wc  have  been 
ncf'untomcd  lo  Itx^k  at,  that,  iinlcsH  the  imagi- 
nation be  deeply  drawn  upon,  and  the  dic-tion 
•uataincd  at  a  correspondent  pitch,  the  words 
olonc  Btrikc  tlie  oar,  while  the  listener's  fancy 
remain*  where  it  w.^^.  In  Moore's  account 
ihnrn  is  not  only  no  exaggeration,  but,  in  thi- 


contrary,  a  wonderful  degree  of  temperance  in 
the  midst  of  a  feast  which  to  his  rich  fancy 
must  have  been  peculiarly  tempting.  lie  has 
contrived  by  a  magic  peculiarly  his  own,  yet 
without  departing  from  the  truth,  to  sketch 
what  was  before  him  with  a  fervor  which 
those  who  have  never  been  on  the  spot  might 
well  be  e.\cused  for  setting  down  as  the  sport 
of  the  poet's  invention."^ 

How  truly  politic  it  is  in  a  poet  to  connect 
his  verse  with  well-known  and  interesting  lo 
calities, — to  wed  his  song  to  scones  already 
invested  with  fame,  and  thus  lend  it  a  chance 
of  sharing  the  charm  which  encircles  them, — I 
have  myself,  in  more  than  one  instance,  very 
agreeably  experienced.  Among  the  memorials 
of  this  description,  which,  as  I  learn  with  pleas- 
ure and  pride,  still  keep  me  remembered  in 
some  of  those  beautiful  regions  of  the  West 
which  I  visited,  I  shall  mention  but  one  slight 
instance,  as  showing  how  potently  the  Genius 
of  the  Place  may  lend  to  a  song  a  life  and  iin- 
porishablcncss  to  which,  in  itself,  it  boasts  no 
claim  or  pretension.  'Jhe  following  lines  in 
one  of  my  Bermudian  poems, 

'Twas  there,  in  the  shade  of  Uie  0al;il)asli  Tree, 
\Vith  a  few  wbu  could  feul  and  remember  like  mo. 

Still  live  in  memory,  I  am  told,  on  those  fairy 
shores,  connecting  my  name  with  the  pictu- 
resque spot  they  describe,  and  the  noble  old 
tree  which  I  believe  still  adorns  it.'  One  of 
the  few  treasures  (of  any  kind)  I  can  boast  the 
possession  of,  is  a  goblet  formed  of  one  of  the 
fruit-shells  of  this  remarkable  tree,  >\hich  was 
brought  from  Bermuda,  a  few  years  since,  by 
Mr.  Dudley  Costcllo,  and  which  that  gentle- 
man, having  had  it  tastefully  mounted  as.  a 
goblet,  very  kindly  presented  lo  nie  ;  the  fol- 
lowing words  being  part  of  the  inscription 
which  it  bears: — "To  Thomas  Moore,  Esq., 
this  cup,  formed  of  a  calabash  which  grow  on 
the  tree  that  bears  his  name,  near  Walsinghaui, 
Bermuda,  is  inscribed  by  one  who,"  &c.,  iic. 
From  Bermuda  1  jirocecdcil  in  the  Boston, 
with  my  friend  Captain  (now  Ailiniral)  .L  K. 
Douglas,  to  New  York,  from  whence,  after  a 
short  slay,  we  saileil  to  Norn)lk,  in  Virginia; 
and  about  the  beginning  of  .iuiic,  1801,  I  set 
out  from  that  city  on  a  tour  vhrough  part  of 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


XIX 


the  States.  At  Washington,  I  passed  some 
days  with  the  English  ministor,  Mr.  Merry ; 
and  was,  by  him,  presented  at  the  levee  of  the 
President,  Jefferson,  whom  1  found  sitting  with 
General  Dearborn  and  by  one  or  two  other 
officers,  and  in  the  same  hoinely  costume,  com- 
prising slippers  and  Connemara  stockings,  in 
which  Mr.  Merry  had  been  received  by  him — 
much  to  that  formal  minister's  horror — when 
waiting  upon  him,  in  full  dress,  to  deliver  his 
credentials.  My  single  interview  with  this 
remarkable  person  was  of  very  short  duration  ; 
but  to  have  seen  and  spoken  to  the  man  who 
drew  up  the  Declaration  of  American  Inde- 
pendence was  an  event  not  to  be  forgotten. 

Reaching,  for  the  second  time,  New  York, 
I  set  out  from  thence  on  the  now  familiar  and 
easy  enterprise  of  visiting  the  Falls  of  Niagara. 
It  is  but  too  true  of  all  grand  objects,  whether 
in  nature  or  art,  that  facility  of  access  to  them 
much  diminish  the  feeling  of  reverence  they 
ought  to  inspire.  Of  this  fault,  however,  the 
route  to  Niagara,  at  that  period — at  least  the 
portion  of  it  which  led  through  the  Genessee 
country — could  not  justly  be  accused.  The 
latter  part  of  the  journey,  which  lay  chiefly 
through  yet  but  halfcleared  wood,  we  were 
obliged  to  perform  on  foot ;  and  a  slight  acci- 
dent I  met  with,  in  the  course  of  our  rugged 
walk,  laid  me  up  for  some  days  at  Buffalo. 
To  the  rapid  growth,  in  that  wonderful  region, 
of,  at  least,  the  materials  of  civilization, — how- 
ever ultimately  they  may  be  turned  to  ac- 
count,— this  flourishing  town,  which  stands 
on  Lake  Erie,  bears  most  ample  testimony. 
Though  little  better,  at  the  time  when  I  visited 
it,  than  a  mere  village,  consisting  chiefly  of 
huts  and  wigwams,  it  is  now,  by  all  accounts, 
a  populous  and  splendid  city,  with  five  or  six 
churches,  to\vn-hall,  theatre,  and  other  such 
appurtenances  of  a  capital. 

In  adverting  to  the  comparatively  rude 
state  of  Buffalo  at  that  period,  I  should  be 
angrateful  where  I  to  omit  mentioning,  that, 
even  then,  on  the  shores  of  those  far  lakes,  the 
title  of  "  Poet," — however  unworthily  in  that 
instance  bestowed, — bespoke  a  kind  and  dis- 
tinguishing welcome  for  its  wearer ;  and  that 
the  captain  who  commanded  the  packet  in 
which  I  crossed  Lake  Ontario,'  in  addition  to 


other  marks  of  courtesy,  begged,  on  parting 
with  me,  to  be  allowed  to  decline  payment  for 
my  passage. 

When  we  arrived,  at  length,  at  the  inn,  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  Falls,  it  was  too  late 
to  think  of  visiting  them  that  evening ;  and  I 
lay  awake  almost  the  whole  night  with  the 
sound  of  the  cataract  in  my  ears.  The  day 
following  I  consider  as  a  sort  of  era  in  my  life ; 
and  the  first  glimpse  I  caught  of  that  wonder- 
ful cataract  gave  me  a  feeling  which  nothing 
in  this  world  can  ever  awaken  again.  It  was 
through  an  opening  among  the  trees,  as  we 
approached  the  sput  where  the  full  view  of  the; 
Falls  was  to  burst  upon  us,  that  I  caught  this 
glimpse  of  the  mighty  mass  of  waters  folding 
smoothly  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice ;  and 
so  overwhelming  was  the  notion  it  gave  me 
of  the  awful  spectacle  I  was  approaching,  that, 
during  the  short  interval  that  followed,  imagi- 
nation had  far  outrun  the  reality  ;  and,  vast 
and  wonderful  as  was  the  si'ene  that  then 
opened  upon  me,  my  first  feeling  was  that  of 
disappointment.  It  would  have  been  impos- 
sible, indeed,  for  any  thing  real  to  come  up  to 
the  vision  I  had,  in  these  few  seconds,  formed 
of  it ;  and  those  awful  scriptural  words,  "  The 
fountains  of  the  great  deep  were  broken  up," 
can  alone  give  any  notion  of  the  vague  won- 
ders for  which  I  was  prepared. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  start  thus  got  by  imagi- 
nation, the  triumph  of  reality  was,  in  the  end, 
but  the  greater ;  for  the  gradual  glory  of  the 
scene  that  opened  upon  me  soon  took  posses- 
sion of  my  whole  mind;  presenting,  from  day 
to  day,  some  new  beauty  or  wonder,  and,  like 
all  that  is  most  sublime  in  nature  or  art,  awa- 
kening sad  as  well  as  elevating  thoughts.  I 
retain  in  my  memory  but  one  other  dream-  - 
for  such  do  events  so  long  past  appear — which 
can  in  any  respect  be  associated  with  the  grand 
vision  I  have  just  been  describing;  and,  ho>s- 
ever  different  the  nature  of  their  appeals  to  the 
imagination,  I  should  find  it  difficult  to  say  oil 
which  occasion  I  felt  most  deeply  affected, 
when  looking  on  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  or  when 
standing  by  moonlight  among  the  ruins  of  the 
Coliseum. 

Some  changes,  I  understand,  injurious  to  the 
beauty  of  the  scene^  have  taken  place  In  the 


rx 


BIOGEAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY 


shape  of  the  Falls  since  the  time  of  my  visit 
to  them ;  and  among  these  is  the  total  dis- 
appearance, by  the  gradual  crumbling  away  of 
the  rock,  of  the  small  leafy  island  which  then 
Btood  near  the  edge  of  the  Great  Fall,  and 
whose  tranquillity  and  unapproachableness,  in 
the  midst  of  so  mucli  turmoO,  lent  it  an  inter- 
est which  I  thus  tried  to  avail  myself  of,  in  a 
Song  of  the  Spirit  of  that  region :' — 

There,  amid  the  island-sedge, 
Just  above  the  cataract's  edge, 
Where  the  foot  or  living  man 
Never  trod  since  time  began, 
-     Lone  I  sit  at  close  of  day,  &c.,  &c. 

Another  characteristic  feature  of  the  vicinity 
of  the  Falls,  which,  I  understand,  no  longer 
exists,  was  the  interesting  settlement  of  the 
Tuscarora  Indians.  With  the  gallant  Brock,' 
who  then  commanded  at  Fort  George,  I  passed 
the  greater  part  of  my  time  during  the  few 
weeks  I  remained  at  Niagara :  and  a  visit  I 
paid  to  these  Indians,  in  company  with  him 
and  his  brother  officers,  on  his  going  to  dis- 
tribute among  them  the  customary  presents 
and  prizes,  was  not  the  least  curious  of  the 
many  new  scenes  I  witnessed.  These  people 
received  us  in  all  their  ancient  costume.  The 
young  men  exhibited  for  our  amusement  in 
the  race,  tlie  bat-game,  and  other  sports,  while 
the  old  men  and  the  women  sat  in  groups 
under  the  surrounding  trees ;  and  the  whole 
scene  wa-s  as  picturesque  and  beautiful  as  it 
■was  new  to  me.  It  is  said  that  West,  the 
American  painter,  vhcn  he  first  .saw  the 
Apollo,  at  Iiome,  esclaii.icd  instantly,  "  A 
young  Indian  warrior !" — and,  however  start- 
ling the  association  m.iy  appear,  some  of  the 
graceful  and  agile  forms  whicli  I  saw  that,  day 
xunong  the  Tuscaroras  were  such  as  would 
account  for  its  arising  in  the  yoinig  painter's 
mind. 

After  crossing  "the  fresh-water  ocean"  of 
fJptario,  I  pa-s.scd  dcjwn  the  St.  Lawrence  to 
Montreal  and  (iuel)ec,  ntnying  for  a  short  time 
ut  ctu'h  of  these  plnccjt;  and  tliis  part  of  my 
j"iimcy,as  well  as  my  voyogc  on  from  Qiiel)cc 
to  IlnllfnK,  U  sufficiently  traceable  through  the 
few  picccn  of  poetry  that  were  suggested  to  me 
by  HTcncfl  and  ovvntx  on  the  way.  And  hero  I 
tnii«t  again  v>-nluro  to  nvnil   niywlf  of  the 


valuable  testimony  of  Captain  Hall  to  ttie 
truth  of  my  descriptions  of  some  of  Ihosu 
scenes  through  which  liis  more  practised  eye 
followed  me ; — taking  the  liberty  to  omit  in 
my  extracts,  as  far  as  may  be  done  without 
injury  to  the  style  or  context,  some  of  that 
generous  surplusage  of  praise  in  which  friendly 
criticism  delights  to  indulge. 

In  speaking  of  an  e.xcursion  he  had  made  up 
the  river  Ottawa, — "a  stream,"  he  adds, 
"  wliich  has  a  classical  place  in  every  one's 
imagination  from  Moore's  Canadian  Boat 
Song,"  Captain  Hall  proceeds  as  follows : — 
"  Wliile  the  poet  above  alluded  to  has  retained 
all  that  is  essentially  characteristic  and  pleasing 
in  these  boat  songs,  and  rejected  all  that  is  not 
so,  he  has  contrived  to  borrow  his  inspiration 
from  numerous  surrounding  circumstanees, 
presenting  nothing  remarkable  to  the  dull  sen- 
ses of  ordinary  travellers.  Yet  these  highly 
poetical  images,  drawn  in  this  way,  as  it  were 
carelessly  and  from  every  hand,  he  has  com- 
bined with  such  graphic — I  had  almost  said 
geographical — truth,  tliat  the  ell'ect  is  great, 
even  upon  those  who  have  never,  with  their 
own  eyes,  seen  the  '  Utawa's  tide,'  nor  '  flown 
down  the  Kapids,'  nor  heard  the  '  bell  of  St. 
Aime's  toll  its  evening  chime;'  while  the 
same  lines  give  to  distant  regions,  previously 
consecrated  in  our  imagination,  a  vividness  of 
interest,  when  viewed  on  the  spot,  of  which  it 
is  difficult  to  say  how  much  is  due  to  the 
magic  of  the  poetry,  and  how  much  to  the 
beauty  of  the  real  scene.  It  is  singularly 
gratifying,"  the  author  adds,  "to  diseover 
that,  to  this  hour,  the  Canadian  voijageurs  never 
omit  their  offerings  to  the  shrine  of  St.  .Vnne, 
before  engaging  in  any  enterprise ;  and  that 
during  its  performance,  tiiey  omit  no  opportu- 
nity of  keeping  up  so  propitious  an  intercourse. 
The  flourishing  village  which  surrounds  the 
church  on  the  Mireen  Isle'  in  i|ucstioii  owes 
its  existence  and  support  entirely  to  thani) 
pious  contributions." 

While  on  the  suTiject  of  the  Canadian  Bout 
Song,  an  anecxiotc  connected  with  that  onco- 
j>opular  ballad  may,  for  my  musical  readei's  at 
least,  possess  some  inlercst.  A  few  yearn 
Hinco,  while  Hlaying  in  l)ul)lin,  I  was  [>ro»cnted, 
nl   his  own   re(|ucst,  to  a,  gentleman  who  told 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


TCTn 


me  that  his  family  had  in  their  possession  a 
curious  relic  of  my  youthful  days, — being  the 
first  no*:ation  I  had  made,  in  pencilling,  of  the 
air  and  words  of  the  Canadian  Boat  Song, 
i\hilc  on  my  way  down  the  St.  Lawrence, — 
and  that  it  was  their  wish  I  should  add  my 
signature  to  attest  the  authenticity  of  the  au- 
tograph. I  assured  him  with  truth  that  I  had 
wholly  forgotten  eves  the  existence  of  such  a 
memorandum ;  that  it  would  be  as  much  a 
curiosity  to  myself  as  it  could  be  to  any  one 
else,  and  that  I  should  feel  thankful  to  be  al- 
lowed to  see  it.  In  a  day  or  two  after,  my 
request  was  complied  with,  and  the  following 
is  the  history  of  this  musical  "relic." 

In  my  passage  down  the  St.  Lawrence,  I  had 
with  me  two  travelling  companions,  one  of 
whom,  named  Harkness,  the  son  of  a  wealthy 
Dublin  merchant,  has  been  some  years  dead. 
To  this  young  friend,  on  parting  with  him,  at 
Quebec,  I  gave,  as  a  keepsake,  a  volume  I  had 
been  reading  on  the  way, — Priestley's  Lec- 
tures on  History  ;  and  it  was  upon  a  fly-leaf 
of  this  volume  I  found  I  had  taken  down,  in 
pencilling,  both  the  notes  and  a  few  of  the 
words  of  the  original  song  by  which  my  own 
boat-glee  had  been  suggested.  The  following 
is  the  forjn  of  my  memorandum  of  the  origi- 
nal air : — 


f?^^m^ 


^ 


Tlien  follows,  as  pencilled  down  at  the  same 
moment,  the  first  verse  of  my  Canadian  Boat 
Song,  with  air  and  words  as  they  are  at  pres- 
ent. From  all  this  it  will  be  perceived,  that, 
in  my  own  setting  of  the  air,  I  departed  in 
almost  every  respect  but  the  time  from  the 
strain  our  voyageurs  had  sung  to  us,  leaving 
the  music  of  the  glee  nearly  as  much  my  own 
as  the  words.     Yet.  how  strongly  impressed  I 


had  become  with  the  notion  that  this  was  thn 
identical  air  sung  by  the  boatmen, — how 
closely  it  linked  itself  in  my  inuigination  with 
the  scenes  and  sounds  amid^it  whicli  it  had  oc- 
curred to  me, — may  be  seen  by  reference  to  a 
note  appended  to  the  glee  as  first  published, 
which  is  as  fi;llows  : — 

I  wrote  these  words  to  an  air  which  our 
boatmen  sung  to  us  frequently.  The  wind 
was  so  unfavorable  that  they  were  obliged  to 
row  all  the  way,  and  we  were  five  days  in  de- 
scending the  river  from  Kingston  to  Montreal, 
exposed  to  an  intense  sun  during  the  day,  and 
at  night  forced  to  take  shelter  from  the  dews 
in  any  miserable  hut  upon  the  banks  that 
would  receive  us.  But  the  magnificent  scenery 
of  the  St.  Lawrence  rejiays  all  such  difficul- 
ties. 

Our  voi/iiffeurs  had  good  voices,  and  sung 
perfectly  in  tune  together.  The  original  words 
of  the  air,  to  which  I  adapted  these  stanzas, 
appeared  to  be  a  long,  incoherent  story,  of 
which  I  could  understand  but  little,  from  the 
barbarous  pronunciation  of  the  Canadians. 
It  begins 

Dan3  nion  chemin  j'ai  rencontr6 
Deux  civaliers  trcs-bien  monlti3  ; 

And  the  refrain  to  every  verse  was, 

A  I'ombro  d*UD  boiaje  m'en  vui8  jouer, 
A  Pombre  d'un  bois  J9  m'en  vaia  daij-ier. 

I  ventured  to  harmonize  this  air,  and  have 
published  it.  Without  that  charm  which  as- 
sociation  gives  to  every  little  memorial  of 
scenes  or  feelings  that  are  past,  the  melody 
may,  perhaps,  be  thought  common  and  tri- 
fling ;  but  I  remember  when  we  have  entered, 
at  sunset,  upon  one  of  those  beautiful  lakes, 
into  which  the  St.  Lawrence  so  grandly  and 
unexpectedly  opens,  I  have  heard  this  simple 
air  ^v■ith  a  pleasure  which  the  finest  composi- 
tions  of  the  fii'st  masters  have  never  given  me ; 
and  now  there  is  not  a  note  of  it  which  does 
not  recall  to  my  memory  the  dip  of  our  oara 
in  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  flight  of  our  boat 
down  the  Rapids,  and  all  those  new  and  (anei- 
ful  impressions  to  which  my  heart  was  alive 
during  the  whole  of  this  very  interesting  voy- 
age. 

The  above  stanzas  are  supposed  to  be  sung 


xxu 


BIOGEAPHICAL  A^'D  LITERAEY 


by  those  voyageurs  who  go  to  the  Grand  Por- 
tage by  the  Utawas  River.  For  an  account 
of  this  wonderful  undertaking,  see  Sir  Alexan- 
der Mackenzie's  General  ILstory  of  the  Fur 
Trade,  prefixed  to  his  Joui-nal. 

To  the  few  desultory  and,  perhaps,  valueless 
recollections  I  have  thus  called  up,  respecting 
the  contents  of  our  second  volume,  I  have  only 
to  add,  that  the  heavy  storm  of  censure  and 
criticism — some  of  it,  I  fear,  but  too  well  de- 
served— which,  both  in  America  and  in  En- 
gland, the  publication  of  my  "  Odes  and  Epis- 
tles" drew  down  upon  me,  was  followed  by 
results  wliich  have  far  more  than  compensated 
for  any  pain  such  attacks  at  the  time  may 
have  inflicted.  In  the  most  formidable  of  all 
my  censors,  at  tliat  period, — the  great  master 
of  the  art  of  criticism,  in  our  day, — 1  have 
found  ever  since  one  of  the  most  cordial  and 
highly  valued  of  all  my  friends;  while  the 
good-will  1  liave  experienced  from  more  than 
one  distinguished  American  siillioiently  assures 
me  that  any  injustice  1  may  have  done  to  that 
land  of  freemen,  if  not  long  since  wholly  for- 
gotten, is  now  remembered  only  to  be  for- 
given. 

As  some  consolation  to  me  for  the  onsets 
of  criticism,  1  received,  shortly  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  my  volume,  a  letter  from  Stock- 
holm, addressed  to  "  the  author  of  Epistles, 
Odes,  and  other  poems,"  and  informing  me 
that  '■  the  Princes,  Nobles,  and  Gentlemen, 
who  composed  the  General  Chapter  of  the 
most  Illustrious,  Equestrian,  Secular,  and 
Cliiiplcral  Order  of  St.  .loachim,"  had  elected 
mo  .iH  a  Knight  of  this  (Jrdcr.  iXotwithstand- 
iiig  the  grave  and  official  style  of  the  letter,  I 
regarded  it,  I  o\m,  at  first,  as  a  mere  ponderous 
piece  of  pleasantry ;  and  even  suspected  that 
in  the  name  of  St.  "Joachim"  I  could  detect 
the  low  and  irreverent  pun  of  St.  .lokehim. 

On  H  little  inriuiry,  however,  I  learned  that 
thero  aclwnlly  existed  hucIi  an  order  of  knights 
hoo<l ;  that  the  title,  insignia,  ifec,  conferreil 
by  it  hail.  In  the  inHtanres  of  Lord  Nelson,  the 
Duke  of  lionillon,  and  Colonel  ImliofT,  who 
wtTf  id!  KnightH  of  St.  .loachim,  been  aulho- 
rizw!  liy  the  I'riti'^li  court;  but  tiiat  Bincelhen, 
tiii.'»  Haiic'tiiin  of  the  order  hail  been  withdrawn. 
Of  courAO,  to  tlie  riHliiction  thus  caused  in  the 


value  of  the  honor  was  owing  its  descent  in 
the  scale  of  distinction  to  '•  such  small  deer" 
of  Parnassus  as  myself.  I  wrote  a  letter, 
however,  full  of  grateful  ackno^yledgment,  to 
Monsieur  Ilansson,  the  Vice-Chancellor  of  the 
Order,  saying  that  I  was  unconscious  of  having 
entitled  myself,  by  any  public  service,  to  a 
reward  due  only  to  the  benefactors  of  man- 
kind ;  and  therefore  begged  leave  most  respect- 
fully to  decline  it. 

"  Corruption"  and  "Intolerance"  in  the  year 
1808,  and  "The  Skeptic"  in  the  year  follow- 
ing,  three  satirical  Poems,  were  published 
originally  without  the  author's  name.  The 
political  opinions  adopted  in  the  first  of  these 
Satires — the  Poem  on  Corruption — were  chief- 
ly caught  up,  as  is  intimated  in  the  original 
Preface,  tVom  the  writings  of  Bolingbroke,  Sir 
William  Wyndham,  and  other  statesmen  of 
that  factious  period,  when  the  same  sort  of 
alliance  took  place  between  Toryism  and  what 
is  now  called  IJadicalism,  which  is  always 
likely  to  ensue  on  the  ejection  of  the  Tory 
party  from  power."  In  the  somewhat  rash 
eilusion,  it  will  be  seen  that  neither  of  the  two 
great  English  parties  is  handled  with  much 
respect ;  and  I  remember  being  taken  to  task, 
by  one  of  the  few  of  my  Whig  acquaintances 
tliat  ever  looked  into  the  poem,  for  the  follow- 
ing allusion  to  the  silencing  efl'ects  of  official 
station  on  cerUvin  orators  : — 

.\s  bees,  on  flowora  nligbting,  ccaao  Iheir  hum. 
Ho,  actlliii?  upon  phiccs,  Whigs  grow  dumb. 

I'ut  these  attempts  of  mine  in  the  stately, 
Juvonalian  style  of  satire,  met  with  Init  little 
success, — ^never  having  attained,  I  believe,  even 
the  honors  of  a  second  edition ;  and  I  found 
that  lighter  form  of  weapon,  to  which  I  after- 
wards betook  myself,  not  only  more  easy  to 
wield,  but,  from  its  very  lightness,  perhaps, 
more  sure  to  reach  its  mark. 

It  would  almost  seem,  too,  as  if  the  same 
nnombitlered  spirit,  the  same  freedom  from 
all  rod  malice  willi  wliirh,  in  niosl  instances, 
this  sort  of  s([nib  warfare  has  been  waged  by 
me,  was  felt,  in  some  degree,  even  by  those 
who  were  themselves  the  objects  of  it; — so 
generously  forgiving  have  I,  in  most  instances, 
Ajund  them.     Cven  the  high  personage  against 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


XXUl 


whom  tlio  aarliost  and  perhaps  most  successful 
of  my  lighter  missiles  were  launched,  could 
refer  to  and  quote  them,  as  I  learn  from  an  in- 
cident mentioned  iu  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,"  with  a  degree  of  good-humor  and  play- 
fulness which  was  creditable  alike  to  his  tem- 
per and  good  sense.  At  a  inemoraljlc  dinner 
given  by  the  Regent  to  Sir  Walter  in  the  year 
1815,  Scott,  among  other  stories  with  which 
his  royal  host  was  much  amused,  told  of  a 
sentence  passed  by  an  old  friend  of  his,  the 
Lord  Justice  Clerk  Braxfield,  attended  by  cir- 
cumstances in  which  the  cruelty  of  this  wag- 
gish judge  was  even  more  conspicuous  than 
his  humor.  "Tlie  Regent  laughed  heartily," 
says  the  Biographer,  "  at  this  specimen  of 
Braxficld's  brutal  humor ;  and,  '  1'  faith,  Wal- 
ter,' said  he,  '  this  old  bigwig  seems  to  have 
taken  things  as  coolly  as  my  tyrannical  self. 
Don't  you  rememlaer  Tom  Moore's  description 
of  me  at  breakfast  ? — 


*Tho  (nble  spread  with  tea  and  toast, 
Death-waiTaiits  and  tlie  Muruing  Post,'' 


hi  reference  to  this,  and  other  less  exalted 
instances,  of  the  good-humored  spirit  in  which 
my  "  innocui  sales"  have  in  general  been  taicen, 
I  shall  venture  to  cite  here  a  few  flattering 
sentences  which,  coming  as  they  did  from  a 
political  adversary  and  a  stranger,  touched  me 
far  more  by  their  generosity  than  even  by 
their  praise.  In  speaking  of  the  pension  which 
had  just  then  been  conferred  upon  me,  and  ex- 
pressing, in  warm  terms,  his  approval  of  the 
grant,  the  editor  of  a  leading  Tory  journal"  thus 
lil'crally  expresses  himself: — "  We  know  that 
some  will  blame  us  for  our  prejudice — if  it  be 
prejudice,  in  favor  of  Mr.  Moore ;  but  we  can- 
not help  it.     As  he  tells  us  himself, 

'  VVit  a  diamond  brings 
That  cuts  its  bright  way  through* 

the  most  obdurate  political  antipathies.  *  * 
We  do  u/)t  believe  that  any  one  was  ever  hurt 
by  libels  so  vntty  as  those  of  Mr.  Moore : — 
great  privilege  of  wit,  wliich  renders  it  impos- 
sible even  for  those  whose  enemies  wits  are, 
to  hate  them  1" 

To  return  to  the  period  of  the  Regency : — 
la  the  numerous  attacks  from  the  government 


press,  which  my  occasional  volleys  of  small 
shot  against  the  Court  used  to  draw  upon  me, 
it  was  constantly  alleged,  as  an  aggravation  of 
my  misdeeds,  that  1  had  been  indelited  to  the 
Royal  personage  thus  assailed  by  me  for  many 
kind  and  substantial  services.  Luckily,  the 
list  of  the  benefits  showered  upon  mc  from 
that  high  quarter  may  be  dispatched  in  a  few 
sentences.  At  the  request  of  the  Earl  of 
Moira,  one  of  my  earliest  and  best  friends,  his 
Royal  Highness  graciously  permitted  me  to 
dedicate  to  him  my  translation  of  the  Odes 
of  Anacreon.  I  was  twice,  I  think,  admitted 
to  the  honor  of  dining  at  Carlton  House;  and 
when  the  Prince,  on  his  being  made  Regent 
in  1811,  gave  his  memorable  fete,  I  was  one 
of  the  crowd — about  1500,  I  believe,  in  num 
ber — who  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  being  his 
guests  on  the  occasion. 

Tliere  occur  some  allusions,  indeed,  in  the 
Twopenny  Post-Bag,  to  the  absurd  taste  dis- 
played in  the  ornaments  of  the  Royal  supper- 
table  at  that  fete ;"  and  this  violation — foi 
such,  to  a  certain  extent,  I  allow  it  to  have 
been — of  the  reverence  due  to  the  rights  of  the 
Hospit<ible  Jove,"  which,  whether  administer- 
ed by  prince  or  peasant,  ought  to  be  sacred 
from  such  exposure,  I  am  by  no  means  dis- 
posed to  defend.  But,  whatever  may  be 
thought  of  the  taste  or  prudence  of  some  of 
these  satires,  there  exists  no  longer,  I  appre- 
hend, much  difference  of  opinion  respecting 
the  character  of  the  Royal  personage  against 
whom  they  were  aimed.  Already,  indeed, 
has  the  stern  verdict  which  the  voice  of  His- 
tory cannot  but  pronounce  upon  him,  been  iu 
some  degree  anticipated,'*  in  a  sketch  of  the 
domestic  events  of  his  reign,  supposed  to  have 
proceeded  from  the  pen  of  one  who  was  him- 
self an  actor  in  some  of  its  most  painful  scenes, 
and  who,  from  liis  professional  position,  com- 
manded a  near  insight  into  the  character  of 
that  exalted  individual,  both  as  husband  and 
father.  To  the  same  high  authority  I  must 
refer  for  an  account  of  the  mysterious  "  Book,"" 
to  which  allusion  is  more  than  once  made  in 
the  following  pages. 

One  of  the  earliest  and  most  successful  of 
the  numerous  trifles  I  wrote  at  that  period, 
was -the  Pai-ody  on  the  Regent's  celebrated 


XXIV 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AKD  LITERARY 


Letter,  arnouncing  to  the  world  that  he  "  had 
no  predilections,"  ikc.  This  very  opportune 
squib  -nas,  at  first,  circulated  privately  ;  my 
friend,  Mr.  Perry,  having  for  some  time  hesi- 
tated to  publish  it.  He  got  some  copies  of  it, 
however,  printed  off  for  ine,  which  I  sent  round 
to  several  members  of  the  Whig  part}  ;  and, 
having  to  meet  a  number  of  them  'at  dinner 
immediately  after,  found  it  no  easy  matter  to 
keep  my  countenance  while  they  were  discuss- 
ing among  them  the  merits  of  the  Parody. 
One  of  the  party,  I  recollect,  having  quoted  to 
me  the  following  description  of  the  state  of 
both  King  and  Regent,  at  that  moment, — 

*'  A  strait  waistcoat  on  him,  and  restrictions  on  me, 
A  more  limited  monarchy  could  not  well  be," 

grew  rather  provoked  with  me  for  not  enjoy- 
ing the  fun  of  the  parody  as  much  as  himself. 

While  thus  the  excitement  of  party  feeling 
lent  to  the  political  trifles  contained  in  this 
volume  a  relish  and  pungency  not  their  own, 
an  effect  has  been  attributed  to  two  squibs, 
wholly  unconnected  with  politics — the  Letters 
from  the  Dowager  Countess  of  Cork,  and  from 
Messrs.  Lackington  and  Co." — of  which  I  had 
mj'sejf  not  the  slightest  notion  till  I  found  it 
thus  alluded  to  in  Mr.  Lockhart's  Life  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott.  In  speaking  of  the  causes  which 
were  supposed  to  have  contributed  to  the  com- 
parative failure  of  the  Poem  of"  Kokeby,"  the 
biographer  says,  "  It  is  fair  to  add,  that  among 
the  I^iidon  circles,  at  least,  some  sarcastic 
flings,  in  Jlr.  Moore's  Twopenny  Post-Bag, 
must  have  had  an  unfavorable  influence  on 
this  occasion."  " 

Among  the  translations  that  have  appeared 
on  the  Continent,  of  the  greater  part  of  my 
poetical  works,  there  has  been  no  attempt,  as 
far  as  I  can  learn,  to  give  a  version  of  any  of 
my  fiatiricnl  writings, — with  the  single  excep- 
tion of  a  squib  contained  in  this  volume,  en- 
titled "  Little  Man  and  Little  Soul,""  of  which 
there  is  a  translation  into  German  verse,  by 
the  late  distinguished  oriental  scholar,  Profes- 
nf)T  Von  Hohlcn."  Tlioiigh  unskilled,  myself, 
in  f;<TTiinn,  I  can  yet  jieri't-ivc— siifliiicntly  to 
ninrv<?l  ot  it — lite  dcxlcrily  and  ctisc  with 
wliich  the  Old  Itulliid  metre  of  the  original  is 
n'luptcc'  and  majiogcd  in  the  tronslolion.     As 


this  trifle  may  be  considered  curious,  not  only 
in  itself,  but  stUl  more  as  connected  with  kc 
learned  a  name,  I  shall  here  present  it  to  my 
readers,  premising  that  the  same  eminent  Pro- 
fessor has  left  a  version  also  of  one  of  my 
very  early  facetice,  "  The  Eabl>inical  Origin  of 
Woman." 

'•Til EKE  \VAS  A  LITTLE  MAN." 
i^Transtated  by  Professor  von  Boftlcti.'i 

Es  war  ein  kloincr  Maim 

Und  Jer  hatt'n  lileinen  Geist 
L'nd  er  sprach:  Kleiner  Geist  sebn  wir  zu,  zu,  zii, 

Ob  uns  nuJLtlicii  wohl  wird  9e)'U 

Sc  ein  kleiiies  Reiielein 
Das  wir  halten,  kleiner  ich  und  kleincr  du,  dn,  da, 

Das  wir  halten,  kleiner  ich  und  kleiner  du. 

Und  der  kleine  Geist,  der  bracli 

Aug  dem  Lochc  nun  und  sprach  : 
Ich  behauple,  kleiner  Mann,  du  bist  keck,  keck,  keck, 

Nimm  nicht  ijbel  ineino  Zwcifel, 

Aber  saj:e  niir,  zum  Teufel, 
Hal  die  kleine  kleino  Red'  eiiicn  zweck,  zwcck,  zwcck, 

Hat  die  kleine  kleine  Red'  cinen  zweck? 

Der  kleino  Mann  darauf 

Bliess  die  Itacken  mUchti;^  nuf, 
Vnd  er  sprach :  kleiner  Geist  sey  gescheul,  schout,  scbeotf 

Kleincr  ich  und  kleincr  du 

Sind  benifen  ja  dazu 
Zu  verdanimon  und  bekehren  alio  Lent ,  L'.nit',  Lent', 

Zu  verdaiumen  und  bekehren  alio  Lent'. 

Und  8io  nnt;en  beide  an 

Der  kleine  Geist  und  kleine  Mann, 
Pauklcnab  ihre  Uede  so  klein,  kleln,  klelu  ; 

Und  die  i^anzo  Well  fiir  wahr 

Meir.t,  da»  nur^eblns'nu  Paar 
Muss  eln  winzi^ies  rfiilTelein  nur  seyn,  seyn,  seyn, 

Muss  ein  wlnziges  PluHelein,  nur  seyn. 

It  was  in  the  year  17!>i  tlitit,  through  the 
medium  of  Mr.  Bunting's  book,  I  was  first 
made  acquainted  with  the  beauties  of  our  na- 
tive music.  A  young  frienl  of  our  family, 
Edward  Hudson,  the  tephewof  an  emiiienti 
dentist  of  that  nane,  who  played  with  much 
taste  anil  feeling  on  the  flute,  and,  unhukily 
for  himself,  was  bat  too  deeply  warmed  with 
the  patriotic  ardor  then  kindling  around  him., 
was  the,  first  who  made  known  to  me  llii.s  rich 
mine  of  our  country's  melodies  ; — a  mine, 
from  the  working  of  which  my  humble  labors 
as  a  poet  have  since  then  derived  their  sole 
lustre  and  value. 

About  the  .same  ])('riod  I  formed  an  acquaint- 
ance, which  soon  grew  into  intimacy,  with 
young  llobert  Emmet.  lie  was  my  senior,  I 
think,  by  one  class,  in  the  university  ;   for 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


XXV 


when,  in  the  first  year  of  my  course,  I  became 
a  member  of  the  Debating  Society — a  sort  of 
nursery  to  the  authorized  Historical  Society — 
I  found  him  in  full  reputation,  not  only  for  his 
learning  and  eloquence,  but  also  for  the  blame- 
lessness  of  his  life  and  the  grave  suavity  of  his 
manners. 

Of  the  political  tone  of  this  minor  school  of 
oratory,  which  was  held  weekly  at  the  rooms 
of  different  resident  members,  some  notion  may 
be  formed  from  the  nature  of  the  questions 
proposed  for  discussion, — one  of  which,  I  rec- 
ollect, was,  "  Whether  an  Aristocracy  or  a 
Democracy  is  most  favorable  to  the  advance- 
ment of  science  and  literature  ?"  while  another, 
bearing  even  more  pointedly  on  the  relative 
position  of  the  government  and  the  people,  at 
this  crisis,  was  thus  significantly  propounded : 
"  Whether  a  soldier  was  bound,  on  all  occa- 
sions, to  obey  the  orders  of  his  commanding 
officer  V  On  the  former  of  these  questions, 
the  effect  of  Emmet's  eloquence  upon  liis 
young  auditors  was,  I  recollect,  most  striking. 
The  prohibition  against  touching  upon  modern 
politics,  which  it  was  subsequently  found  ne- 
cessaiy  to  enforce,  had  not  yet  been  introdu- 
ced; and  Emmet,  who  took  of  course  ardently 
the  side  of  democracy  in  the  debate,  after  a 
brief  review  of  the  republics  of  antiquity, 
showing  how  much  they  had  all  done  for  the 
advancement  of  science  and  the  arts,  proceed- 
ed, lastly,  to  the  grand  and  perilous  example 
then  passing  before  all  eyes,  the  young  Repub- 
lic of  France.  Referring  to  the  circumstance 
told  of  Ciesar,  that,  in  swimmmg  across  the 
Rubicon,  he  contrived  to  carry  with  him  his 
Commentaries  and  his  sword,  the  young  ora- 
tor said,  "  Tlius  France  wades  through  a  sea  of 
storni  and  blood  ;  but  while,  in  one  hand,  she 
wields  the  sword  against  her  aggressors,  with 
the  other  she  upholds  the  glories  of  science 
and  literature  unsullied  by  the  ensanguined 
tide  through  which  she  struggles."  In  another 
of  his  remarkable  speeches,  I  remember  his 
saying,  "  When  a  people,  advancing  rapidly  in 
knowledge  and  power,  perceive  at  last  how 
far  tlieir  government  is  lagging  behind  them, 
what,  then,  I  ask,  is  to  be  done  in  such  a  case  1 
What,  but  to  pull  the  government  vp  to  the 
people  1" 


In  a  few  months  after,  both  Emmet  and 
myself  were  admitted  members  of  the  greater 
and  recognised  institution,  called  the  Historical 
Society  ;  and,  even  here,  the  political  feeling 
so  rife  abroad  contrived  to  mix  up  its  restless 
spirit  with  all  our  debates  and  proceedings ; 
notwithstanding  the  constant  watchfulness  of 
the  college  authorities,  as  well  as  of  a  strong 
party  within  the  Society  itself,  devoted  ad- 
herents to  the  policy  of  the  government,  and 
taking  invariably  part  with  the  Provost  and 
Fellows  in  all  their  restrictive  and  inquisitorial 
measures.  The  most  distinguished  and  elo- 
quent of  these  supporters  of  power  was  a  young 
man  named  Sargent,  of  whose  fate  in  after-days 
I  know  nothing,  and  Jebb,  the  late  Bishop  of 
Xiimerick,  who  was  then,  as  he  continued  to  be 
through  life,  much  respected  for  his  private 
worth  and  learning. 

Of  the  f)opular  side,  in  the  Society,  the 
chief  champion  and  ornament  was  Robert  Em- 
met ;  and  though  every  care  was  taken  to  ex- 
clude from  the  subjects  of  debate  all  questions 
verging  towards  the  politics  of  the  day,  it  was 
always  easy  enough,  by  a  side-wind  of  digres- 
sion or  allusion,  to  bring  Ireland,  and  the  pros- 
pects then  openmg  upon  her,  within  the  scope 
of  the  orator's  view.  So  exciting  and  power- 
ful, in  this  respect,  were  Emmet's  speeches, 
and  so  little  were  even  the  most  eloquent  of 
the  adverse  party  able  to  cope  with  his  pow- 
ers, that  it  was  at  length  thought  advisable, 
by  the  higher  authorities,  to  send  among  us  a 
man  of  more  advanced  standing,  as  well  as 
belonging  to  a  former  race  of  renowned  speak- 
ers, in  that  Society,  in  order  that  he  might  an- 
swer the  speeches  of  Emmet,  and  endeavor  to 
obviate  the  miseliievous  impression  they  were 
thought  to  produce.  The  name  of  this  mature 
champion  of  the  higher  powers  it  is  not  neces- 
sary here  to  record  ;  but  the  object  of  his  mis- 
sion among  us  was  in  some  respect  gained ;  as 
it  was  in  replying  to  a  long  oration  of  his,  one 
night,  that  Emmet,  much  to  the  mortification 
of  us  who  gloried  in  him  as  our  leader,  be- 
came suddenly  embarrassed  in  the  middle  of 
his  speech,  and,  to  use  the  parliamentary 
phrase,  broke  down.  Whether  from  a  mo- 
mentai-y  confusion  in  the  tliread  of  his  argu- 
ment, or  possilsly  from  diffidence  in  encoua- 


xm 


BIOGKAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY 


tering  an  adversary  so  much  his  senior, — for 
Emmet  was  as  modest  as  he  was  liigh-minded 
and  brave, — he  began,  in  the  full  career  of  his 
eloquence,  to  hesitate  and  repeat  his  words, 
and  then,  after  an  effort  or  two  to  recover  him- 
self, sat  down. 

It  fell  to  my  own  lot  to  be  engaged,  about 
the  same  time,  in  a  brisk  struggle  with  the 
dominant  party  in  the  Society,  in  consequence 
of  a  burlesque  poem  which  I  gave  in  as  candi- 
date for  the  Literary  Medal,  entitled  "  An  Ode 
upon  Nothing,  with  Notes,  by  Trismegistus 
Rustifustius,  D.D.,"  &c.,  &c.  For  this  squib 
against,  the  great  Dons  of  learning,  the  medal 
was  voted  to  me  by  a  triumphant  majority. 
But  a  motion  was  made  in  the  following  week 
to  rescind  this  vote ;  and  a  fierce  contest  be- 
tween the  two  parties  ensued,  which  I  at  last 
put  an  end  to  by  voluntarily  withdrawing  my 
composition  from  the  Society's  Book. 

I  have  already  adverted  to  the  period  when 
Mr.  Bunting's  valuable  volume  first  became 
known  to  me.  There  elapsed  no  very  long 
time  before  I  was  myself  the  happy  proprie- 
tor of  a  copy  of  the  work,  and,  though  never 
regularly  instructed  in  music,  could  play  over 
the  airs  with  tolerable  facility  on  the  piano- 
forte. Robert  Emmet  used  sometimes  to  sit 
by  me,  when  I  was  thus  engaged  ;  and  I  re- 
member one  day  his  starting  up  as  from  a 
revery,  when  I  had  just  finished  playing  that 
spirited  tune  called  the  Red  Fox,"  and  ex- 
claiming, "  Oh  that  I  were  at  the  head  of 
twenty  thousand  men,  marching  to  that  air  !" 

How  little  did  I  then  think  that  in  one  of 
the  most  touching  of  the  sweet  airs  I  used  to 
play  to  him,  his  own  dying  words  would  find 
an  interpreter  so  worthy  of  their' sad,  but 
proud  feeling;"  or  that  another  of  those 
mounifiil  strains"  would  long  lie  associated,  in 
th<;  hi-ails  of  his  countrymen,  with  the  mem- 
ory of  her"  who  shared  with  Ircjiind  his  last 
blcHsinj{  and  [>rayer. 

Iliongh  fully  alive,  of  course,  to  the  feel- 
ings which  such  music  could  not  i>ut  inspire,  I 
had  not  yet  undertaken  the  t*.Mk  of  adapting 
word*  to  any  of  the  airs ;  and  it  waa,  I  am 
aihnnied  to  nay,  in  dull  and  turgid  prose,  that 
I  maiJe  my  fir's!  n[ipcurance  in  print  as  a  cliain- 
pion  of  tho  popular  cause.     TowardA  the  lat- 


ter end  of  the  year  1797,  the  celebrated  newii- 
paper  called  "  The  Press"  was  set  up  bj'  Arthur 
O'Connor,  Thomas  Addis  Emmet,  and  other 
chiefs  of  the  United  Irish  conspiracy,  with  the 
view  of  preparing  and  ripening  :ne  public 
mind  for  the  great  crisis  then  fast  approach- 
ing. This  memorable  journal,  according  to 
the  impression  I  at  present  retain  of  it,  was 
far  more  distinguished  for  earnestness  of 
purpose  and  intrepidity  than  for  any  great 
display  of  literary  talent ; — the  bold  letters 
written  by  Emmet,  (the  elder,)  under  the  sig- 
nature of  "  Montanus,"  being  the  only  compo- 
sitions I  can  now  call  to  mind  as  entitled  to 
praise  for  their  literary  merit.  It  required, 
however,  but  a  small  sprinkling  of  talent  to 
make  bold  writing,  at  that  time,  palatable ; 
and,  from  the  experience  of  my  own  home,  I 
can  answer  for  the  avidity  with  which  every 
line  of  this  daring  journal  was  devoured.  It 
used  to  come  out,  I  think,  twice  a  week,  and, 
on  the  evening  of  publication,  I  always  read  it 
aloud  to  our  small  circle  after  supper. 

It  may  easily  be  conceived  that,  what  with 
my  ardor  for  the  national  cause,  and  a  growing 
consciousness  of  some  little  turn  for  author- 
ship, I  was  naturally'  eager  to  become  a  con- 
tributor to  those  patriotic  and  popular  columns. 
But  the  constant  anxiety  about  me  which  I 
knew  my  own  family  felt, — a  feeling  far  more 
wakefiil  than  even  their  zeal  in  the  public 
cause, — withheld  me  from  hazarding  any  step 
that  might  cause  them  alarm.  1  had  ventured, 
indeed,  one  evening,  to  pop  privately  into  the 
letter-box  of  The  Press,  a  short  Fragment  in 
imitation  of  Ossian.  But  this,  though  insert- 
ed, passed  off  quietly  ;  and  nobody  was,  in 
any  sense  of  the  phrase,  the  wiser  for  it.  I 
was  soon  tempted,  however,  to  try  a  more 
daring  flight.  Without  comnnuiicaling  my 
secret  to  any  one  but  I'M  ward  Hudson,  1  ad- 
dressed a  long  Letter,  in  prose,  to  the***** 
of  **  **,  in  which  a  jirofusidn  of  bad  flowcis) 
of  rhetoric  was  enwreatlicd  ]ilentiriilly  with 
that  weed  which  Shakspearc  calls  "  the  cockle 
of  rebellion,"  and,  in  the  same  manner  as  lie- 
fore,  committed  it  tremblingly  to  the  chances 
of  the  Icttcr-liox.  1  hardly  expected  my  proso 
would  be  honored  with  insertion,  when,  lo,  on 
the  next  evening  of  publication,  wlicn,  ucalcd 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


XXVll 


as  usual  in  my  little  corner  by  the  fire,  I  un- 
folded the  paper  for  the  purpose  of  reading  it 
to  my  select  auditory,  tlicre  was  my  own  Let- 
ter staring  me  full  in  the  face,  being  honored 
with  so  conspicuous  a  plac«  as  to  be  one  of 
the  first  articles  my  audience  would  expect  to 
hear.  Assuming  an  outward  appearance  of 
ease,  while  every  nerve  within  me  was  trem- 
bling, I  contrived  to  accomplish  the  reading 
of  the  Letter  without  raising  in  either  of  my 
auditors  a  suspicion  that  it  was  my  own.  I 
enjoyed  the  pleasure,  too,  of  hearing  it  a  good 
deal  praised  by  them  ;  and  might  have  been 
tempted  by  this  welcome  tribute  to  acknowl- 
edge myself  the  author,  had  I  not  found  that 
the  language  and  sentiments  of  the  article  were 
considered  by  both  to  be  "  very  bold.'"* 

I  was  not  destined,  however,  to  remain  long 
undetected.  On  the  following  day,  Edward 
Hudson," — the  only  one,  as  I  have  said,  in- 
trusted with  my  secret,  called  to  pay  us  a 
morning  visit,  and  had  not  been  long  in  the 
room,  conversing  with  my  mother,  when  look- 
ing significantly  at  me,  he  said,  "  Well,  you 

saw "     Here  he  stopped  ;  but  the  mother's 

eye  had  followed  his,  with  the  rapidity  of  light- 
ning, to  mine,  and  at  once  she  perceived  the 
whole  truth.  "  That  Letter  was  yours,  then  1" 
she  asked  of  me  eagerly ;  and,  without  hesita- 
tion, of  course,  I  acknowledged  the  fact ;  when 
in  the  most  earnest  manner  she  entreated  of 
me  never  again  to  have  any  connection  with 
that  paper ;  and,  as  every  wish  of  hers  was  to 
me  law,  I  readily  pledged  the  solemn  promise 
she  required. 

Though  well  aware  how  easily  a  sneer  may 
be  raised  at  the  simple  details  of  this  domestic 
scene,  I  have  yet  ventured  to  put  it  on  record, 
as  aflx)rding  an  instance  of  the  gentle  and 
wom.anly  watchfulness, — the  Providence,  as  it 
may  be  called,  of  the  little  world  of  home, — 
by  which,  although  placed  almost  in  the  very 
current  of  so  headlong  a  movement,  and  living 
familiarly  with  some  of  the  most  daring  of 
those  who  propelled  it,  I  yet  was  guarded  from 
any  participation  m  their  secret  oaths,  coun- 
sels, or  plans,  and  thus  escaped  all  share  in 
that  wild  struggle  to  which  so  many  far  better 
men  than  myself  fell  victims. 

In  the  mean  while,  this  great  conspiracy  was 


hastenmg  on,  with  fearfiil  precipitancy,  to  its 
outbreak ;  and  vague  and  shapeless  as  are  now 
known  to  have  been  the  views,  even  of  those 
who  were  engaged  practically  in  the  plot,  t  is 
not  any  wonder  that  to  the  young  and  uniniti- 
ated like  myself  it  should  have  opened  pros- 
pects partaking  far  more  of  the  wild  dreams 
of  poesy  than  of  the  plain  and  honest  prose  of 
real  life.  But  a  crisis  was  then  fast  approach- 
ing, when  such  self-delusions  could  no  longer 
be  indulged  ;  and  when  the  mystery  which  had 
hitherto  hung  over  the  plans  of  the  conspirators 
was  to  be  rent  asunder  by  the  stern  hand  of 
power. 

Of  the  horrors  that  fore-ran  and  followed 
the  frightful  explosion  of  the  year  1798, 1  have 
neither  inclination  nor,  luckily,  occasion  to 
speak.  But  among  these  introductory  scenes, 
which  had  somewhat  prepared  the  public  mind 
for  such  a  catastrophe,  there  was  one,  of  a 
painful  description,  which,  as  having  been  my- 
self an  actor  in  it,  I  may  be  allowed  briefly  to 
notice. 

It  was  not  many  weeks,  I  think,  before  this 
crisis,  that,  owing  to  information  gained  by  the 
college  authorities  of  the  rapid  spread,  among 
the  students,  not  only  of  the  principles  but  the 
organization  of  the  Irish  Union,''  a  solemn 
Visitation  was  held  by  Lord  Clare,  the  vice- 
chancellor  of  the  University,  with  the  view  of 
inquiruig  into  the  extent  of  this  branch  of  the 
plot,  and  dealing  summarily  with  those  en- 
gaged in  it. 

Imperious  and  harsh  as  then  seemed  the 
policy  of  thus  setting  up  a  sort  of  inquisitorial 
tribunal,  armed  with  the  power  of  examining 
witnesses  on  oath,  and  in  a  place  devoted  to 
the  instruction  of  youth,  I  cannot  but  confess 
that  the  facts  which  came  out  in  the  course  of 
the  evidence  went  far  towards  justifying  even 
this  arbitrary  proceeding;  and  to  the  many 
who,  like  myself,  were  acquainted  only  with 
the  general  views  of  the  Union  leaders,  without 
even  knowing,  except  from  conjecture,  who 
those  leaders  were,  or  what  their  plans  or  ob- 
jects, it  was  most  star' ling  to  hear  the  disci  i> 
sures  which  every  succeeding  witness  brought 
forth.  There  were  a  few,— and  among  that 
number  poor  Eohert  Emmet,  John  Brown,  and 
the  two  ******  s,-'  whose  total  absence 


rxviu 


BIOGKAjt  iilCAL  AND  LITERAEY 


from  the  whole  scene,  as  well  as  the  dead 
silence  that,  day  after  day,  followed  the  calling 
out  of  their  names,  proclaimed  how  deep  had 
been  their  share  in  the  unlawful  proceedings 
inquired  into  by  this  tribunal. 

But  there  was  one  j-oung  friend  of  mine, 
*******  whose  appearance  among  the 
suspected  and  examined  as  much  surprised  as 
it  deeply  and  painfully  interested  me.  He 
and  Emmet  had  long  been  intimate  and  at- 
tached friends ; — their  congenial  fondness  for 
mathematical  studies  having  been;  I  think,  a 
far  more  binding  sympathy  between  them 
than  any  arising  out  of  their  political  opinions. 
From  his  being  called  up,  however,  on  this 
day,  when,  as  it  appeared  afterwards,  all  the 
most  important  evidence  was  brought  forward, 
there  could  bo  little  doubt  that,  in  addition  to 
his  intimacy  with  Emmet,  the  college  author- 
ities must  have  possessed  some  information 
which  led  them  to  suspect  him  of  being  an 
accomplice  in  the  conspiracy.  In  the  course 
of  his  c.\amination,  some  questions  were  put 
to  him  which  he  refused  to  answer, — most 
probably  from  their  tendency  to  involve  or 
inculpate  others ;  and  he  was  occordingly 
dismissed,  with  the  melancholy  certainty  that 
his  future  prospects  in  life  were  blasted ;  it 
being  already  known  that  the  punishment  for 
such  contumacy  was  not  merely  expulsion 
from  the  University,  but  also  exclusion  from 
all  tiic  learned  professions. 

Tlic  proceedings,  indeed,  of  this  whole  d.ay 
had  been  such  as  to  send  me  to  my  lionie  in 
the  evening  with  no  very  agreeable  feelings  or 
prospects.  I  had  heard  evidence  given  alTect- 
ing  even  the  lives  of  some  of  those  friends 
whom  1  had  long  regarded  wth  admiration  as 
well  as  afTcction ;  and  what  was  still  worse 
than  even  their  danger, — a  danger  ciuiobled,  I 
thought,  by  the  cause  in  which  tJicy  suffered, 
— was  the  shameful  spectacle  cxliibitcd  by 
thoHo  who  hod  appeared  in  evidence  against 
thom.  Of  these  witnesses,  the  greater  nimiUer 
luul  i)cen  ihcinHulves  iiivolveil  in  the  plot,  and 
now  camn  forward  cilhfr  os  voluntary  inform- 
ers, or  fl^o  were  driven  by  tlie  fear  of  (he  oon- 
»c«iH<'n<cH  of  refuHiiJ  toticcurc  their  own  safely 
at  iho  I'XiH'niui  of  coiiipiinionii  and  friends. 
I  well  remember  the  gloom,  ho  unusual,  that 


hung  over  our  family  circle  on  that  evening, 
as,  talking  together  of  the  events  of  the  day, 
we  discussed  the  likelihood  of  my  being  among 
those  who  would  be  called  up  for  examination 
on  the  morrow.  The  deliberate  conclusion  to 
which  my  dear  honest  advisers  came,  was 
that,  overwhelming  as  the  consequences  were 
to  all  their  plans  and  hopes  for  me,  yet,  to 
the  questions  leading  to  criminate  others, 
which  had  been  put  to  almost  all  examined 
on  that  day,  and  which  poor  *******  alone 
had  refused  to  answer,  I  must,  in  the  same 
manner,  and  at  all  risks,  return  a  similar  re- 
fusal. I  am  not  quite  certain  whether  I  re- 
ceived any  intimation,  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, that  I  was  to  be  one  of  those  examined  in 
the  course  of  the  day ;  but  I  rather  think  some 
such  notice  had  been  conveyed  to  me  ; — and, 
at  last,  my  awful  turn  came,  and  I  stood  in 
presence  of  the  formidable  tribunal.  There 
sat,  with  severe  look,  the  vice-chancellor,  and, 
by  his  side,  the  memorable  Doctor  Duigenan, 
— ^memorable  for  this  eternal  pamphlets  against 
the  Catholics. 

The  oath  was  proffered  to  me.  "  I  have  an 
objection,  my  Lord,"  said  I,  "  to  taking  this 
oath."  "  What  is  your  objection  ?"  he  asked 
sternly.  "  I  have  no  fears,  my  Lord,  that  any 
thing  1  might  say  would  criminate  myself;  but 
it  might  tend  to  involve  others,  and  I  despise 
the  character  of  the  person  who  could  be  led, 
under  any  such  circimistances,  to  inform  against 
his  associates."  This  was  aimed  at  some  of 
the  revelations  of  the  preceding  day  ;  and,  as  I 
learned  afterwards,  was  so  understood.  "  How 
old  are  you.  Sir?"  he  then  asked.  "Between 
seventeen  and  eighteen,  my  Lord."  lie  then 
turned  to  his  assessor,  Duigenan,  and  exchanged 
a  few  words  with  him,  in  an  under  tone  of 
voice.  "  We  cannot,"  he  resumed,  again  ad- 
dressing me,  "suffor  any  one  to  remain  in  our 
University  who  refuses  to  take  this  oath."  "  I 
shall,  then,  my  Lord,"  I  replied,  "  take,  the 
oath, — still  reserving  to  myself  the  power  of 
refusing  to  answer  any  such  qui'stiuns  as  I  h.'i^  •.• 
just  described."  "  We  do  not  sit  lure  to  arguu 
with  you.  Sir,"  he  rejoined  sharply ;  u|i(iii 
which  I  took  the  oath,  niid  seated  myself  in 
the  witnesses'  chair. 

The  following  are  the  i|uestioiis  and  answen 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR 


XXIX 


T 


that  then  ensued.  After  adverting  to  the 
proved  existence  of  United  Irish  Societies  in 
the  University,  he  asked,  "  Have  you  ever 
belonged  to  any  of  these  societies  *"  "  No, 
my  Lord."  "  Have  you  ever  known  of  any 
of  the  proceedings  that  took  place  in  them  ?" 
"  No,  my  Lord."  "  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a 
proposal  at  any  of  their  meetings,  fur  the  pur- 
chase of  aj-ms  and  ammunition  V  "  Never, 
my  Lord."  "  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  propo- 
sition made,  in  one  of  these  societies,  with  re- 
spect to  the  expediency  of  assassination  V 
"  Oh  no,  my  Lord."  He  then  turned  again  to 
Duigenan,  and,  afler  a  few  words  with  him, 
said  to  me  : — "  When  such  are  the  answers 
you  are  able  to  give,^"  pray  what  was  the 
cause  of  your  great  repugnance  to  taking  the 
oath  ■?"  "  I  have  already  told  your  Lordship 
my  chief  reason ;  in  addition  to  which,  it  was 
the  first  oath  I  ever  took,  and  the  hesitation 
was,  I  think,  natural."" 

I  was  now  dismissed  without  any  further 
questioning ;  and,  however  trying  had  been 
this  short  operation,  was  amply  repaid  for  it 
by  the  kind  zeal  with  which  my  young  friends 
and  companions  flocked  to  congratulate  me  ; — 
not  so  much,  I  was  inclined  to  hope,  on  my 
acquittal  by  the  court,  as  on  the  manner  in 
which  I  had  acquitted  myself.  Of  my  recep- 
tion, on  returning  home,  after  the  fears  enter- 
tained of  so  very  different  a  result,  I  will  not 
attempt  any  description  ; — it  was  all  that  such 
a  home  alone  could  furnish. 

I  have  continued  thus  down  to  the  very 
verge  of  the  warning  outbreak  of  1798,  the 
slight  sketch  of  my  early  days  which  I  ven- 
tured to  commence  in  the  First  Volume  of 
this  Collection  ;  nor  could  I  have  furnished 
the  Irish  Melodies  with  any  more  pregnant  il- 
lustration, as  it  was  in  those  times,  and  among 
the  events  then  stirring,  that  the  feeling  which 
afterwards  found  a  voice  in  my  country's  mu- 
sic, was  born  and  nurtured. 

I  shall  now  string  together  such  detached 
notices  and  memoranda  respecting  this  work,  as 
I  think  may  be  likely  to  interest  my  readers: 

Of-  the  few  songs  written  with  a  concealed 
political  feeling, — such  as  "  When  he  who 
adores  thee,"  and  one  or  two  more, — the  most 
successful,  in  its  day,  was  "  When  first  I  met 


thee  warm  and  young,"  which  alluded,  in  its 
hidden  sense,  to  the  I'rince  licgent's  deser- 
tion of  his  political  friends.  It  was  little  less, 
I  own,  tlian  profanation,  to  disturb  the  senti- 
ment of  so  beautiful  an  air  by  any  connection 
with  such  a  sulyect.  The  great  success  of  this 
song,  soon  after  I  wrote  it,  among  a  large  par- 
ty staying  at  Chatsworth,  is  thus  alluded  to  in 
one  of  Lord  Byron's  letters  to  me  : — "  I  have 
heard  from  London  that -you  have  left  Chats- 
worth  and  all  there -full  of '  entusymusy'  .  .  . 
.  .  .  .  and,  in  particular,  that  '  When  first  I 
met  thee'  has  been  quite  overwhelming  in  its 
effect.  I  told  you  it  was  one  of  the  best  things 
you  ever  wi'ote,  though  that  dog  *  *  *  *  want- 
ed you  to  omit  part  of  it." 

It  has  been  sometimes  supposed  that  "  Oh, 
breathe  not  his  name,"  was  meant  to  allude  to 
Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald :  but  this  is  a  mis- 
take ;  the  song  having  been  suggested  by  the 
well-known  passage  in  Robert  Emmet's  dying 
speech,  "  Let  no  man  write  my  epitaph  .... 
let  my  tomb  remain  uninscribed,  till  other 
times  and  other  men  shall  learn  to  do  justice 
to  my  memory." 

The  feeble  attempt  to  commemorate  the 
glory  of  our  great  Duke — "  When  History's- 
Muse,"  &c. — is  in  so  far  remarkable,  tbat  it 
made  up  amply  for  its  want  of  poetical  spirit, 
by  an  outpouring,  rarely  granted  to  bards  in 
these  days,  of  the  spii'it  of  prophecy.  It  was 
in  the  year  1815  that  the  following  lines  first 
made  their  appearance. 

And  still  the  Inst  crown  of  tliy  toils  is  rcmaiuio;?, 
The  grandest,  the  purest,  ev'n  thou  hast  yet  known  ; 

Though  proud  was  thy  task,  other  nations  unchaining. 
Far  prouder  to  heal  the  deep  wounds  of  thy  own, 

At  the  foot  of  that  throne,  fur  whose  weal  thou  hast  stood, 
Go,  plead  for  the  land  that  flrst  cradled  thy  fame,  &c. 

About  fourteen  years  after  these  lines  were 
written,  the  Duke  of  Wellington  recommended 
to  the  throne  the  great  measure  of  Catholic 
Emancipation. 

The  fimcy  of  the  "  Origin  of  the  Irish  Harp," 
was  (as  I  have  elsewhere  aelaiowledged"')  sug- 
gested, by  a  drawing  made  under  peculiarly 
painful  circumstances,  by  the  friend  so  often 
mentioned  in  this  sketch,  Edward  Hudson. 

In  connection  with  another  of  these  match- 
less airs, — one  that  defies  all  poetry  to  do  ii 


XXX 


BiUGEAPHICAL  AND  LITERAEY 


justice, — I  find  the  following  singular  and 
touching  statement  in  an  article  of  the  Quar- 
terly Review.  Speaking  of  a  young  and  pro- 
mising  poetess,  Lucretia  Davidson,  who  died 
verv  early  from  nervous  excitement,  the  Re- 
viewer says,  "  She  was  particularly  sensitive 
to  music.  Tliere  was  one  song  (it  was  Moore's 
Farewell  to  his  Harp)  to  which  she  took  a 
special  fancy.  She  wished  to  hear  it  only  at 
twilight, — thus  (with  that  same  perilous  love 
of  excitement  which  made  her  place  the  ^Eolian 
harp  ill  the  window  when  she  was  composing) 
seeking  to  increase  the  effect  which  the  song 
produced  upon  a  nervous  system,  already  dis- 
easedly  susceptible ;  for  it  is  said  that,  when- 
ever she  heard  this  song,  she  became  cold, 
pale,  and  almost  fainting ;  yet  it  was  her  fa- 
vorite of  all  songs,  and  gave  occasion  to  those 
verses  addressed  in  her  fifteenth  year  to  her 
sister."" 

With  the  Melody  entitled  "  Love,  Valor, 
and  Wit,"  an  incident  is  connected,  which 
awakened  feelings  in  me  of  proud,  but  sad 
pleasure — as  showing  that  my  songs  had  reach- 
ed the  hearts  of  some  of  the  descendants  of 
thc>se  great  Irish  families,  who  found  them- 
selves forced,  in  the  dark  days  of  persecution, 
to  seek  in  other  lands  a  refuge  from  the  shame 
ond  ruin  of  their  own  ; — those,  whose  story  I 
have  tlius  associated  with  one  of  their  coun- 
try's most  characteristic  airs  : — 

Ye  Blakea  tad  O'Donnclls,  whoso  fathers  rcsi^nM 
Thu  |;rc«ii  htlls  of  Iheir  youth,  nmung  iilmngcrs  to  lliid 
That  rvpoiti  which  at  homu  they  hml  ait;h*d  fur  in  voln. 

From  a  foreign  lady,  of  this  ancient  extrac- 
tion,— whose  names,  could  I  venture  to  men- 
tion them,  would  lend  to  the  incident  an  addi- 
tional Irish  charm, — I  teceived,  about  two 
years  since,  through  the  hands  of  a  gentleman 
to  whom  it  had  been  intrusted,  a  large  port- 
folio, ailomed  inside  with  a  beautiful  drawing, 
reprcs<MUing  Love,  Wit,  and  Valor,  as  de- 
scribed in  the  song.  In  the  border  that  sur- 
rounds the  drawing  are  introdutvil  the  favorite 
embli-init  of  Krin,  the  harp,  llie  shamrock, 
tho  mitred  h<>ad  of  St.  Patrick,  together  with 
wrollH  oonlniiiing  ea<'h,  Inscribed  in  lett<'rt)  of 
Kold,  the  natiK!  of  (.cin«!  favorite  mrlodyoftho 
f;ilr  nrlinl. 

TT)is  j>r<'»en(   was  accompanied  by  the  fol- 


lowing letter  from  the  lady  herself;  and  her 
Irish  race,  I  fear,  is  but  too  discernible  in  tho 
generous  indiscretion  with  which,  in  this  in- 
stance, she  allows  praise  so  much  to  outstrip 
desert : — 

"  Le  23  jlait,  1636. 

"Monsieur, 

"  Si  les  poetes  n'etaient  en  quelque  sorte 
une  propriete  intellectuelle  dont  chacun  prend 
sa  part  a  raison  de  la  puissance  qu'ils  exercent, 
je  ne  saurais  en  verite  comment  faire  pour 
justifier  mon  courage ! — car  il  en  faliait  beau- 
coup  pour  avoir  ose  consacrer  mon  pauvre 
talent  d'amateur  a  vos  delicieuses  poesies,  et 
plus  encore  pour  en  renvoyer  le  pale  reflet  a 
son  veritable  autcur. 

"  J'espere  toutefois  que  ma  sympathic  pour 
rirlande  vous  fera  juger  ma  faible  production 
avec  cette  heureuse  partialite  qui  impose  si- 
lence a  la  critique  :  car,  si  je  n'appartiens  pas 
a  rile  Vcrte  par  ma  naissance,  ni  mes  rela- 
tions, je  puis  dire  que  je  m'y  interesse  avec  un 
cceur  Irlandais,  et  que  j'ai  conserv6  plus  que  le 
nom  de  mes  percs.  Cela  seul  me  fait  esperer 
que  mes  petits  voyagours  ne  subiront  pas  le 
triste  noviciat  des  etrangers.  Puissent-ils  rem- 
plir  leur  mission  sur  le  sol  natal,  en  agissant 
conjointemcnt  et  toujours  pour  la  cause  Irlan- 
daise,  et  amener  enfin  uno  ere  nouvelle  pour 
cette  heroique  et  malheureuse  nation  : — le 
moyen  de  vaincre  do  tels  adversaires  s'ils  no 
font  (ju'un  ? 

"  Vous  dirai-je.  Monsieur,  les  doux  moments 
que  je  dois  a  vos  ouvrages  1  ce  serait  rep^ter 
une  fois  do  plus  ec  quo  vous  entondcz  tous  les 
jours  et  de  tous  les  coins  de  la  terrc.  Aussi 
j'ai  garde  de  vous  ravir  un  terns  trop  prdcieux 
pjir  r^cho  de  ccs  vieilles  v6rit6s. 

'•Si  jamais  mon  6toilo  me  conduit  en  Ir- 
lande,  je  no  m'y  croirai  pas  ^trangcre.  Jc  sals 
quo  le  pass6  y  laisso  do  longs  souvenirs,  ct 
quo  la  eonformitd  des  dfisirs  ct  des  esp6ranoes 
rapproche  on  d6pit  de  I'espaco  et  du  terns. 

"  ,liis(|ue  la,  roceve7.,je  vous  prie,  rnssurance 
de  ma  parfuite  consid6ration,  iivce  laipulii"  j'.ii 
I'lioiiMfur  d'etre, 

"  Monsieur, 
"  Votre  Iresliuinble  Servantc, 
"La  ("omtesbk  •••«•" 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


TTXl 


Of  the  translations  that  have  appeared  of 
the  Melodies  in  dilTorent  languages,  I  shall 
here  mention  such  as  have  come  to  my  knowl- 
edge. 

Latin. — "  Cantus  Ilibernici,"  Nicholas  Lee 
Torre,  London,  1835. 

Italian. — G.  Flechia,  Torino,  183G. — Adele 
Custi,  Milano,  1830. 

French. — Madame  Belloc,  Paris,  1823. — 
Loeve  Veimars,  Paris,  1829. 

Russian. — Several  detached  Melodies,  by 
the  popular  Russian  poet  Kozlof. 

The  close  alliance  known  to  have  existed 
between  poetry  and  music,  during  the  infancy 
of  both  these  arts,  has  sometimes  led  to  the 
conclusion  that  they  arc  essentially  kindred  to 
each  other,  and  that  the  true  poet  ought  to  be, 
if  not  practically,  at  le^st  in  taste  and  ear,  a 
musician.  That  such  was  the  case  in  the  early 
times  of  ancient  Greece,  and  that  her  poets 
then  not  only  set  their  own  verses  to  music, 
but  sung  them  at  public  festivals,  there  is 
every  reason,  from  all  we  know  on  the  sub- 
ject, to  believe.  A  similar  union  between  the 
two  arts  attended  the  dawn  of  modern  litera- 
ture in  the  twelfth  century,  and  was,  in  a  cer- 
tain degree,  continued  down  as  far  as  the  time 
of  Petrarch,  when,  as  it  appears  from  his  own 
memorandums,  that  poet  used  to  sing  his 
verses,  in  composing  them  ;'*  and  when  it  was 
the  custom  with  nil  writers  of  sonnets  and 
canzoni,  to  prefix  to  their  poems  a  sort  of  key- 
note, by  which  the  intonation  in  reciting  or 
chanting  them  was  to  be  regulated. 

As  the  practice  of  uniting  in  one  individual, 
— whether  Bard,  Scald,  or  Troubadour, — the 
character  and  functions  both  of  musician  and 
poet,  is  known  to  have  been  invariably  the 
mark  of  a  rude  state  of  society,  so  the  gradual 
separation  of  these  two  callings,  in  accordance 
with  that  great  principle  of  Political  Economy, 
the  division  of  labor,  has  been  found  an  equally 
sure  index  of  improving  civilization.  So  far, 
in  England,  indeed,  has  this  partition  of  work- 
manship been  carried,  that,  with  the  signal  ex- 
ception of  Milton,  there  is  not  to  be  found,  I 
believe,  among  all  the  eminent  poets  of  En- 
gland, a  single  musician.  It  is  but  fair,  at  the 
same  time,  to  acknowledge,  that  out  of  the 
wt)rks  of  these  very  poets  might  be  produced 


a  select  number  of  songs,  surpassing,  in  fan- 
cy, grace,  and  tenderness,  ill  that  the  lan- 
guage, perhaps,  of  any  other  country,  could 
furnish. 

We  wntness,  in  our  owu  times, — as  far  as 
the  knowledge  or  practice  of  music  is  con- 
cerned,— a  similar  divorce  between  the  two 
arts ;  and  my  friend  and  neighbor,  Mr.  Bowles, 
is  the  only  distinguished  poet  of  our  day  whom 
I  can  call  to  mind  as  being  also  a  musician." 
Not  to  dwell  further,  however,  on  living  wri 
ters,  the  stiong  feeling,  even  to  tears,  with 
which  I  have  seen  Byron  listen  to  some  favo 
rite  melody,  has  been  elsewhere  described  by 
me ;  and  the  musical  taste  of  Sir  Walter  Scot) 
1  ought  to  be  the  last  person  to  call  in  ques. 
tion,  after  the  very  cordial  tribute  he  has  left  ob 
record  to  my  own  untutored  minstrelsy.'''  But 
I  must  say,  that,  pleased  as  my  illustrious 
friend  appeared  really  to  be,  when  I  first  sung 
for  him  at  Abbotsford,  it  was  not  till  an  even- 
ing or  two  after,  at  his  own  hospitable  supper- 
table,  that  I  saw  him  in  his  true  sphere  of  mu- 
siail  enjoyment.  No  sooner  had  the  quaigl 
taken  its  round,  after  our  repast,  than  his 
friend,  Sir  Adam,  was  called  upon,  with  the 
general  acclaim  of  the  whole  table,  for  the  song 
of  "Hey  tuttie  tattie,"  and  gave  it  out  to  us 
with  all  the  true  national  relish.  But  it  was 
during  the  chorus  that  Scott's  delight  at  this 
festive  scene  chiefly  showed  itself  At  the  end 
of  every  verse,  the  whole  company  rose  from 
their  seats,  and  stood  round  the  table  with 
their  arms  crossed,  so  as  to  grasp  the  hand  of 
the  neighbor  on  each  side.  Thus  interlinked, 
we  continued  to  keep  measure  to  the  strain, 
by  moving  our  arms  up  and  down,  all  chanting 
vociferously,  "  Hey  tuttie  tattie.  Hey  tuttie 
tattie."  Sir  Walter's  enjoyment  of  this  old 
Jacobite  chorus, — a  little  increased,  doubtless, 
by  seeing  how  I  entered  into  the  spirit  of  it, 
— gave  to  the  whole  scene,  I  confess,  a  zest 
and  charm  in  my  eyes  such  as  the  finest  mu- 
sical performance  could  not  have  bestowed 
on  it. 

Having  been  thus  led  to  allude  to  this  visit, 
1  am  tempted  to  mention  a  few  other  circum- 
stances connect-^d  with  it.  From  Abbotsford 
I  proceeded  to  Edinburgh,  whither  Sir  Walter, 
in  ft  few  days  after,  followed ;  and  during  raj 


xxxu 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY 


short  stay  in  that  city  an  incident  occurred, 
which,  though  already  mentioned  by  Scott  in 
his  Diary,''  and  owing  its  chief  interest  to  the 
connection  of  his  name  with  it,  ought  not  to 
be  omitted  among  these  memoranda.  As  I 
had  expressed  a  desire  to  visit  the  Edinburgh 
theatre,  which  opened  but  the  evening  before 
my  departure,  it  was  proposed  to  Sir  Walter 
and  myself,  by  our  friend  Jeffrey,  that  we 
should  dine  with  him  at  an  early  hour  for  that 
purpose,  and  both  were  good-natured  enough 
to  accompany  me  to  the  theatre.  Having 
found,  in  a  volume"  sent  to  me  by  some  anon- 
ymous correspondent,  a  more  circumstantial 
account  of  the  scene  of  that  evening  than  Sir 
Walter  has  given  in  his  Diary,  I  shall  here 
avail  myself  of  its  graphic  and  (with  one  ex- 
ception) accurate  details.  After  adverting  to 
the  sensation  produced  by  the  appearance  of 
the  late  Duchess  of  St.  Alban's  in  one  of  the 
boxes,  the  writer  thus  proceeds  : — There  was 
a  general  buzz  and  stare  for  a  few  seconds ; 
the  audience  tlicn  turned  their  backs  to  the 
lady,  and  their  attention  to  the  stage,  to  wait 
till  the  first  piece  should  be  over  ere  they  in- 
tended staring  again.  Just  as  it  terminated, 
.another  party  quietly  glided  into  a  box  near 
that  filled  by  the  Duchess.  One  pleasing 
female  was  with  the  three  male  comers.  In  a 
minute  the  cry  ran  round : — '  Eh,  yon's  Sir 
Walter,  wi'  Lockhart  an'  his  wife,"  and  wlia's 
the  wee  bit  bodic  wi'  the  pawkie  een?  Wow, 
but  it's  Tarn  iloorc,  just — Scott,  Scott !  Moore, 
Moore !'  with  shouts,  cheers,  bravos,  and 
applause.  But  Scott  would  not  rise  to  appro- 
priate these  tributes.  One  could  see  that  he 
urged  Moore  to  do  so;  and  //r,  though  mod- 
e.slly  reluct-int,  nt  last  yielded,  and  bowed 
hand  on  heart,  with  much  animation.  The  cry 
for  Scott  was  then  redoubled.  He  gathered 
himwif  up,  and,  witli  a  benevolent  bend,  ac» 
knowleilpcd  this  deserved  welcome.  The  or- 
rhcstrsi  played  allcrnatcly  Scotch  and  Irish 
Mclodici." 

Among  the  choicest  of  my  recollections  of 
that  flying  vi'.it  to  I^liiibiirgh,  are  thi'  few  days 
I  paused  with  Lord  JedVcy  at  his  agrceal>lo 
retreat,  Crai){  Crook.  I  hud  then  recently 
writifQ  the  wordit  and  music  tif  a  glee  con- 
tained in  this  volume,  "  Ship  a  hoy  I"  which 


there  won  its  first  honors.  So  often,  indeed, 
was  I  called  upon  to  repeat  it,  that  the  upland 
echoes  of  Craig  Crook  ought  long  to  have  had 
its  burden  by  heart. 

Having  thus  got  on  Scottish  ground,  I  find 
myself  awakened  to  the  remembrance  of  a 
name  which,  whenever  song-writing  is  the 
theme,  ought  to  rank  second  to  none  in  that 
sphere  of  poetical  fame.  Robert  Burns  was 
wholly  unskilled  in  music ;  yet  the  rare  art  of 
adapting  words  successfully  to  notes,  of  wed- 
ding verse  in  congenial  union  with  melody, 
which,  were  it  not  for  his  example,  I  should 
say  none  but  a  poet  versed  in  the  sister-art 
ought  to  attempt,  has  yet,  by  him,  with  the 
aid  of  a  music  to  which  my  own  country's 
strains  are  alone  comparable,  been  exercised 
with  so  workmaiily  a  hand,  and  with  so  rich  a 
variety  of  passions,  playfulness,  and  power,  as 
no  song-writer,  perhaps,  but  himself,  has  ever 
yet  displayed. 

Tliat  Burns,  however  untaught,  was  yet,  in 
car  and  feeling,  a  musician,'"'  is  clear  from  the 
skill  with  which  he  adapts  his  verse  to  the 
structure  anil  character  of  each  different  strain. 
Still  more  strikingly  did  he  prove  his  fitness 
for  this  peculiar  task,  by  the  sort  of  instinct 
with  which,  in  more  than  one  instance,  he  dis 
cerned  the  real  and  innate  sentiment  which  an 
air  was  calculated  to  convej',  though  previously 
associated  with  words  expressing  a  totally  dif- 
ferent cast  of  feeling.  Thus  the  air  of  a  ludi- 
crous old  song,  "  Fee  him,  father,  fee  him," 
has  been  made  the  medium  of  one  of  Burns'* 
most  pathetic  effusions ;  while,  still  more  mar 
vellously,  "  Hey  tuttic  tattle"  has  been  ele- 
vated by  him  into  that  heroic  strain,  "Scots, 
wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled  ;" — a  song  which, 
in  a  great  national  crisis,  would  bo  of  more 
avail  than  all  the  eloquence  of  a  Demosthenes." 

It  was  impossible  that  the  example  of  Burns, 
ill  those,  his  higher  ins[iirations,  should  not 
materially  contribute  to  elevate  the  character 
of  English  song-writing,  and  even  to  lead  to 
a  reunion  of  llie  giftswhich  it  requires,  if  not, 
as  of  old,  in  tlio  same  individual,  yet  in  that 
perfect  sympathy  between  ]ioct  and  musician 
which  alrfiost  amounts  to  identity,  and  of  which, 
in  our  own  times,  wo  have  seen  so  iiilerestiiig 
an  example  in  the  few  songs  which  bear  the 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


XXilll 


united  names  of  those  two  sister  muses,  Mrs. 
Arkwriglit  and  tiie  late  Mrs.  llemans. 

Very  dilfei'dit  was  tlic  state  of  the  song-de- 
partment of  Englisli  poesy  at  that  period  when 
1  first  tried  my  novice  liand  at  the  lyre.  The 
divorce  between  song  and  sense  had  then 
reached  its  utmost  range ;  and  to  all  verses 
connected  with  music,  from  a  Birth-day  Ode 
down  to  the  libretto  of  the  last  new  opera, 
might  fairly  be  applied  the  solution  which 
Figaro  gives  of  the  quality  of  the  words  of 
songs,  in  general. — "  Ce  qui  ne  vaut  pas  la 
peine  d'etre  dit,  on  le  chante.'' 

It  may  here  be  suggested  that  the  convivial 
lyrics  of  Captain  Morris  present  an  exception 
to  the  general  character  I  have  given  of  the 
songs  of  this  period ;  and,  assuredly,  had 
Morris  written  much  that  at  all  approached 
the  following  verses  of  his  "  Reasons  for 
Drinlcing,"  (which  I  quote  from  recollection,) 
few  would  have  equalled  him  cither  in  fancy, 
or  in  that  lighter  kind  of  pathos,  which  comes, 
as  in  this  instance,  like  a  few  melancholy  notes 
in  the  middle  of  a  gay  air,  throwing  a  soft  and 
passing  shade  over  mirth  : — 

"  5Iy  rau3e,  too,  when  her  winga  are  dry, 

No  fl'olic  flights  will  lake  ; 
But  round  a  bowl  sheMl  dip  and  fly, 

Like  swallows  round  a  lake. 
If  Ihen  the  nymph  must  have  her  share. 

Before  she'll  bless  her  swain. 
Why,  that  I  think's  a  reason  fair 

To  flU  my  glass  again. 

"Then,  many  a  lad  I  liked  is  dead, 

Aiid  many  a  lass  grown  old  ; 
And,  as  the  lesson  strikes  my  bead. 

My  weary  heart  grows  cold. 
But  wine  awhile  holds  off  despair, 

Nay.  bids  a  hope  remain  ; — 
And  that  1  think's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again." 

How  far  my  own  labors  in  this  field — if, 
mdeed,  the  gathering  of  such  idle  flowers  may 
be  so  designated — have  helped  to  advance,  or 
even  kept  pace  with  the  progressive  improve- 
ment I  have  here  described,  it  is  not  for  me  to 
presume  to  decide.  I  only  know  that  in  a 
strong  and  inborn  feeling  for  music  lies  the 
source  of  whatever  talent  I  may  have  shown 
for  poetical  composition;  and  (hat  it  was  the 
effort  to  translate  into  language  the  emotions 
and  passions  which  music  appeared  to  me  to 


express,  that  first  led  to  my  writing  any  poetry 
at  all  deserving  of  the  name.  Dryden  has 
happily  described  music  as  being  "  inarticulate 
poetry ;"  and  I  have  always  felt,  in  adapting 
words  to  an  expressive  air,  that  1  was  but 
bestowing  upon  it  the  gift  of  articulation,  and 
thus  enabling  it  to  speak  to  others  all  that  was 
conveyed,  in  its  wordless  eloquence,  to  myself. 
Owing  to  the  space  I  was  led  to  devote,  in  our 
last  volume,  to  subjects  connected  with  the 
Irish  Melodies,  I  was  forced  to  f>ostpone  some 
recollections,  of  a  very  difierent  description, 
respecting  the  gala  at  Boyle  Farm,  by  which 
my  poem,  entitled  The  Summer  Fete,  was 
suggested.  In  an  old  letter  of  my  own  to  a 
friend  m  Ireland,  giving  an  account  of  this 
brilliant  festival,  I  find  some  memorandums 
which,  besides  their  reference  to  the  subject  of 
the  poem,  contain  some  incidents  also  connected 
with  the  first  appearance  before  the  public  of 
one  of  the  most  successful  of  all  my  writings, 
the  story  of  the  Epicurean.  I  shall  give  my 
extracts  from  this  letter,  in  their  original 
diary-like  form,  without  alteration  or  dress 
ing  :— 

June  30,  1837. — Day  threatening  for  tho 
Fete.  Wasvvith  Lord  Essex*- at  three  o'clock, 
and  started  about  half  an  hour  after.  Tho 
whole  road  swarming  with  carriages-and-foui 
all  the  way  to  Boyle  Farm,  which  Lady  do 
Koos  has  lent  for  the  occasion,  to  Henry ; — 
the  five  givers  of  the  Fete,  being  Lords  Ches 
terfield,  Castlereagh,  Alvanlcy,  Henry  de  Roos 
and  Robert  Grosvenor,  subscribing  four  or  five 
hundre'd  pounds  each  towards  it.  The  arrange- 
ments all  in  the  very  best  taste.  The  pavilion 
for  quadrilles,  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  with 
steps  descending  to  the  water,  quite  eastern — 
like  what  one  sees  in  Daniel's  pictures.  To- 
wards five  the  elite  of  the  gay  world  was  as 
sembled — the  women  all  looking  their  best, 
and  scarce  ■  a  single  ugly  face  to  be  foimd. 
About  halfpast  five,  sat  down  to  dinner,  450 
under  a  tent  on  the  lawn,  and  fifty  to  the 
Royal  table  in  the  conservatory.  The  Tyrolese 
musicians  sung  during  dinner,  and  there  were 
after  dinner,  gondolas  on  the  river,  with  Cara 
dori,  De  Begnis,  Velluti,  &c.,  singing  barca 
rolles  and  rowing  ofl'  occasionally,  so  as  to 
let  their  voices  die   awav  and   again  return 


XXXIV 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY 


After  these  succeeded  a  party  in  dominos, 
iladame  ^■e^tr^s,  Fanny  Ayton,  &c.,  who 
rowed  about  in  the  same  manner,  and  sung, 
among  other  things,  my  gondola  song,  "  Oh 
come  to  me  when  daylight  sets."  The  even- 
ing was  delicious,  and,  as  soon  as  it  grew  dark, 
ihc  groves  were  all  lighted  up  -svith  colored 
lamps,  in  dift'erent  shapes  and  devices.  A  little 
lake  near  a  grotto  took  my  foncy  particularly, 
the  shrubs  all  round  being  illuminated,  and 
the  lights  reflected  in  the  water.  Six-and- 
twenty  of  the  prettiest  girls  of  the  world  of 
fashion,  the  Foresters,  Brudenells,  De  Roos's, 
Miss  Fielding,  Miss  Fo.x,  Miss  Russell,  Miss 
Bulkely,  were  dressed  as  Rosieres,  and  opened 

the  quiulrilles  in  the  jxavilion 

While  talking  with  D n,  (Lord  P.'s  bro- 
ther,) he  said  to  me,  "  I  never  read  any  thing 
so  touching  as  the  death  of  your  heroine." 
"  What  I"  said  1,  "  have  you  got  so  far  al- 
ready :"  *  "  Oh,  1  read  it  in  the  Literary  Ga- 
zette." This  anticipation  of  my  catastrophe 
is  abominable.  Soon  after,  the  ^^arquis  Pal- 
mclla  said  to  me,  as  he  and  1  and  Brougham 
stood  together,  looking  at  the  gay  scene. 
"This  is  like  one  of  your  Fetes."  "  Oh  yes," 
said  Brougham,  thinking  he  alluded  to  Lalla 
Rookh,  "quite  oriental."  "Non,  non,"  re- 
plied Palmclla,  "je  veu.x  dire  cettc  Fete 
d'Atlienes,  dont  j'ai  lu  la  description  dans  la 
Gazette  d'aujourd'hui." 

Accustomed  as  I  have  always  been  to  con- 
sider my  songs  as  a  sort  of  compound  creations, 
in  wlii(!h  the  music  forms  no  less  essential  a 
part  than  the  verses,  it  is  with  a  feeling  which 
I  can  hardly  expect  my  unlyrical  readers  to 
understand,  that  I  see  such  a  swarm  of  songs 
as  crowd  these  pages  all  si-paralcd-  from  the 
beautiful  airs  which  have  fi)rined  hitherto  their 
chief  ornament  an<l  strength — their  "decus  cl 
tufanicn."  But,  independently  of  this  uneasy 
feeling,  or  fancy,  there  is  yet  another  incon- 
venient connequcncc  of  the  divorce  of  the  words 
from  the  music,  which  will  be  more  easily,  per- 
hn|iH,  comprehended,  and  which,  In  justice  to 
niytelf,  ana  inel re-monger,  ought  to  be  noticed. 
ThoM)  ooctt'^lonal  lireachcs  of  the  laws  of 
rhythm,  whieli  Uie  tn»k  of  adapting  words  to 
•irM  deinundN  of  llie  jK>et,  though  very  fre- 
qixnlly  ono  of  'he  happiest  results  of  his  skill, 


become  blemishes  when  the  verse  is  separated 
from  the  melody,  and  require,  to  justify  tliera, 
the  presence  of  the  music  to  whose  wildnesa 
or  sweetness  the  sacrifice  had  been  made. 

I  remember  the  late  Rev.  ilr.  Crowe  tell- 
ing me,  in  reference  to  the  point  I  have  just 
touched  upon,  that,  should  another  edition  bo 
called  for,  ho  meant  to  jjroduce,  as  examples  of 
new  and  anomalous  forms  of  versification,  the 
following  songs  from  the  Irish  Melodies  :— 
"  Oh  the  days  are  gone  when  Beauty  bright" 
— "  At  the  dead  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are 
weejiing,  I  fly," — and,  "  Through  grief  and 
through  danger  thy  smile  hath  cheer'd  my 
way."  " 

It  was  about  the  year  1812  that,  impelled 
far  more  by  the  encouraging  suggestions  of 
friends  than  impelled  by  any  confident  prompt- 
ings of  my  own  ambition,  I  was  induced  to 
attempt  a  Poem  upon  some  Oriental  subject, 
and  of  those  quarto  dimensions  which  Scott's 
late  triumphs  in  that  form  had  then  rendered 
the  regular  poetical  standard.  A  negotiation 
on  the  subject  was  opened  with  the  Messrs. 
Longman  in  the  same  year,  but  from  some 
causes  which  have  now  escaped  my  recollec- 
tion, led  to  no  decisive  result;  nor  was  it  till 
a  year  or  two  after,  that  any  further  steps 
were  taken  in  the  matter, — their  house  being 
the  only  one,  it  is  right  to  add,  with  which, 
I'rom  first  to  last,  I  lu-ld  any  coniimmication 
upon  the  subject. 

On  this  last  occasion,  an  old  friend  of  mine, 
Mr.  Perry,  kindly  oflcred  to  lend  me  the  aid 
of  his  advice  and  presence  in  the  interview 
which  I  was  about  to  hold  with  the  Messrs. 
I^onginan,  for  the  arrangement  of  our  mutual 
terms;  and  what  with  the  friendly  zeal  of  my 
negotiator  on  the  one  side,  and  the  prompt 
and  liberal  spirit  with  which  he  was  met  on 
the  other,  tlirif  has  seldom  occurred  any 
transaction  in  which  Trade  and  Poesy  have 
shone  out  so  aiivantageously  in  each  other's 
eyes.  The  short  discussion  llml  llicn  lonk 
place  between  the  two  parties,  may  he  com- 
prised in  a  very  few  sentences.  "  I  am  of 
opinion,"  said  Mr.  Perry, — enforcing  his  view 
of  the  case  by  arguments  which  it  is  not  for 
mo  to  cite, — "that  Mi  Moore  ought  to  ro- 
coivo  for  his  Poem  the  highest  pfic<^  that  has 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


XXXV 


been  given,  in  our  day,  for  such  a  work." 
"  That  was,"  answered  the  Messrs.  Longman, 
"  three  thousand  guineas."  ''  Exactly  so,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Perry,  "and  no  less  a  sum  ought  he 
to  receive." 

It  was  then  objected,  and  very  reasonably, 
on  the  part  of  the  firm,  that  they  had  never 
yet  seen  a  single  line  of  the  Poem — Lalla 
IJookh  ;  and  that  a  perusal  of  the  work  ought 
to  be  allowed  to  them,  before  they  embarked 
so  large  a  sum  in  the  purchase.  But,  no;--- 
the  romantic  view  which  my  friend.  Perry, 
took  of  the  matter,  was,  that  this  price  should 
be  given  as  a  tribute  to  reputation  already  ac- 
quired, without  any  condition  for  a  previous 
perusal  of  the  new  work.  This  high  tone,  I 
must  confess,  not  a  little  startled  and  alarmed 
me ;  but,  to  the  honor  and  glory  of  Romance, 
— as  well  on  the  publisher's  side  as  the  poet's, 
— this  very  generous  view  of  the  transaction 
was,  without  any  difficulty,  acceded  to,  and  the 
firm  agreed,  before  we  separated,  that  I  was  to 
receive  three  thousand  guineas  for  my  Poem. 

At  the  time  of  this  agreement,  but  little  of 
the  work,  as  it  stands  at  present,  had  yet  been 
written.  But  the  ready  confidence  in  my  suc- 
cess shown  by  others,  made  up  for  the  defi- 
ciency of  that  requisite  feeling  within  myself; 
while  a  strong  desire  not  wholly  to  disappoint 
this  "  auguring  hope,"  became  almost  a  substi- 
tute for  inspiration.  In  the  year  1815,  there- 
fore, having  made  some  progress  in  my  task, 
I  wrote  to  report  the  state  of  the  work  to  the 
Messrs.  Longman,  adding,  that  I  was  now  most 
willing  and  ready,  should  they  desire  it,  to 
submit  the  manuscript  for  their  consideration. 
Their  answer  to  this  ofier  was  as  follows : — 
"  We  are  certainly  impatient  for  the  perusal 
of  the  Poem ;  but  solely  for  our  gratification. 
Your  sentiments  are  always  honorable."'". 

I  continued  to  pursue  my  task  for  another 
year,  being  likewise  occasionally  occupied 
with  the  Irish  Melodies,  two  or  three  num- 
bers of  which  made  their .  appearance  du- 
ring the  period  employed  in  writing  Lalla 
Eookh.  At  length,  in  the  year  1810,  I  found 
my  work  sufficiently  advanced  to  be  placed  in 
the  hands  of  the  publishers.  But  the  state  of 
distress  to  which  England  was  reduced,  in  that 
dismal   year,  by  the  exhausting  effects  of  the 


series  of  wars  she  had  just  then  concluded,  and 
the  general  embarrassment  of  all  classes,  both 
agricultural  and  commercial,  rendered  it  a 
juncture  the  least  favorable  that  could  well  be 
conceived  for  the  first  launch  into  jjrint  of  so 
light  and  costly  a  venture  as  Lalla  Eookh. 
Feeling  conscious,  therefore,  that,  under  such 
circumstances,  I  should  act  but  honestly  in 
putting  it  in  the  power  of  the  Messrs.  Long- 
man to  reconsider  the  terms  of  their  ensraze- 
ment  with  me,  leaving  them  free  to  postpone, 
modify,  or  even,  should  such  be  their  wish,  re- 
linquish it  altogether,  I  wrote  them  a  letter  to 
that  effect,  and  received  the  following  answer : 
"  We  shall  be  most  happy  in  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  in  February.  We  agree  with  you, 
indeed,  that  the  times  are  most  inauspicious 
for  'poetry  and  thousands:'  but  we  believe 
that  your  poetry  would  do  more  than  that  of 
any  other  living  poet  at  the  present  moment."" 
The  length  of  time  I  employed  in  writing 
the  few  stories  strung  together  in  Lalla  Eookh 
will  appear,  to  some  persons,  much  moi'e  than 
was  necessary  I'or  the  production  of  such  easy 
and  "  light  o'  love"  fictions.  But  besides  that 
I  have  been,  at  all  times,  a  fivr  more  slow  and 
painstaking  workman  than  would  ever  be 
guessed,  I  fear,  from  the  result,  1  felt  that,  in 
this  instance,  I  had  taken  upon  myself  a  more 
than  ordinary  I'esponsibility,  from  the  immense 
stake  risked  by  others  on  my  chance  of  suc- 
cess. For  a  long  time,  therefore,  after  the 
agreement  had  been  concluded,  though  general- 
ly at  work  with  a  view  to  this  task,  I  made  but 
very  little  real  progress  in  it,  and  I  have  still 
by  me  the  beginnings  of  several  stories,  con- 
tinued, some  of  them,  to  the  length  of  three  or 
four  hundred  lines,  which,  after  in  vain  en- 
deavoring to  mould  them  into  shape,  I  threw 
aside,  like  the  tale  of  Cambuscan,  "  left-  half- 
told."  One  of  these  stories,  entitled  The  Peri's 
Daughter,  was  meant  to  relate  the  loves  of  a 
nymph  of  this  aerial  extraction  with  a  youth 
of  mortal  race,  the  rightful  Prince  of  Ormuz, 
who  had  been,  fiom  his  infancy,  brought  up, 
in  seclusioUj  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Amou, 
by  an  aged  guardian,  named  Mohassan.  The 
story  opens  with  the  first  meeting  of  these  des- 
tined lovers,  then  in  their  childhood  :  the  Peri 
having  wafted  her  daughter  to  this  holy  r» 


XXXVl 


BIOGEAPHICAL  AND  LITEBAEY 


treat,  iu  a  bright  enchanted  boat,  whose  first 
appearance  is  thus  described  : — 


For,  down  the  silver}-  tide  afar, 
There  came  a  boat,  as  swift  and  bright 

As  Bliines,  in  heaven,  some  pilgrim-star, 
That  leaves  its  own  high  home,  at  night. 
To  shoot  to  distant  shrines  of  lic;ht. 
"  It  comes,  it  comes,''  young  Orian  cries, 
And  panting  to  Mohassan  fiies. 
Then,  down  upon  the  flowery  grass 
Reclines  to  see  the  vision  pass ; 
With  partly  joy  jind  partly  fear, 
To  find  its  wondrous  light  so  near, 
And  biding  oa  bis  dazzled  eyes 
Among  the  flowers  on  which  he  lies, 
***** 

Within  the  boat  a  baby  elept. 

Like  a  young  pearl  w  ithin  its  shell ; 
AVhilo  one,  who  seem'd  of  riper  years, 
But  not  of  earth,  or  enrlh-like  spheres, 

Her  watch  beside  the  sluraberer  kept; 

Gracefully  waving,  in  her  hand. 
The  feathers  of  some  holy  bird, 
With  which,  from  lime  to  time,  she  stirrM 

The  fragrant  air,  and  coolly  fnnn'd 

The  baby>  brow,  or  brush'd  away 
The  bulterHies  that,  bricht  and  blue, 

As  on  tho  mountains  of  Malay, 
Around  the  sleeping  infant  Hew. 

And  DOW  the  fairy  boot  hath  etuppM 

Beside  tho  bank,— tho  nymph  has  dropp'd 

Uer  golden  anchor  in  tho  Blreaiu ; 

***** 

A  song  is  sung  by  the  Peri  in  approacliing, 
of  which  the  following  forms  a  part : — 

My  child  Bho  !■  but  half  divine, 
llcr  father  eleepa  In  the  Caspian  water; 
Sea-wccds  twino 
IliH  funeral  shrine, 
But  ho  lives  ogalo  in  tho  Peri's  daughter. 
Fain  would  I  fly  from  mortal  nli;ht 

To  my  own  Bwccl  bowers  of  Perlstan ; 
But,  there,  tho  flowors  are  oil  too  bright 

For  thft  eyes  of  a  baby  born  of  man. 
On  Qovicn  of  earth  her  foot  must  tread  ; 
So  hither  my  light-wing'd  bark  hath  brought  her ; 
Htraiigrr,  Bproad 
TTiy  leadcBt  bed, 
To  rest  the  wandering  Pcri*8  daughter. 

In  another  of  those  inchoate  fragments,  a 
proud  female  saint,  named  Banou,  plays  a 
principal  part ;  and  her  progress  through  the 
streets  of  Cufa,  on  the  night  of  a  great  illumi- 
nnted  festival,  I  find  thus  described: — 

It  witi  n  K«>nn  nf  mirth  that  drow 

A  Bmllo  from  or'n  tho  Hnlnl  llanuu, 

A«,  throufth  the  huih'd,  admlrln;;  tlironft. 

fbo  wrnl  with  Rlatcty  Klcpi  ntoiiR, 

And  roiihtfMl  oVr,  that  nil  mtttht  tpc, 

Tho  nibli*i  of  liTf  rotary. 

Bat  none  might  •m  tho  worldly  imlU 

Ttel  lurli'd  b«o<»ith  hor  Tell,  the  whil*!- 


Alia  forbid  !  for,  who  would  wail 

Her  blessing  at  the  templets  gule,— 

What  holy  man  would  ever  run 

To  kiss  the  ground  she  knelt  upon, 

If  once,  by  lufkless  chnnce,  he  knew 

She  lookM  antt.  smiled  as  others  do. 

Her  hands  were  join'd,  and  from  each  wiistf 

By  threads  of  pearl  and  golden  twist, 

Hung  relics  of  tlie  saints  of  yore, 

And  scraps  of  talismanic  lore,— 

Charms  for  the  old,  the  sick,  the  frail, 

Some  made  for  use,  and  all  for  sale. 

On  either  side,  the  crowd  withdrew, 

To  let  the  Saint  pass  proudly  through  ; 

While  turban'd  heads,  of  every  hue. 

Green,  white,  and  crimson,  bowM  around, 

And  gay  tiarns  touch'd  the  ground, — 

As  tulip-bells,  when  o'er  their  beds 

The  musk-wiod  passes,  bend  their  heads. 

Nay,  some  there  were,  among  tho  crowd 

Of  Moslem  heads  that  round  her  bowM, 

So  fill'd  with  zeal,  by  many  a  draught 

Of  Shiraz  wine  profanely  quaff'd. 

That,  sinkin?  low  in  reverence  then, 

They  never  rose  till  morn  again. 

There  are  yet  two  more  of  these  unfinished 
sketehes,  one  of  which  extends  to  a  niueh 
greater  length  than  1  was  aware  of;  and,  as 
far  as  I  can  judge  from  a  hasty  renewal  of  my 
acquaintance  with  it,  is  not  incapable  of  being 
yet  turned  to  account. 

In  only  one  of  these  unfmished  sketches,  the 
tale  of  The  Peri's  Daughter,  had  I  yet  ventured 
to  invoke  that  most  hou  3-fcIt  of  all  my  inspi- 
rations,  which  has  lent  to  the  story  of  The  Fire- 
worshippers  its  main  attraction  and  interest. 
That  it  was  my  intention,  in  the  concealed 
Prince  of  Ormuz,  to  shadow  out  some  imper- 
sonation of  this  feeling,  I  take  for  granted  from 
the  prophetic  words  supposed  to  be  addressed 
to  him  by  his  aged  guardian  : — 

Bright  child  of  destiny!  even  now 
1  read  the  pronii!*o  on  that  brow, 
That  tyrants  shall  no  moro  delllo 
Tho  glories  of  tlio  *;reen-Sca  Islo, 
But  Ormuz  shall  a^tiin  be  free, 
And  hail  her  native  Lonl  iu  thee  t 

In  none  of  the  other  fragments  do  I  find  any 
trace  of  this  sort  of  feeling,  cither  iu  the  sub- 
ject or  the  personages  of  tho  intended  story  ; 
and  this  was  tho  reason,  doubtless,  though 
hardly  known,  at  the  time,  to  myself,  that, 
finding  my  subject  so  slow  in  kindling  my 
own  sympathies,  1  began  to  despair  ((f  llicir 
ever  touching  tho  hearts  of  otlirrs  ;  mul  felt 
often  inclined  to  sny, 

**  Oh  no,  I  bavo  no  voire  or  hand 
For  iiich  a  song.  In  inch  n  lard. 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


XXX  vu 


Had  this  series  of  disheartening  experiments 
been  carried  on  much  further,  I  must  have 
thrown  aside  the  work  in  despair.  But,  at  last, 
fortunately,  as  it  proved,  the  thouglit  occurred 
";o  me  of  founding  a  story  on  the  fierce  strug- 
gle so  long  maintained  between  the  Ghebers,*' 
or  ancient  Fire-worshippers  of  Persia,  and 
their  haughty  Moslem  masters.  From  that 
moment,  a  new  and  deep  interest  in  my  whole 
task  took  possession  of  me.  Tlie  cause  of 
tolerance  was  again  my  inspiring  theme ;  and 
the  spirit  that  had  spoken  in  the  melodies 
of  Ireland  soon  found  itself  at  home  in  the 
East. 

Having  thus  laid  open  the  secrets  of  the 
woi'kshop  to  account  for  the  time  expended  in 
writing  this  work,  I  mUst  also,  in  justice  to  my 
own  industr}',  notice  the  pains  I  took  in  long 
and  laboriously  reading  for  it.  To  form  a 
storehouse,  as  it  were,  of  illustration  purely 
Oriental,  and  so  familiarize  myself  with  its 
various  treasures,  that  as  quick  as  Fancy,  in 
her  airy  spiritings,  required  the  assistance  of 
fact,  the  memory  was  read}',  like  another 
Ariel,  at  her  "  strong  bidding,"  to  furnish  ma- 
terials for  the  spell-work, — such  was,  fjr  a 
long  while,  the  sole  object  of  my  studies :  and 
whatever  time  and  trouble  this  preparatory 
process  may  have  cost  me,  the  eflects  result- 
ing from  it,  as  far  as  the  humble  merit  of 
truthfulness  is  concerned,  have  been  such  as  to 
repay  me  more  than  sufficiently  for  my  pains.  I 
have  not  foi'gotten  how  great  was  my  pleasure, 
■when  told  by  the  late  Sir  Janies  Mackintosh, 
ihat  he  was  once  asked  by  Colonel  Wilks,  the 
historian  of  British  hidia,  '"  whether  it  was  true 
that  Moore  had  never  been  in  the  East  V 
"  Never,"  answered  Mackintosh,  "  Well,  that 
shows  me,"  replied  Colonel  Wilks,  "  that  read- 
ing over  D'Hei'bclot  is  as  good  as  riding  on 
the  Ijaek  of  a  camel." 

I  need  hardly  subjoin  to  this  lively  speech, 
that  although  D'Herbelot's  valuable  woi'k  was, 
of  course,  one  of  my  manuals,  1  took  the  whole 
range  of  all  such  Oriental  reading  as  was  ac- 
cessible to  me ;  and  became,  for  the  time, 
indeed,  fixr  more  conversant  with  all  relating 
to  ihat  distant  region,  than  I  have  ever  been 
with  the  scenery,  productions,  or  modes  of  life 
of  any  of  those  countries  lying  most  within 


ray  reach.  We  know  that  D'Anville.  though 
never  in  his  life  out  of  Paris,  was  able  to  cor- 
rect a  number  of  errors  in  a  plan  of  the  Troad 
taken  by  De  Choiseul,  on  the  spot ;  and,  for 
my  own  very  different,  as  well  as  far  inferior, 
purposes,  the  knowledge  I  had  thus  acquired 
of  distant  localities,  seen  only  by  me  in  day- 
dreams, was  no  less  ready  and  useful. 

An  ample  reward  for  all  this  painstaking  has 
been  found  in  such  welcome  tributes  as  I  have 
just  cited  ;  nor  can  I  deny  myself  the  gratifica- 
tion of  citing  a  few  more  of  the  same  descrip- 
tion. From  another  distinguished  authority 
on  Eastern  subjects,  the  late  Sir  John  Malcolm 
I  had  myself  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a  similar 
opinion  publicly  expressed  ;  that  eminent  per- 
son having  remarked,  in  a  speech  spoken  bj 
him  at  a  Literary  Fund  Dinner,  that  together 
with  those  qualities  of  the  poet  which  he  much 
too  partially  assigned  to  me,  was  combined 
also  "  the  truth  of  the  historian." 

Sir  William  Ouseley,  another  high  authority 
in  giving  his  testimony  to  the  same  effect,  thus 
notices  an  exception  to  the  general  accuracy 
for  which  he  gives  me  credit : — "  Dazzled  by 
the  beauties  of  this  composition,'"  few  readers 
can  perceive,  and  none  surely  can  regret,  that 
the  poet,  in  his  magnificent  catastrophe,  has 
forgotten,  or  boldly  and  most  happily  violated, 
the  precept  of  Zoroaster,  above  noticed,  which 
held  it  impious  to  consume  any  portion  of  a 
human  body  by  fire,  especially  by  th.at  which 
glowed  upon  their  altars."  Having  long  lost, 
I  fear,  most  of  my  Eastern  learning,  I  can  only 
cite,  in  defence  of  my  catastrophe,  an  old 
Oriental  tradition,  which  relates  that  Nimrod, 
when  Abraham  refused,  at  his  command,  to 
worship  the  fire,  ordered  him  to  be  thrown  into 
the  midst  of  the  flames.  A  precedent  so  an 
cient  for  this  sort  of  use  of  the  worshipped 
element,  appears,  for  all  purposes  at  least  of 
poetry,  to  be  fully  sufficient. 

In  addition  to  these  agreeable  teslimonies, 
I  have  also  heard,  and,  need  hardly  add,  with 
some  pride  and  pleasure,  that  parts  of  this 
work  have  been  rendered  into  Persian,  and 
have  found  their  way  to  Ispahan.  To  this  fact, 
as  I  am  willing  to  think  it,  allusion  is  made  ia 
some  lively  verses,  written  many  years  since, 
by  my  friend,  Mr.  Luttrell :  — 


XJtSVill 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  LITEEAEY 


<•  Tm  told,  dear  Moore  tout  Isys  are  mng, 
(Can  it  be  Irue.  you  lucky  man  ?> 
By  moonlightt  in  tho  Persian  tongue, 
AluDg  tho  streela  of  Ispahan." 

ITiat  some  knowledge  of  the  work  may 
have  really  reached  that  region,  appears  not 
improbable  from  a  passage  iu  the  Travels  of 
Mr.  Frazer,  who  says,  that  "being  delayed 
for  some  time  at  a  town  on  the  shores  of  the 
Cas[)ian,  he  was  lucky  enough  to  be  able  to 
amuse  himself  with  a  copy  of  Lalla  Rookh, 
which  a  Persian  had  lent  him." 

Of  the  description  of  Balbec,  in  "  Paradise 
and  the  Peri,"  Mr.  Carne,  in  his  Letters 
from  the  East,  thus  speaks  :  "  The  description 
in  Lalla  Rookh  of  the  plain  and  its  ruins  is 
e.xquisitely  faithful.  The  minaret  is  on  the 
declivity  near  at  hand,  and  there  wanted  only 
the  muezzin's  cry  to  break  the  silence." 

I  shall  now  tax  my  readers'  patience  with 
but  one  more  of  these  generous  vouchers. 
Whatever  of  vanity  there  may  be  in  citing 
such  tributes,  they  show,  at  least,  of  what  great 
value,  even  in  poetry,  is  that  prosaic  quality, 
industry  ;  since,  as  the  reader  of  the  foregoing 
pages  is  now  fully  appiizcd,  it  was  in  a  slow 
and  laborious  collection  of  small  facts  that  the 
first  foundations  of  this  fanciful  romance  weie 
Laid. 

The  friendly  testimony  I  h:ive  just  referred 
to,  appeared,  some  years  since,  in  the  form  in 
which  I  now  give  it,  and,  if  I  recollect  right,  in 
the  Atheruuum : — 

"  I  embrace  this  opportunity  of  bearing  my 
individual  testimony  (if  it  be  of  any  value) 
to  the  extraordinary  accuracj*  of  Mr.  Moore, 
In  his  t()poi;rapliicui,  anti<|uarian,  and  charac- 
iJTisdie  dctiillH,  wiiothcr  of  costume,  manners, 
cr  le44<:lutnging  monumentt,  both  in  iiis  Lalla 
Kookh,  and  in  tho  Epicurean.  It  has  been 
my  fortiiiu)  to  read  his  Atlantic,  Berinudcan, 
and  AmericAii  Odai  and  Epistles,  in  tiio  coun- 
tricH  and  among  tho  people  to  which  and  to 
wlioiii  tln-y  related ;  I  enjoyed  also  the  cx- 
ipiiHite  delight  of  reading  his  Lalla  Hookli  in 
IVrsi.'i  itself;  and  I  linvc,  pcruseil  the  Epi- 
zureun,  wliilo  all  my  rccollcclions  of  Egypt 
(lid  it^  ktill  oxiiitiiig  wtmdcrs  arc  as  fresh  as 
whc'i  I  i|ulttpd  tlio  bank*  rif  tho  Nile  for  Ara- 


bia ;  I  owe  it,  therefore,  as  a  debt  of  gratitudo 

(though  the  pajnnent  is  most  inadequate)  for 

tho  great  pleasure  I  have   derived  from  his 

productions,  to  bear  my  humble  testimony  to 

their  local  fidelity. 

"J.  S.  B." 

Among  the  incidents  connected  with  this 
work,  I  must  not  omit  to  notice  tho  splendid 
Divertissement,  founded  upon  it,  which  was 
acted  at  the  Chateau  Royal  of  Berlin,  during 
the  visit  of  the  Grand  Duke  Nicholas  to  that 
capital,  in  the  year  1822.  The  different  stories 
composing  the  work  were  represented  in  Ta- 
bleaux Vivans  and  songs ;  and  among  the 
crowd  of  royal  and  noble  personages  engaged 
in  the  performances,  I  shall  mention  those  only 
who  represented  the  principal  characters,  and 
whom  I  find  thus  enumerated  in  the  published 
account  of  the  Divcrtlssonient."' 


*  Fadlndin,  Grund-Naslr, . 


j  Comtp  Haaek,  (Marickat 
t       lie  Cintr. 

Aliris,  Rcil  do  Bucharie,    .    .    .     S.  .4.  /.  J.e  Orand  Due. 

Lalla  Roukh, S.A.  I.  I.aOrajide  Duchraie, 

Auruugzcb,  lo  Grand  fliogol,     .     ' 


Abdallah,  Piro  d'Aliris, 
La  Rcinc,  son  <:pau30, . 


iaiime^  frere  du  lioi. 
S.  .1.  R.  I.e  Due  it  Cii» 

herland, 
■1.   .1.    It.    I.a    Princfll 

Lvuhe  RadiiviUP 


Besides  these  and  other  hading  personages, 
there  were  also  brought  into  action,  under  thf 
various  denominations  of  Seigneurs  et  Dames 
de  Bucliarie,  Dames  de  Cachemire,  Seigneurs 
et  Dames  dansans  a  la  Fete  des  Roses,  &c., 
nearly  loO  persons. 

Of  the  manner  and  stylo  in  which  the  Ta- 
bleaux of  the  dillVi-cnt  stories  arc  described  in 
the  work  iVom  which  I  cite,  the  following  ac- 
count of  the  performance  of  Paradise  iiiul  the 
Peri  will  alford  some  specimen  : — 

'•  La  dccDialiou  representait  les  portes  bril. 
lantes  du  Paradis  entourees  de  nuagos.  Dans 
le  premier  tableau  on  voyait  la  P6ri,  triste  et 
desolee,  cotichee  sur  Ic  seuil  des  portes  ferm6es, 
et  TAiigo  de  luiniere  (pii'lui  addresse  des  con- 
solations et  des  eoiiseils.  Le  second  repr6seiito 
Ic  moment,  ou  la  P6ri,  dans  I'cspoir  que  ce  dou 
liii  onvrira  rentree  du  Panidis  recueille  la  der 
nioro  giMitti)  clo  sang  que  vient  do  verser  lo 
jeuneguorrier  Indien 

"La  P6ri  et  I'Ange  do  liimicre  r6pondaient 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOK. 


XXXIX 


pleinement  a  I'image  et  a  I'idco  qu'on  est  tcnte 
de  se  faire  de  ces  deux  individus,  et  I'iinprcs- 
sion  qu'a  faite  geneialement  la  suite  dcs  ta- 
bleaux de  cet  episode  delicat  et  iuteressant  est 
loin  de  s'efTacei-  de  notre  souvenir." 

In  this  grand  Fete,  it  appears,  originated  the 
translation  of  Lalla  Rookh  into  German  verse, 
by  the  Baron  de  la  Motte  Fouque ;  and  the 
circumstances  which  led  him  to  undertake  the 
task  are  described  by  himself,  in  a  Dedicatory 
Poem  to  the  Empress  of  Russia,  which  he  has 
prefixed  to  his  translation.  As  soon  as  the 
performance,  he  tells  us,  had  ended,  Lalla 
Rookh  (the  Empress  herself)  exclaimed,  with 
a  sigh,  "  Is  it,  then,  all  over  1  are  we  now  at 
the  close  of  all  that  has  given  us  so  much  de- 
light 1  and  lives  there  no  poet  who  will  impart 
to  others,  and  to  future  times,  some  notion  of 
the  happiness  we  have  enjoyed  this  evening  1" 
On  hearing  this  appeal,  a  Knight  of  Cashmere 
(who  is  no  other  than  the  poetical  Baron  him- 
self) comes  forward  and  promises  to  attempt 
to  present  to  the  world  "  the  Poem  itself  in 
the  measure  of  the  original :" — whereupon 
Lalla  Rookh,  it  is  added,  approvingly  smiled. 

The  success,  far  exceeding  my  hopes  and 
Icserts,  with  which  Lalla  Roolih  was  immedi- 
itely  crowned,  relieved  me  at  once  from  the 
anxious  feeling  of  responsibility  under  which, 
as  my  readers  have  seen,  that  enterprise  had 
been  commenced,  and  which  continued  for 
some  time  to  haunt  me  amidst  all  the  enchant- 
ments of  my  task.  I  was  therefore  in  the  true 
holyday  mood,  when  a  dear  friend,  with  whose 
name  is  associated  some  of  the  brightest  and 
pleasantest  hours  of  my  past  life,'"  kindly 
offered  me  a  scat  in  his  carriage  for  a  short 
visit  to  Paris.  Tliis  proposal  I,  of  course, 
gladly  accepted ;  and,  in  the  autumn  of  the 
year  1817,  found  myself,  for  the  first  time,  in 
that  gay  capital. 

As  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbon  dynasty 
was  still  of  too  recent  a  date  for  any  amalgama- 
tion to  have  yet  taken  place  between  the  new 
and  ancient  order  of  things,  all  the  most  prom- 
ineDt  features  of  both  regimes  were  just  then 
brought,  in  their  fullest  relief,  into  juxtaposi- 
tion ;  and,  accordingly,  the  result  was  such  as 
to  suggest  to  an  unconcerned  spectator  quite 
as  abundant  matter  for  ridicule  as  for  gi-ave 


political  consideration.  It  would  be  difficult, 
indeed,  to  convey  to  those  who  had  not  them- 
selves seen  the  Paris  of  that  period,  any  clear 
notion  of  the  anomalous  aspect,  both  social  and 
political,  which  it  then  represented.  It  was  as 
if,  in  the  days  succeeding  the  Deluge,  a  small 
coterie  of  antediluvians  had  been  suddenly 
evoked  from  out  of  the  deep  to  take  the  com- 
mand of  a  new  aud  freshly-starting  world. 

To  me,  the  abundant  amusement  and  interest 
which  such  a  scene  could  not  but  afford,  was  a 
good  deal  heightened  by  my  having,  in  my 
youthful  days,  been  made  acquainted  with  some 
of  those  personages  who  were  now  most  in- 
terested in  the  future  success  of  the  Legitimate 
cause.  The  Ccmte  D'Artois,  or  Monsieur,  I 
had  met  in  the  year  1802-3,  at  Donington 
Park,  the  seat  of  the  Earl  of  Moira,  under 
whose  princely  roof  1  used  often  and  long,  in 
those  days,  to  find  a  most  hospitable  home.  A 
small  party  of  distinguished  French  emigrants 
were  already  staying  on  a  visit  in  the  house 
when  Monsieur  and  his  suite  arrived ;  and 
among  those  were  the  present  King  of  France 
and  his  two  brothers,  the  Due  de  Montpensier, 
and  the  Comte  de  Beaujolais. 

Some  doubt  and  uneasiness  had,  I  remem- 
ber, been  felt  by  the  two  latter  brothers,  as  to 
the  reception  they  were  likely  to  encounter 
from  the  new  guest ;  and  as,  in  those  times,  a 
cropped  and  unpowdered  head  was  regarded 
generally  as  a  symbol  of  Jacobinism,  the  Comte 
Beaujolais,  who,  like  many  other  young  men, 
wore  his  hair  in  this  fashion,  thought  it,  on  the 
present  occasion,  most  prudent,  in  order  to 
avoid  all  risk  of  offence,  not  only  to  put  pow- 
der in  his  hair,  but  also  to  provide  himself  with 
an  artificial  queue.  This  measure  of  precau- 
tion, however,  led  to  a  slight  incident  after 
dinner,  which,  though  not  very  royal  or  digni 
fied,  was  at  least  creditable  to  the  social  good- 
humor  of  the  future  Charles  X.  On  the  de- 
parture of  the  ladies  from  the  dining-room,  we 
had  hardly  seated  ourselves  in  the  old-fashioned 
style,  round  the  fire,  when  ISIonsieur,  who  had 
happened  to  place  himself  ne.xt  to  Beaujolais, 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  aseititioire  tail, — which, 
having  been  rather  carelessly  put  on,  had  a 
good  deal  straggled  out  of  its  place.  With  a 
sort  of  scream  of  jocular  pleasure,  as  if  do 


xl 


BIOGEAPinCAL  AJH)  LITERAEY 


lighted  at  the  discovery,  Monsieur  seized  the 
stray  appendage,  and,  bringing  it  round  into 
full  view,  to  the  great  amusement  of  the  whole 
company,  popped  it  into  poor  grlonhig  Beavi- 
jolais'  mouth. 

On  one  of  the  evenings  of  this  short  visit  of 
Monsieur,  I  remember  Curran  arriving  unex- 
pectedly, on  his  way  to  London  ;  and,  having 
come  too  late  for  dinner,  he  joined  our  party  in 
the  evening.  As  the  foreign  portion  of  the  com- 
panv  was  then  quite  new  to  him,  I  was  able  to 
be  useful,  by  informing  him  of  the  names,  rank, 
and  other  particulars  of  the  party  he  found 
assembled,  from  Monsieur  himself,  down  to  the 
old  Due  de  Lorge  and  the  Baron  de  llolle. 
When  I  had  gone  through  the  whole  list,  "  Ah, 
poor  fellows!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  mixture 
of  fun  and  pathos  in  his  look,  truly  Irish, 
"  Poor  fellows,  all  dismounted  cavalry  !" 

On  the  last  evening  of  Monsieur's  stay,  I 
was  made  to  sing  for  him,  among  other  songs, 
"  Farewell  Bessy !"  one  of  my  earliest  at- 
tempts at  musical  composition.  As  soon  as  I 
had  finished,  he  paid  me  the  compliment  of 
reading  aloud  the  words  as  written  under  the 
music ;  and  most  royal  havoc  did  he  make,  as 
to  this  day  I  well  remember,  of  whatever  little 
sense  or  metre  they  could  boast. 

Among  my  earlier  poetic  writings,  more 
th-in  fine  grateful  memorial  may  be  found  of 
the  happy  days  I  passed  in  this  hospitable 
mansion, — " 

or  nil  ray  Bunny  monu  and  moonlight  nights 

On  Duulnglon'i  green  Iawn«  nrnl  breezy  heights. 

But  neither  verse  nor  prose  could  do  any  jus- 
tice to  the  sort  of  impression  I  still  letaiii  of 
those  long-vanished  days.  The  library  at 
Donington  was"  exteu'^ive  and  valuable;  and 
tliniugh  tlif  privilege  kindly  giaiitcd  to  mc  of 
retiring  thither  for  study,  oven  when  the  family 
Were  ftbsi'iif,  I  frequently  passed  whole  weeks 
alone  in  that  fine  library,  inilulgiiig  in  all  the 
first  airy  oastle-biiiidirig  of  aiitliorsliip.  The 
various  proje<'t.s,  indc>i>d,  of  future  works  that 
UHcd  then  to  pass  in  fruitless  succession 
through  my  mind,  can  bo  compai'cd  oidv  to 
llic  waves  as  ilescriljcd  by  the  poct^ — 

"  Ami  onA  nn  »oonnr  toiioh'd  tho  Bborc,  *vi  dio<l, 
Than  •  now  fiA]nwv7  fnu*.'* 


With  that  library  is  also  connected  another 
of  my  earliest  poems, — the  verses  addressed  to 
the  Duke  of  jSIontpensier  on  his  portrait  of  the 
Lady  Adelaide  Forbes ;"  for  it  was  there  that 
this  truly  noble  lady,  then  in  the  first  dawn  of 
her  beauty,  used  to  sit  for  that  pictui-e ;  while, 
in  another  part  of  the  library,  the  Duke  of 
Orleans, — engaged  generally  at  that  time  with 
a  volume  of  Clarendon, — was  by  such  studies 
unconsciousl}-  prepai-ing  himself  for  the  high 
and  arduous  destiny,  which  not  only  the  Good 
Genius  of  France,  but  his  own  sagacious  and 
intrepid  spirit,  had  early  marked  out  for  him. 

I  need  hardly  say  how  totally  ditTerent  were 
all  the  circumstances  under  which  ^lonsieur 
himself  and  some  of  his  followers  were  again 
seen  by  me  in  the  year  1817; — tho  same  ac- 
tors, indeed,  but  with  an  entirely  new  change 
of  scenery  and  decorations.  Among  the  variety 
of  aspects  presented  by  this  change,  the  ridic- 
ulous cei'tainly  pi-cdominated ;  nor  could  a 
satirist  who,  like  Philoctctcs,  was  smitten 
with  a  fancy  for  shooting  at  geese,"  ask  any 
better  supply  of  such  game  than  the  high 
places,  in  Franco,  at  that  period,  both  lay  and 
ecclesiastical,  alfordcd.  Not  being  versed, 
however,  sufficiently  in  French  politics  to  ven- 
ture to  meddle  with  them,  even  in  sport,  I 
found  a  more  ready  conductor  of  laughter — 
for  which  I  was  then  much  in  the  mood — in 
those  groups  of  ridiculous  English  who  were 
at  that  time  swarming  in  all  directions  through- 
out Pai'is,  and  of  all  whose  various  forms  of 
cockney  ism  and  nonsense  I  endeavored,  in  the 
personages  of  tho  Fudge  Family,  to  collect  the 
concentrated  essence.  Tho  result,  as  usual, 
fell  very  far  short  of  what  I  had  mjself  pre- 
conceived and  intended.  Bui,  making  its  ap- 
pearance at  such  a  crisis,  tiio  woi-k  brought 
with  it  that  best  seasoning  of  till  such  jeiu- 
(Tcuprit,  the  a-propost  of  the  motnent ;  and,  ac 
cordingly,  in  the  race  of  .successive  editions, 
Lalla  Uookh  was,  for  some  time,  kept  pace 
with  by  Miss  Biddy  Fudge. 

The  scries  of  triflL's  contained  in  this  volume, 
entitled  "  Rhymes  on  the  Iload,"  were  written 
partly  a.->.  their  title  implies,  and  partly  at  a 
subsequent  piu'iod  iVoin  tnemoraudums  nuido 
on  the  spot.  This  will  account  for  so  many 
of  those  picr-e<  being  llttlo  better,  I  foar,  than 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


xli 


"prose  fringed  with  rhyme."  llie  journey  to 
a  purt  of  which  those  Rhymes  owed  their 
existence,  was  commenced  in  company  with 
Lord  John  Russell  in  the  autumn  of  the  year 
1819.  After  a  weelt  or  two  passed  at  Paris, 
to  enable  Lord  John  to  refer  to  Barillon's 
Letters  for  a  new  edition  of  his  Life  of  Lord 
Russell  then  preparing,  we  set  out  together 
for  the  Simplon.  At  Milan,  the  agreeable 
society  of  the  late  Lord  Kinnaird  detained  us 
for  a  few  days  ;  and  then  my  companion  took 
the  route  to  Genoa,  while  I  proceeded  on  a 
visit  to  Lord  Byron  at  Venice. 

It  was  during  the  journey,  thus  briefly  de- 
scribed, I  addressed  the  well-known  Remon- 
strance to  my  noble  friend,"  which  has  of  late 
been  frequently  coupled  with  my  prophetic 
verses  on  the  Duke  of  Wellington,"  from  the 
prescient  spirit  with  which  it  so  confidently 
looked  forward  to  all  that  Lord  John  has  since 
become  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 

Of  my  visit  to  Lord  Byron, — an  event  to 
me  so  memorable, — I  have  already  detailed 
all  the  most  interesting  particulars  in  my  pub- 
lished Life  of  the  poet ;  and  shall  here  only 
cite,  from  that  work,  one  passage,  as  having 
some  reference  to  a  picture  mentioned  in  the 
following  pages.  "  As  we  were  conversing 
after  dinner  about  the  various  collections  of 
paintings  I  had  seen  that  morning,  on  my 
saying  that,  fearful  as  I  was  of  ever  praising 
any  picture,  lest  I  should  draw  on  myself  the 
connoisseur's  sneer,  for  my  pains,  I  would  yet, 
to  him,  venture  to  own  that  I  had  seen  a  pic- 
ture at  Milan,  which '  The  Hagar  !'='  he 

exclaimed,  eagerly  interrupting  me ;  and  it 
was,  in  fict,  that  very  picture  I  was  about  to 
mention  to  him  as  having  awakened  in  me,  by 
the  truth  of  its  expression,  more  real  emotion 
than  any  1  had  yet  seen  among  the  chefs- 
d'oeuvre  of  Venice." 

In  the  society  I  chiefly  lived  with,  while  at 
Rome,  I  considered  myself  singularly  fortu- 
nate; though  but  a  blind  and  uninitiated  wor- 
shipper of  those  powers  of  Art  of  which  my 
companions  were  all  high-priests.  Canova 
himself,  Chantrey,  Lawrence,  Jackson,  Turner, 
Ea'itlake, — such  were  the  men  of  whose  pres- 
ence and  guidance  I  enjoyed  the  advantage  in 
risiting  all  that  unrivalled  Rome  can  boast  of 


beautiful  and  grand.  That  I  derived  from  this 
source  of  tuition  any  thing  more  than  a  very 
humbling  consciousness  of  my  own  ignorance 
and  want  of  taste,  in  matters  of  art,  I  will  not 
be  so  dishonest  as  to  pretend.  But,  to  the 
stranger  in  Rome  every  step  forms  an  epoch ; 
and,  in  addition  to  all  its  own  countless  ap- 
peals to  memory  and  i  maginatioi^  the  agreea- 
ble auspices  under  which  I  first  visited  all  its 
memorable  places  could  not  but  render  every 
impression  I  received  more  vivid  and  perma- 
nent. Thus,  with  my  recollection  of  the  Sep 
ulchre  of  St.  Peter,  and  its  ever-burning  lamps, 
for  which  splendid  spot  Canova  was  then 
meditating  a  statue,"  there  is  always  connected 
in  my  mind  the  exclamation  which  I  heard 
break  from  Chantrey  after  gazing,  for  a  few 
moments,  in  silence,  upon  that  glorious  site, 
— "  What  a  place  to  work  for !" 

In  one  of  the  poems  contained  in  this  vol- 
ume,™ allusion  is  made  to  an  evening  not  easily 
forgotten,  when  Chantrey  and  myself  were 
taken  by  Canova  to  the  Borghese  Palace,  for 
the  purpose  of  showing  us,  by  the  light  of  a 
taper — ^his  favorite  mode  of  exhibiting  that 
work — his  beautiful  statue  of  the  Princess 
Borghese,  called  the  Venere '  Vincitrice.  In 
Chantrey's  eagerness  to  point  out  some  grace 
or  effect  that  peculiarly  struck  him,  he  snatched 
the  light  out  of  Canova's  hand,  and  to  this  cir- 
cumstance the  following  passage  of  the  poem 
referred  to  was  meant  to  allude  : — 

When  he,  thy  peer  in  art  and  fjime, 
Hungr  o'er  the  marble  with  delight  i^l 
And,  while  his  ling'rint?  hand  would  steal 

O'er  every  grace  the  taper's  rays, 
Gave  thee,  with  all  the  gen'rous  zeal, 
Such  master-spirits  only  feel, 

The  best  of  fame — a  rival's  praise. 

One  of  the  days  that  still  linger  most  pleas- 
antly in  my  memory,  and  which,  I  trust,  nei- 
ther Lady  Calcott  nor  Mr.  Eastlake  have  quite 
forgotten,  was  that  of  our  visit  together  to 
the  Palatine  Mount,  when,  as  we  saimtered 
about  that  picturesque  spot,  cnjoj-ing  the 
varied  views  of  Rome  which  it  commands, 
they  made  me,  for  the  first  time,  acquainted 
with  Guidi's  spirited  Ode  on  the  Arcadians,  in 
which  there  is  poetry  enough  lO  make  amends 
for  all  the  nonsense  of  his  rhyming  brethren. 
Truly  and  grandly  does  he  exclaim, — 


xlii 


BIOGEAPniCAL  AND  LITERARY 


»*  iDdumita  e  snperba  ancor  6  Koraa 
BeDcbe  si  veggia  col  gran  busio  a  terra; 
•  ••••• 

Son  pieoe  di  splendor  1e  sue  mine, 
E  U  gran  cenere  suo  si  mostra  elemo.'* 

With  Canova,  while  sitting  to  Jackson  for  a 
portrait  ordered  by  Chantrey,  I  had  more  than 
once  some  interesting  conversation — or,  rather, 
listened  whUe  he  spoke — respecting  the  politi- 
cal state  of  Europe  at  that  period,  and  those 
"  bricconi,"  as  he  styled  them,  the  sovereigns 
of  the  Holy  Alliance ;  and,  before  I  left  Rome, 
he  kindly  presented  to  me  a  set  of  engravings 
from  some  of  his  finest  statues,  together  with 
a  copy  of  the  beautifully  printed  collection  of 
Poems,  which  a  Roman  Poet,  named  Mis- 
sirini,  had  written  in  praise  of  his  diflerent 
"Marmi." 

When  Lord  John  R\issell  and  myself  parted, 
at  Milan,  it  was  agreed  between  us,  that  after  a 
short  visit  to  Rome,  and  (if  practicable  within 
the  allowed  time)  to  Naples,  I  was  to  rejoin 
him  at  Genoa,  and  from  thence  accompany  him 
to  England.  But  the  early  period  for  which 
Parliament  was  summoned,  that  j'ear,  owing  to 
the  violent  proceedings  at  Manchester,  rendered 
it  necessary  for  Lord  John  to  hasten  his  return 
to  England.  I  was,  therefore,  most  fortunate, 
under  such  circumstances,  in  being  permitted 
by  my  fiends  Qiantrcy  and  Jackson  to  join  in 
their  journey  homeward  ;  through  which  lucky 
arrangement,  the  same  precious  privilege  1  had 
enjoyed,  at  Rome,  of  hearing  the  opinions  of 
such  practised  judges,  on  all  the  great  works 
of  art  I  siiw  in  their  company,  was  continued 
afterwards  to  me  through  the  various  collec- 
tions we  visited  together,  at  Florence,  Bologna, 
Modena,  Parma,  Milan,  and  Turin. 

To  some  of  those  pictures  and  statues  that 
most  took  my  fancy,  during  my  tour,  allusions 
will  be  found  in  a  few  of  the  poems  contained 
in  this  volume.  But  the  great  j>leasure  1  de- 
rived from  these  and  many  other  such  works 
arose  fiir  more  from  the  poetical  nature  of 
their  siiltjects  than  from  any  judgment  I  had 
Iramcd  to  form  of  their  real  merit  lis  works  of 
art, — n  line  of  lore  in  wliich,  notwithstanding 
my  coumo  ofsohooling,  I  remained,  I  fear,  un- 
enliglitened  l<>  llio  lust.  For  nil  that  was  lost 
upon  me,  however,  in  the  halls  of  Art,  I  wius 
more    ihjin    mD«iied   in    Ihr    cheap   jiicturc- 


gallery  of  Nature ;  and  a  glorious  sunset  1 
witnessed  in  ascending  the  Simplon  is  still 
remembered  by  me  with  a  depth  and  freshness 
of  feeling  which  no  one  work  of  art  I  saw  in 
the  galleries  of  Italy  has  left  behind. 

1  have  now  a  few  words  to  devote  to  a  some- 
what kindred  subject,  with  which  a  poem  or 
two  contained  in  the  follovr'ing  pages  are  closely 
connected.''  I  have  already  briefly  noticed  tho 
taste  for  Private  Theatrical  Performances 
which  prevailed  during  the  latter  half  of  tho 
last  century  among  the  higher  ranks  in  Ireland, 
This  taste  continued  fijr  nearly  twenty  years  to 
survive  the  epoch  of  the  Union,  and  in  thf. 
performances  of  the  Private  Theatre  of  Kil 
kenny  gave  fjrth  its  last,  as  well  as  perhaps, 
brightest  flashes.  The  life  and  soul  of  this  in 
stitution  was  our  manager,  the  late  !Mr.  Richard 
Power,  a  gentleman  who  could  boast  a  larsier 
circle  of  attached  friends,  and  tlu'ough  ii  lifo 
more  fi-ee  from  shadow  or  alloy,  than  any  in- 
dividual it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  know.  No 
livelier  proof,  indeed,  could  be  required  of  the 
sort  of  feeling  entertained  towards  him  than 
was  once  shown  in  the  reception  given  to  the 
two  following  homely  lines  which  occurred  in 
a  Prologue  I  wrote  to  be  spoken  by  Mr.  Coiry 
in  the  character  of  Vapid. 

*Tl8  said  our  worthy  manager  Intends 

To  help  my  niglit,  and  Ac,  you  know,  has  Oiendr, 

These  few  simple  words  I  wrote  with  the  as 
surcd  conviction  that  they  would  produce  more 
elTect,  from  the  homefclt  truism  they  contair.cd, 
than  could  be  eflectcd  by  the  most  labored 
burst  of  eloquence ;  and  the  result  waa  just 
what  I  liiul  anticipated,  fur  the  house  rung,  tor 
a  considerable  time,  with  the  heartiest  plau- 
dits. 

The  chief  comic,  or  rather  fircical,  force  of 
the  compiiny  lay  in  my  fiiend  Mr.  Corry,  and 
"  longo  intervallo,"  mysplf ;  and  though,  as 
usual  with  low  comedians,  we  were  "much 
look(!d  down  upon  by  the  lofty  lords  nf  tiie 
buskin,  many  was  tho  sly  joke  we  used  to  in- 
dulge together  at  the  expense  of  our  heroic 
brethren.  Some  waggish  critic,  indeed,  is  said 
to  have  declared  that  of  all  the  personages  of 
our  theatre  he  most  admiied  the  prom[)ter, — • 
"  because  ho  was  least  scon  ar.d  best  heard." 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


xliii 


Hut  this  jokii  was,  of  course,  a  mere  good- 
huinoieJ  slander.  There  were  two,  at  least, 
of  our  dramatic  corps,  Sir  Wrixon  Becher  and 
Mr.  Rothe,  whose  powers,  as  tragic  actors,  few 
amateurs  liave  ever  equalled ;  aud  Mr.  Corry 
— -perhaps  alone  of  all  our  company — would 
have  been  sure  of  winning  laurels  on  the  public 
stage. 

As  to  my  own  share  iu  these  representations, 
the  following  list  of  m}'  most  successful  char- 
acters will  show  how  remote  from  the  line  of 
the  Heroic  was  the  small  orbit  through  which 
I  ranged  ;  my  chief  parts  having  been  Sam,  in 
"  Raising  the  Wind,"  Robin  Roughhead,  Muu- 
go,  Sadi,  in  the  "  Mountaineers,"  Spado,  and 
Peeping  Tom.  In  the  part  of  Spado  there 
occur  several  allusions  to  that  gay  rogue's 
shortness  of  stature,  which  never  failed  to  be 
welcomed  by  my  auditors  with  laughter  and 
cheers ;  and  the  words  "  Even  Sanguino  allows 
I  am  a  clever  little  fellow,"  was  always  a  sig- 
nal for  this  sort  of  friendly  explosion.  One 
of  the  songs,  indeed,  written  by  O'Keefe  for 
the  character  of  Spado,  so  much  abounds  with 
points  thus  personally  applicable,  that  many 
supposed,  with  no  great  compliment  either  to 
my  poetry  or  my  modesty,  that  the  song  had 
been  written,  expressly  for  the  occasion,  by 
myself.  The  following  is  the  verse  to  which 
(  allude,  and  for  the  poetry  of  which  I  was  thus 
made  responsible : — 

"  Though  born  to  be  litUe's  ray  fata, 
Yet  so  was  the  great  Alexander ; 

And,  when  I  walk  under  a  gate, 
I've  no  need  to  stoop  like  a  gander. 

Vin  no  lanky,  long  hoddy-doddy, 

,  ^Vhose  paper-kite  sails  in  the  sky; 

Though  wanting  two  feet,  in  my  body, 
In  soul,  I  am  thirty  feet  high." 

Some  further  account  of  the  Kilkenny  The- 
atre, as  well  as  of  the  history  of  Private  The- 
atricals in  general,  will  be  found  in  the  follow- 
ing article  I  wrote  on  the  subject  for  the 
Edinburgh  Review : — 

There  is  no  subject  that  we  would  sooner 
recommend  to  any  male  or  female  author,  in 
distress  for  a  topic,  than  a  Illstoiy  of  the  Pri- 
vate Theatres  of  Europe.  It  has  been  said  of 
Gibbon,  that  his  work  is  "  like  the  great  whirl- 
pool of  Norwa}',  which  sucks  into  its  eddy 
bears,  whales,    ships,   and   every   thing   that 


comes  witliin  any  possible  reach  of  its  engulf- 
ing streams  ;" — and  this,  after  all,  in  much 
humbler  walks  of  literature  than  that  of  Gib- 
bon, is  the  grand  secret  of  book-making.  To 
find  a  subject  which  is  either  capable,  or  may 
be  made  so  by  a  little  management,  of  press- 
ing all  other  possible  subjects  into  its  service, 
is  the  grand  desideratum  to  which  the  quarto- 
monger  and  the  man  of  many  volumes  should 
aspire,  Bayle,  we  know,  contrived,  in  iiis 
"Thoughts  en  the  Comet,"  to  make  the  world 
acquainted  with  his  thoughts  on  every  Cither 
existing  topic, — from  Jesuits  and  Janseiiists, 
and  the  Peace  of  Nimeguen,  to  Crusades,  De- 
mons, and  the  ever  memorable  Bishop  of 
Condom.  Berkeley  has  converted  his  Essay 
on  Tar  Water  to  purposes  no  less  omnigenous 
aud  incongruous ; — the  principles  of  attraction, 
and  repulsion, — the  story  of  Isis  and  Osiris — 
the  Anima  Mundi  of  Plato,  and  the  doctrine 
of  the  Trinity,  all  administered  to  the  reader 
through  the  somewhat  nauseous  medium  of 
Tar  Water. 

With  much  less  abuse  of  the  privilege  of 
discursiveness  than  has  been  assumed  by  either 
of  those  two  celebrated  skeptics,'^  the  author 
of  a  History  of  Private  Theatricals  might  in- 
terweave with  his  subject,  not  only  an  account 
of  the  Rise  and  Progress  of  the  Drama,  in  the 
different  countries  of  Europe,  but  by  availing 
himself  of  the  splendid  names  which  have, 
from  time  to  time,  illustrated  the  annals  of 
Private  Theatres,  he  might,  with  perfect  rele- 
vancy, branch  out  into  such  a  rich  variety  of 
anecdote  and  biography,  as  few  subjects — even 
among  the  best  adapted  for  this  sort  of  liter- 
ary Macedo'uie — could  furnish.  By  a  converse 
of  the  proposition,  "all  the  World's  a  Stage," 
he  might,  with  little  difficulty,  succeed  in 
making  his  "  Stage  all  the  World." 

Among  the  ancient  Greeks  there  are,  we 
believe,  no  traces  of  private  theatrical  perform- 
ances ; — and  the  reason  may  be,  that  as,  in 
the  eyes  of  that  enlightened  people,  no  stigma 
attached  itself  to  the  profession  of  an  actor, 
the  wealthy  and  high-born  might  indulge,  not 
only  with  impunity  but  with  honor,  in  their 
taste  for  the  practice  of  that  art  on  the  boards 
of  the  public  theatres.  "  It  was  allowed,"  says 
Montaigne,  "  to  persons  of  the  greatest  quality 


xliv 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY 


to  follow  the  profession  of  the  stage  in  Greece." 
The  testimony  of  Livy  to  the  same  point  is 
decisive ; — speaking  of  the  tragic  actor,  Aristo, 
he  says,  "Huic  et  genus  et  fortuna  honesta 
erant,  nee  ars,  quia  nihil  tale  apud  Grnecos 
pudori  est,  ea  deformabat."  Some  of  the 
greatest  dramatic  poets  of  Greece,  jEschylus, 
Sophocles,  and  Aristophanes,  thought  it  not 
unbecoming  to  take  a  part  in  the  representa- 
tion of  their  immortal  works ;  nor  did  the 
fellow-countrymen  and  contemporaries  of  De- 
mosthenes feel  themselves  disgraced  by  having 
a  great  actor,  Aristodemus,  their  representative 
at  the  court  of  Philip. 

This  high  appreciation  of  the  ministers  of 
the  Dramatic  Muse  was  worthy  of  the  taste 
and  liberal  feeling  of  such  a  people.  If  the 
interpreters  of  the  oracles  of  the  gods  derived 
a  character  of  sacredness  from  their  very  task, 
those  who  gave  utterance  to  the  written  spells 
of  genius,  might  with  equal  justice  participate 
in  the  homage  paid  to  genius  itself 

Far  different  was  the  estimation  in  which 
actors  were  held  among  the  Romans.  Their 
profession  was  pronounced  by  the  law  to  be 
infamous,"  and  no  person  of  free  birth  was  to 
be  found  among  its  members.  The  pathetic 
address  of  Labcrius,  the  Roman  Knight,  on 
being  forced  by  Caesar  to  appear  on  the  public 
stage,  is  well  known  : — 

"Twice  thirty  years  I've  borne  a  spotlosfl  nftrae, 
But  fotil  dlslioDor  brands,  at  lenirth,  my  brow ; 
From  home,  thin  morn,  a  Roman  Knif^ht  I  came, 

And  homo  a  Jester  i*m  returning  now. 
Ah,  would  that  1  had  <tled,  ere  men  could  say, 
*Jle  has  outlived  hlslionor— bya  day.*"M 

Where  such  ignominy  was  attached  to  the 
practice  of  acting  in  public,  it  was  natural  that 
the  tasle  for  theatrical  personation,  wliich  is 
sure  to  spring  up  in  all  cultivated  communities, 
»ho\iM  seek  a  vent  for  its  indulgence  in  private 
pcrfonnanccs.  Accordingly,  we  find  that  there 
wail  a  spceics  of  .satirical  Drama,  called  Atel- 
innrn  or  Exodin,  in  which  the  free  and  noble 
youths  of  Iworno,  not  only  took  delight  to  per- 
form,  but,  with  the  true  spirit  of  aristocratic 
cxclu<tivpnf.s.q,  reserved  the  right  of  n|)pcaring 
in  »iieh  dranian  wholly  to  theinselvcs;  nor 
would  HiilTcr  thcin,  UH  Livy  tells  u.i,  "to  be 
pollitt<-.d  by  common  histrions." 


On  the  re%dval  of  Dramatic  Poesy  among 
the  Italians,  it  was  in  private  theatres, — nud, 
for  a  long  period,  in  private  theatres  only, — 
that  any  advances  in  the  cultivation  of  the  art 
were  made.  The  slow  growth,  indeed,  of  this 
branch  of  literature  in  that  country,  and  the 
few  fruits  of  any  excellence  which  it  has  even 
yet  put  forth,  would  seem  to  warrant  the  con- 
clusion to  which  the  French  critics  have  long 
since  come,  that  the  Italians  are  not,  any  more 
than  their  great  ancestors,  a  dramatic  people. 
It  is  certain,  that  their  literature  had  produced 
its  brightest  and  most  desirable  wonders  be- 
fore even  the  ordinary  scenery  and  decorations 
of  a  theatre  were  introduced  among  them ; 
and  the  poetry  of  Dante  and  Petrarch,  and  the 
prose  of  Boccaccio,  had  carried  their  beautiful 
language  to  its  highest  pitch  of  perfection,  near 
a  century  and  a  half  before  a  single  play  in 
this  langu.ige  was  attempted.  Nothing  can. 
indeed,  more  strongly  prove  how  little  dra- 
matic ideas  or  associations  were  afloat  in  the 
time  of  Dante,  than  that  he  should  have  ven 
tured  to  call  his  shadowy  and  awful  panorama 
of  Hell,  Heaven,  and  Piirgatorv, — a  "  Com 
edy."  _ 

During  all  this  interval,  from  the  time  ol 
the  great  triumvirate  of  the  fourteenth  century 
to  near  the  close  of  the  fifteenth,  an  occasional 
representation  of  a  play  of  Plautus  or  Terence, 
with,  now  and  then,  a  drama,  written  in  th<> 
same  language,  by  some  academician  of  Sieji 
na,"  and  acted,  or  rather  recited,  by  himself 
and  his  brethren,  were  the  only  signs  of  life 
that  the  Dramatic  Muso  of  Italy  exhibited. 
At  length,  tow.ards  the  end  of  ihn  fifteenth 
century,  the  i)oct  and  scholar,  Polilian — s<i 
bepraised  during  his  lifetime,  and  so  wholly 
unread  almost  ever  since — prc-sented  his  coun 
trynien  with  the  first  native  Italian  tragedy  ;" 
and  the  Orfeo  was  acted  before  Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent,  amid  the  acclamations  of  all  the 
wits  and  beauties  of  Florence. 

What  an  audience  might  not  im.iginalion 
conjure  up  at  a  private  pcrformaiiee  of  the 
Orfeo! — "Who  is  he,  willi  llie  princely  air 
and  manly  form,"  lo  uhoso  remarks  Lorenzo 
de  Mediei  listens  wilh  such  deference  ?" — "It 
is  the  all-accomplished  Lord  of  Mirandola,  tlio 
phcnix  of  Iho  wits  of  his  ago,  to  whom  cver> 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


xlv 


science,  every  art,  every  language  is  familiar, 
— but  upon  whose  young  brow  the  seal  of 
death  is  already  fixed,  as  the  astrologers  have 
already  pronounced  that  ho  will  not  pass  his 
thirty-second  year."™ — "And  that  child,  with 
the  cardinal's  hat  in  his  hand,  whose  red  shoes 
and  robes  proclaim  him  already  a  counsellor 
of  the  PoutilV]" — "  In  that  boy  you  see  the 
future  Leo  the  Tenth,™  the  destined  ornament 
of  the  Papacy,  its  first  and  its  last." — "  But 
him  yonder,  with  the  neck  a  little  awry  ;"  with 
that  portentous  nose  and  purblind  eyes  ?"" 
"  'Tis  Politian  himself,  the  author  of  the  Tra- 
gedy ;  and  she,  that  fair  maid,  to  whom  he  has 
just  handed  a  Greek  extempore,  which  she 
reads  with  the  same  facility  with  which  it  was 
written,  is  the  beautiful  and  learned  Alessandra 
Scala, — herself  a  distinguished  private  actress, 
as  the  verses  of  Politian,  on  her  performance 
of  the  Electra  of  Sophocles,  testify."  With 
how  little  success  the  poet  woos  her,  may  be 
collected  from  his  extempore  : — 

"  To  teach  me,  that  in  hopeless  suit 
I  do  but  waste  my  sighing  hours, 
Cold  maid,  wheiie'er  I  ask  for  fruit, 

Thou  giv'st  me  nought  but  leaves  and  flowers." 

The  example  set  by  Politian  was  soon  fol- 
lowed ;  and,  an  Italian  Comedy  being  still  a 
desideratum,  the  want  was,  not  long  after, 
supplied  by  Cardinal  Bibbicra,  whose  clever, 
but  licentious,  comedy,  the  Calandra,  was  hon- 
ored with  no  less  distinguished  a  place  of 
representation  than  the  private  apartments  of 
Leo  the  Tenth  at  the  Vatican.'''  Gay  times! 
—when  Cardinals  wrote  "  right  merrye"  farces, 
and  Popes  were  their  audience.  Had  Leo 
contented  himself  with  the  classic  indulgences 
of  this  world,  without  opening  a  mart  for  in- 
dulgences in  the  next,  Luther  would  have 
wanted  his  best  card,  and  the  Papacy  might 
have  remained  a  little  longer  unshaken. 

The  illusions  of  scenic  decoration, — wliich 
had  been  first  introduced,  it  is  said,  by  Pom- 
ponius  Lretus,  in  a  play  performed  by  his 
scholars  at  Rome," — were  at  this  period  not 
oi.ly  universally  brought  into  play,  but  as- 
sisted by  all  that  splendor  and  pageantry,  in 
which  the  luxurious  prelates  and  nobles  of 
Italy  delighted.  Among  the  givers  of  these 
dramatic  fetes,  the  Dukes  of  Ferrara  shone 


pre-eminent,  and  Hercules  I.  was  the  author 
of  an  Italian  translation  of  the  Mehsechmi, 
which  was  acted  at  Ferrara  in  148(5.  Ai-iosto 
furnished  the  design  for  the  theatre  of  tho 
Court,  which  stood  on  the  spot  now  occupied 
by  the  Chiesa  Nuova ;  and  "  such,"  says  Gib- 
bon, "  was  the  enthusiasm  of  the  new  Arts, 
that  not  one  of  the  sons  of  Alfonso  I  did  not 
disdain  to  speak  a  prologue  on  this  stage."" 

But,  among  all  the  amateur  actors  of  this 
period,  he  of  whom  the  lovers  of  private  the- 
atricals have  most  reason  to  be  proud,  is  the 
great  Nicholas  Machiavel, — he,  the  mighty 
searcher  of  courts,  who  stripped  the  leaves  off 
the  sceptre  of  tyrants,  and  showed  the  naked 
iron  underneath.  This  author  of  the  pro- 
foundest  book  ever  written  was  not  only  a 
comic  writer  of  first-rate  power,  but  a  comic 
actor,  whose  mimicry  made  Cardinals  and 
Popes,  (as  he  himself  expresses  it)  "  smascel- 
larsi  della  risa."  How  delightedly  might  a 
historian  of  private  theatres  dwell  on  all  the 
details  of  the  correspondence  between  Guieci- 
ardini"  and  Machiavel,  respecting  the  plan  of 
the  former  to  induce  his  friend  to  visit  liim  at 
Modcna,  by  getting  up  a  representation  of  the 
Mandragora,  for  his  amusement  I  The  supper 
of  Machiavel  at  Florence,  with  the  cantairice, 
la  Barbera  ; — his  proposals  to  her  to  accom- 
pany him  to  the  Carnival  at  Modena,  and  his 
anxiety  for  her  assistance  in  the  cast  of  his 
comedy, — all  these  little  details  deiive  a  pre- 
ciousness  from  the  reputation  of  the  men  con- 
cerned in  them,  and  from  that  charm  which 
genius  communicates  to  every  thing  connected 
with  its  name. 

Nor  was  it  only  among  the  profane  ones  of 
the  world  that  this  rage  for  private  acting  dif- 
fused itself  Even  the  recesses  of  the  monas- 
tery and  the  convent  were  not  sacred  from  the 
"  soft;  infection,"  and  the  mask  of  Tlialia  was 
often  in  the  same  wardrobe  with  the  cowl  and 
the  veil.  Tlie  wit  of  Plautus  was  not  thought 
to  ocoarse  for  the  lips  of  the  monks  of  St.  Ste- 
fano,"  and  even  the  fair  nuns  of  Venice  were 
allowed  to  pour  forth  their  souls  in  tragedy." 
As  might  be  expected,  however,  some  of  these 
sequestered  young  actresses  showed  a  disposi 
tion  to  convert  their  fictitious  loves  into  real 
ones,  and  an  order  was  accordingly  issued. 


xlyi 


BIOGEAPmCAL  AND  LITERAEY 


prohibiting  all  such  performances  in  convents, 
"per  I'indeeenza  della  rappresentazione  e  delle 
maschere,"  and  restraining  the  poor  stage- 
struck  nuns,  in  future,  to  tiie  innocent  indul- 
gence of  a  dull  oratorio. 

As  this  passion  for  private  acting  increased, 
new  inventions  and  new  luxuries  were  devised, 
to  give  a  zest  to  the  pursuit.  The  theatrical 
dilettanti  of  Vicenza,  not  content  with  their 
temporary  stage  in  the  Palazzo  della  ragione, 
applied  to  their  brother  academician,  Palladio, 
*«  furnish  them  with  the  design  of  a  theatre, 
worthy  of  the  classic  objects  of  their  institu- 
tion ; — "  addattata  ai  loro  geniali  esercizi,  fra 
quali  v'cra  quello  delle  tragiche  rappresenta- 
zioni." 

In  the  beautiful  structure  which  he  planned 
for  them,  was  performed,  in  the  year  1585, 
the  tragedy  of  CEJipus;  and  the  interest  of 
the  representation  was,  we  are  told,  most 
touchingly  increased  by  the  circumstance  of 
the  sightless  king  being  played  by  Luigi  Groto, 
the  "blind  rnan  of  Adria,"  as  he  was  called, — 
himself  a  dramatic  poet  of  no  ordinary  celeb- 
rity and  power. 

But  it  was  not  alone  amid  the  pomp  of  a 
ducal  hall,  or  surrounded  by  the  forms  of  Pal- 
ladian  architecture,  that  these  worshippers  of 
the  Drama  indulged  their  devotions.  That 
fine  canopy,  which  the  evening  sky  of  Italy 
alli>rd-J,  not  unfrcqucntly  formed  their  only 
theatre.  For  pastoral  subjects,  such  as  t!ie 
Aminla  and  the  Pastor  Fido,  the  natural 
KCencry  of  gardens  and  groves  was  thought  to 
be  the  most  appropriate ;  and  vestiges  of  one 
of  these  rural  theatres,  in  which  the  sweet  dia- 
logue of  Ariosto  and  Tiisso  was  recited  by  the 
"doniie"and  "cavalieri"  of  old,  might,  till 
very  lately,  bo  traced  in  the  gardeh  of  the 
Villa  Madama  at  Rome. 

It  is  not  within  the  scope  of  our  present  de- 
Hign  to  di)  more  than  merely  intimate  the 
many  Interesting  details,  into  which  a  more 
extended  rc-ioarcii  on  this  subject  would  le.id. 
To  ihe  lirilliant  nami-s,  therefore,  already  men- 
tioned as  having  thrown  a  lustre  over  the  an- 
nnN  of  private  acting,  we  shall  content  ourselves 
witli  addint;  a  few  more,  a"»  Ihcy  occur  to  our 
rerdlli'clioii.  willi'iut  niteniling  vr'ry  inu<li  to 
form  in  the  I'liumiTatioii,  or  dwelling,  at  any 


great  length,  on  the  peculiar  merits  or  hislorieii 
of  the  personages. 

Lorenzo  de  Medici,  on  the  marriage  of  his 
daughter  Maddalena,  wrote  a  sacred  drama, 
called  "  S.  Giovanni  e  S.  Paolo,"  which  was 
performed  in  his  palace,  by  his  own  children. 

Cinthio,  the  novelist,  to  whom  Shakspeare 
was  indebted  for  some  of  his  stories,  had  a 
private  theatre,  we  are  told,  in  his  own  house, 
where  the  most  celebrated  of  all  his  own 
tragedies,  "  Orbacche,"  was  performed,  with 
splendid  scenic  decoralsions,  before  Hercules 
II.,  Duke  of  Ferrara. 

About  the  same  period,  Luigi  Coruaro,  of 
vivacious  celebrity, — having  not  yet,  we  pre- 
sume, taken  to  measuring  his  wine  by  ounces 
— ^gave  a  dramatic  fete  under  his  own  roof,  at 
which  one  of  the  plays  of  L'Anguillara  was 
performed. 

Chiabrera,  misnamed  the  Pindar  of  Italy. 
■was  one  of  a  classic  society  at  Rome,  called 
"  the  Humorists,"  who  devoted  themselves 
(saj's  Muratori)  "  to  the  composition  and  per- 
formance of  beautiful  and  ingenious  comedies.'' 
The  Stild,  in  which  their  meetings  vvere  held, 
existed  iu  the  time  of  ^luratori. 

Bcoleo,  one  of  the  academic  fraternity  of 
the  Infiammati,  is  said,  by  the  historian  of 
Padua,  to  have  surpassed  PJautus  in  compo- 
sing comedies,  and  Roscius  in  representing 
them.  The  talent,  indeed,  of  this  Infiammato 
for  acting,  was  thought  worthy  of  being  com- 
memorated, even  on  his  tomb  : — '•  Nullis  in 
sciibondis  ageiuiisquc  conuediix,  ingenio,  faciin- 
dia,  ant  arte,  secundo." 

Salvator  Rosa  was,  it  appears,  a  comic  actor 
of  infinite  vivacity  ;  and  his  personation  of 
Formica,  and  of  the  Covicllo  of  the  ancient 
farces,  is  said  to  have  thrown  the  Immortal  City 
into  convulsions  of  gayety .'"  Another  Neapoli- 
tan painter,  of  much  less  celebrity,  Andria  Hol- 
vedcre,  was,  about  the  beginning  of  the  18th 
century,  at  the  luad  of  a  society  of  theatrical 
amateurs  at  Naples,  and  dilluscd  such  a  zeal 
for  the  drama  among  his  fcllow-citi/ens,  that 
(says  M.  Amaury  Duval)"  "Ton  vit  plusieurs 
seigneurs,  par  amour  pour  cot  art,  616vcr  dans 
lours  palais  dfs  th^-dtrcs  particulicrs." 

The  Dnke  Annihah'  March.iso,  who  rosigned 
his  government  of  Salerno  in  tho  year  1740, 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTKOR. 


xlvii 


and  retired  to  the  JNIonastcry  of  the  Holy 
Fathers  of  the  Oratory  at  Naples,'^  is  said  to 
have  written  iiis  Sacred  Di-ainas  for  the  private 
theatre  of  that  holy  retreat,  from  whose  per- 
formances the  Oratorio,  or  Scriptural  Opcia, 
derives  both  its  origin  and  name. 

Coming  down  to  a  still  later  period,  we  find 
the  "  Serso"  of  Bettinelli  acted,  for  the  first 
time,  in  a  private  theatre  at  Verona ;  the 
principal  character  of  the  piece  being  perform- 
ed by  the  Marquis  Albergati,  who  was,  him- 
self, the  author  of  various  comedies,  and  so 
accomplished  an  actor,  that  Goldoni  says  of 
him,  "  noa  vi  era  in  Italia  comico  ne  dilettante 
chi  rappresentasse  al  pari  di  lui  gli  eroi  tragici 
e  gli  amorosi  iielle  commedie." 

Lastly,  we  have  Alfieri,  the  great  boast  of 
the  Italian  stage,  performing  in  his  own  Antig- 
one at  Home  with  tlie  beautiful  and  majestic 
Duchess  of  Zagarolo — establishing  afterwards 
his  little  theatre  on  the  Lungo  d'Arno,  near 
the  Ponte  S.  Trinita,  at  Florence,  where  he 
acted  successively  the  parts  of  Filippo,  Carlo, 
and  Saul,  in  his  o-wn  plays ;  and,  finally,  ta- 
king his  leave  for  ever  of  the  boards  at  the  feast 
of  the  Illumination  at  Pisa,  where  (says  the 
poet)  '  ebbi  la  pueril  vanagloria  di  andarvi,  e 
la  recital  per  una  solit  volta,  e  per  I'ultima,  la 
raia  diletta  parte  del  Saul,  e  la  rimasi,  quanto 
al  teatro,  morto  da  Re." 

In  France,  as  well  as  in  Italy,  it  was  on  the 
boards  of  private  theatres  that  the  first  glim- 
merings, the  "  primus  oriens,"  of  the  Drama 
appeared.  The  only  difference  was,  that,  in 
Italy,  as  we  have  seen,  the  originators  of  the 
art  were  scholars  and  nobles,  while  in  France 
they  were  humble  bourgeois  and  priests. 
"  C'est  a  la  lettre  (says  Suard)  que  I'on  pent 
dire  que  notre  comedie  naquit  dans  le  sein  de 
I'Eglise.'"'  Excited  by  the  example  of  those 
religious  shows,  which,  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, were  exhibited  in  different  parts  of 
Europe  by  the  pilgrims  who  had  returned 
f-om  the  Holy  Land,  some  pious  citizens  of 
Ftjris  formed  themselves  into  a  society  (on 
the  model  of  the  Christian  Theatre,  instituted 
by  Gregory  Nazianzene)  for  the  purpose  of 
improving  upon  these  rude  spectacles.  Hav- 
ing established  a  sort  of  theatre  at  St.  Maur, 
acar  Vincennes,  they  there  continued  for  some 


time  to  attract  audiences  of  the  faithful,  and 
even  to  wean  away  crowds  of  good  Christians 
from  less  amusing  places  of  devotion. 

Voltaire,  who  has  thought  proper,  in  an  un- 
usual fit  of  charity,  to  vindicate  the  scriptural 
dramas  of  this  period  from  the  charges  of  ab- 
surdity brought  against  them,  assures  us  that 
they  were  performed  with  a  solemnity  not  un- 
worthy of  their  sacred  subjects ; — "  il  y  avait 
(he  says)  sur  le  theatre  beaucoup  plus  de 
pompe  et  d'appareil  que  nous  n'cu  avons  ja- 
mais vus.  La  troupe  bourgeoise  etait  composee 
de  plus  de  cent  acteurs,  independamment  des 
assistans,  des  gagistes,  et  des  maehinistes." 

The  priests,  naturally  becoming  a  little 
jealous  of  these  showy  competitors,  thought  it 
the  safest  policy  at  length  to  court  an  alliance 
with  them.  The  hours  of  prayer  were  altered 
so  as  to  suit  those  of  the  theatre ;  reverend 
pens  volunteered  to  dramatize  new  subjects 
from  the  Scriptures  ;  and  priests  not  only  be- 
came managers  of  this  devotional  theatre,  but 
condescended  without  scruple  to  appear  as 
actors  on  its  stage.  It  was  not  long,  however, 
before  this  union  between  the  Church  and  the 
Drama  was  dissolved  ;  and  it  is  perhaps  on 
the  principle  of  family  quarrels  being  invari- 
ably the  most  violent,  that  actors  and  priests 
have  continued  on  such  deadly  terms  of  hos- 
tility ever  since. 

The  Drama,  being  thus  disengaged  fi-om 
Picligion,  soon  "  stooped  its  wing"  towards  an 
humbler  and  more  congenial  region,  and  in  the 
affairs  of  this  world  found  its  most  legitimate 
quarry.  A  society  of  private  actors,  styling 
themselves  "  Enfans  sans  souci,"  was  institu- 
ted about  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of  Charles 
VI.,  and  still  flourished,  after  an  interval  of  a 
hundred  years,  in  the  time  of  Marot,  the  poet. 
The  professed  object  of  their  representations — 
wliich  were  called  Sollies,  or  Sottises,  and  an- 
swered probably  to  our  idea  of  farces — was  to 
satirize  good-humoredly  the  manners  and  vices 
of  the  age,  and  particularly  those  of  the  classes 
always  most  obnoxious,  the  nobility  and  higher- 
clergy. 

The  most  brilliant  period  of  this  merry  fra- 
ternity was  under  the  gentle  reign  of  Louis 
XII.,  who  had  the  good  sense  to  tolerale  their 
sallies,   even  when  directed   against  himself. 


xlviii 


BIOGEAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY 


To  judge  from  :Marot"s  description  of  them — 
this  charming  French  poet  having  apparently 
lived  much  in  their  society— they  were,  in 
general,  young  men  of  wealth  and  condition, 
and  must  have  contributed,  in  no  small  degree, 
to  prepare  the  way  for  the  birth  of  a  regular 
theatre  in  France. 

During  the  long  interval  that  elapsed  be- 
tween these  rude  beginnings  and  the  sudden 
maturity  of  the  Drama  in  the  beginning  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  when  the  Muse  of  Trage- 
dy sprung  at  once,  full-armed,  from  the  brain 
of  Corneille,  all  the  essays  in  this  department 
of  literature  were  confuied  to  the  private  thea- 
tres and  universities.     Tlie  plays  acted  in  the 
colleges  of  Paris  were  a  source  of  constant 
irritation  to  the  higher  powers ;   and  we  find 
decrees  without  end,  not  only  from  the  Princi- 
pals of  the  University,  but  from  the  Parliar 
mcnt,  forbidding  (particularly  at  the  annual 
return  of  the  Fete  des  Kois)  the  representation 
of  any  "farces,  momerics,  ni  sottiscs,"  among 
the  students.    ITie  reason  given  for  these  auti- 
dramatic  interferences  was  one  which,  in  all 
times  and  in  all  countries,  has  liccn  made  the 
pretext  for  the  incursions  of  power  upon  intel- 
lect : — "  La  precaution  6tait  d'autant  plus  ne- 
ccssaire,  que  Ics  exemples  du  pass6  faisaiont 
craindre,  (jue,   dans  ces  jeux  folatres,  on  ne 
s'emancipat  a  parler  confrc  le  gouverncment, 
ct  contre  les  premieres  personnes  de  TEtat."*^ 
Sometimes    these   collegiate   performances 
were  made  the  medium  of  theological  satire  ; 
as  in  the  instance"  of  a  comedy  played  at  the 
College  of  Navarre,  in  which  Marguerite  de 
Valois  (on  account  of  the  stipposcd  leaning  of 
that  celebrated  princess  towards  the  llcforma- 
tion)  was  represented  inider  the  shape  of  a 
Fury  of  Hell, — a  piece  of  priestly  pleasantry 
for  which,  on  a  com]ilaint  to  the  king,  the 
'tamed   amateurs   were   forthwith    cast    into 
prison. 

Few  names  of  any  distinguished  celebrity 
npfioar  among  the  private  actors  of  this  period  ; 
but  ihiTe.  is  one  worth  whole  inilliot;s  of  uni- 
versity pedant H,  who  will  be  read  as  long  as 
mey  language,  atliK'hing  egotism  and  |.liil<)s- 
•>[iliy  without  prclcMision,  have  any  charms 
fi>r  iiiankinil.  "I  played,"  savM  Montaigne, 
"the  chicfcst  parts   in  the  Latin  tragedli- of 


Buchanan,  Guerente,  and  Muretns,  that  were 
presented  in  our  College  of  Guienne,  with  very 
great  applause ;  wherein  Andreas  Goveanus, 
our  Principal,  as  in  all  other  parts  of  his  un- 
dertaking, was,  wthout  comparison,  the  best 
of  his  employment  in  France,  and  I  was  looked 
upon  as  one  of  the  chief  actors.  'Tis  an  ex- 
ercise that  I  do  not  disapprove  in  young  people 
of  condition,  and  have  since  seen  our  princes, 
by  the  example  of  the  ancients,  in  person, 
handsomely  and  commendably  perform  these 
exercises." 

It  was  in  the  year  1552  that  the  first  regular 
tragedy,  the  Cleopatre  of  lodelle  made  its  ap- 
pearance in  France.  Having  been  first  acted 
before  the  king  at  the  Hotel  de  Reims,  it  was 
afterwards  performed  by  the  author  and  his 
fiiends  at  the  College  of  Boncour.  "  I  was 
there  present  myself,  (says  Pasquier,)  in  com- 
pany w  ith  the  great  Turnelus.  All  the  actors 
were  men  of  name,  and  Remy  de  Belleau  and 
,lean  de  la  Peruse  played  the  principal  parts." 
Of  the  merit  of  the  dramatic  pieces  that  suc- 
cerded  this  first  attempt — almost  all  of  which, 
as  Siiard  tells  ns,  were  performed  "  sur  des 
theatres  particuliers" — the  reader  may  form 
some  idea  from  a  specimen  or  two  of  their 
plots  and  dialogue.  In  the  tragedy  of  "  La 
Force  du  Sang,"  the  heroine,  Leocadie, — not 
having,  as  yet,  the  fear  of  the  unities  before 
lier  eyes — is  seduced  in  the  first  act  of  the 
play,  confined  in  the  fourth,  and  steps  forth, 
tlie  mother  of  a  fine  seven-year-old  boy,  in  the 
fifth,  in  another  tragedy,  founded  on  the 
Lovis  of  r)ido  and  vEneas,  by  Scuderi,  (a 
wretched  ])reteMdor,  who  was  by  a  court  ca])al 
sot  Jibove  Corneille,)  the  Trojan  hero,  during 
his  scene  witli  the  enamored  queen  in  the 
cave,  having  l>elhi)ught  him  of  the  state  of  the 
weather,  walks  forth  to  see  whether  it  has 
elcareil  ii|i.  ami  returns  saying, 

"  Miultmu',  11  ne  ploiit  pins— votro  Mnjeatc  sorto." 

Fiom  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  downward, 
the  annals  of  |)rivate  theatres  aflbrd  a  .5',ill 
more  am|)le  field  for  discursiveness  and  rvi- 
search.  Amidst  (he  projects  of  ambition  and 
tlie  plots  of  bigotry,  through  all  the  war  of 
priests,  philosopliers,  eeonomists,  and  courtiers, 
ilowii  III  the  very  lirink  of  that  devolution, 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


Xlli 


towards  which  all  were  hurrying,  we  find  the 
practice  of  private  acting  prevalent  through- 
out, and  enlisting  under  its  gay  banner  almost 
every  name  that  high  station,  genius,  or  mis- 
fortui  e  has  rendered  celebrated. 

The  private  theatre  of  Madame  Maintenon, 
on  a  night  when  Esther  or  Athalie  was  per- 
formed, aflbrds,  in  itself,  a  gallery  of  historical 
portraits,  where  our  attention  is  equally  divi- 
ded between  the  audience  and  the  poet — be- 
tween Louis  and  his  sanctified  mistress  on  one 
side,  and  Eacine,  prostituting  his  fine  genius 
to  (heir  bigotry  and  vanity  *"  on  the  other. 
Imagination  carries  us  through  the  rehearsals 
of  these  honorable  performances ;  we  see  the 
actor.  Baron,  courteously  keeping  down  liis 
powers  to  the  level  of  those  of  nis  amateur 
pupils  ; — we  see  Racine  himself  giving  in- 
structions to  his  Athalie,  the  fair  Madame  de 
Caylas,  with  whose  "  soavita  e  I'altre  grazie," 
we  are  told  by  an  eye-witness,"  he  was  so 
captivated.  In  1702,  a  few  years  after  the 
death  of  Racine,  when  this  consummate  trage- 
dy was  acted  before  the  king,  the  part  of 
Josabat  was  performed  by  the  Duchesse  de 
Bourgogne,  and  that  of  Abner  by  the  accom- 
plished and  dissolute  Duke  cf  Orleans,  after- 
wards Regent. 

In  the  subsequent  reign,  we  find  anotlier 
Duke  of  Orleans,  the  grandson  of  the  regent, 
and  the  father  of  Egalit'e,  distinguishing  him- 
self by  his  superior  talents  as  a  comic  actor.*' 
Besides  his  various  peribrmances  at  Bagnolet, 
— where,  till  the  sale  of  this  chateau,  he  main- 
tained a  regular  theatrical  establishment, — we 
trace  him  acting  in  the  "  Philosophe  Marie,"  at 
St.  Cloud,  and  afterwards  before  ilesdames  de 
Erance,  in  the  now  ruined  chateau  of  Bellevue. 
The  piece  performed  on  the  latter  occasion 
was  "  Les  Trois  Cousines" — the  Dulce  de  Cliar- 
trcs,  as  he  was  then,  acting  Delorme,  and 
Madame  de  Pompadour  taking  the  part  of  Col- 
lotte;  and  when  this  adroit  mistress  of  the 
monarch,  looking  earnestly  at  her  royal  lover, 
sung  the  words, 

"  Mais  pour  uu  amiuit  cb6ri 
Tromper  tuteur  ou  mari. 
La  bonne  aventure,"  fcc. 

"  One  may  easily  guess,  (sa.ys  C'olle,  who  re- 


lates the  circumstance,)  what  was  passing  in 
the  minds  of  all  the  audience  at  the  moment." 

The  details  of  the  fetes  given  by  this  dra- 
matic Duke  of  Orleans  at  Villers-Cotteret — of 
the  comedies  in  which  he  performed  there 
with  Madame  de  Montesson  and  Mesdaraes 
de  Segur  and  Barbantane,  and  of  the  love  that 
sprung  up  out  of  these  festivities  with  Madame 
de  Montesson,  to  the  great  grief  of  his  fonner 
fellow-actress  and  mistress.  Marquise — all  this 
gossij)  of  the  day  may  be  found  in  Colle,  and 
other  writers,  and  would  not  a  little  enliven 
the  chapter  on  royal  green-rooms,  in  such  a 
history  of  private  theatricals  as  we  have  sug 
gested. 

But,  however  amusing  these  ducal  exhibi- 
tions may  have  been,  some  of  the  perform- 
ances that  took  place,  at  the  same  period,  in 
circles  less  elevated  by  rank,  were  far  more 
interesting ;  and  the  little  theatre  of  Voltaire 
at  Paris,  where  he  performed  the  part  of 
Cicero,  in  liis  ovm  "  Rome  Sauvce,"  calls  up 
associations  in  the  minds  of  all  lovers  of  genius, 
before  which  the  splendor  of  Bagnolet  and  St. 
Cloud  fades  into  nothing.  "  When  this  great 
man,  (says  Condorcet,)  repeated  the  beautiful 
lines,  in  which  Cicero  excuses  his  own  love  of 
fame, 

'Komains,  j'aime  la  gloire,  et  no  veux  point  inV'n  tairc,'  &;c. 

the  character  and  the  actor  seemed  one ;  and 
the  delighted  auditory  almost  doubted  wliether 
it  was  Cicero  or  Voltaire  that  stood  before 
them,  avowing  and  pleading  for  this  weakness 
of  great  minds."  The  tragedian  Le  '  Kain — 
whose  splendid  talents,  by  the  waj',  Voltairo 
first  discovered  and  brought  into  notice,  hav 
ing  by  chance  seen  him  acting  among  a  com- 
pany of  amateur  tradesmen" — thus  speaks  of 
the  performance  of  Cicero  by  his  patron, — "  I 
tlnnk  it  is  not  possible  that  any  one  could  be 
more  true,  more  pathetic,  or  more  enthusiastic, 
than  M.  de  Voltaire  in  this  part." 

So  strong,  uideed,  was  Voltaire's  fancy  for 
private  acting,  that  wherever  he  went,  a  theatre 
seemed  always  a  necessary  adjunct  to  his  es- 
tablishment. His  plays  at  Ferney,  and  his 
gay^  suppers  of  a  hundred  covers  afterwards, 
attracted  company,  we  are  told,  from  a  dis 
tance   of  twenty   leagues   round.     When    at 


1 


BIOGKAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY 


Berlin,  he  used  to  indulge  his  dramatic  pro- 
peiisitj-  by  performing  tragedy  with  the  bro- 
thers and  sisters  of  the  king ;  and  during  lus 
residence  at  Paris,  a  large  room  above  his 
o\ni  apartment  was  converted  into  a  theatre, 
in  which  he  made  his  nieces  act  with  Le  Kain. 

While  the  philosopher  of  Ferney  assumed 
the  buskin  with  such  success,  the  citizen  of 
Geneva,  it  appears,  attempted  the  same  ac- 
comjilishmcnt,  and  failed  ; — not  even  Madame 
d'Epinay  could  make  any  thing  of  an  actor  of 
him.  "Malgre  ma  betise  et  ma  gaucherie, 
(he  says,  in  his  Confessions.)  Lladame  d'Epi- 
nay voulut  me  mettre  des  amusements  de  la 
Chevrette,  chateau  pres  de  Saint-Denis,  ap- 
partenant  a  M.  de  Bellegarde.  II  y  avait  un 
theatre  ou  Ton  jouait  souvcnt  des  pieces.  On 
me  chargea  d'un  lole  que  j'etudiais  six  mois 
sans  relache,  et  qu'il  fallut  me  soufller  d'un 
bout  a  I'autre,  a  la  representation.  Apres 
cctte  epreuve,  on  ne  me  doima  plus  de  role." 
It  was,  perhaps,  jealousy  of  the  superior  talents 
of  Voltaire  in  this  line,  that  impelled  Rous- 
seau to  inveigh  so  violently  against  the  plays 
of  Feme}'. 

To  these  few  notices  of  the  state  of  private 
acting  in  tlie  reign  of  Louis  XV.,  may  be  added 
the  account  given  by  Marmontel  of  the  per- 
formances at  the  house  oPM.  de  la  Popliniore, 
the  rich  financier,  at  Passy ; — as  also  the  de- 
tails of  the  magnificent  fetes  given  at  Pantin, 
by  the  opera-dancer,  Mademoiselle  Guimard, 
for  whose  superb  theatre  some  of  the  Prover- 
bes  Draniatiipies  of  Carmonlct  were  written. 
Nor  should  tfio  historian  pass  over  in  silence 
tiio  Tlioatre  of  !^^.  Trudaine,  on  whose  boards 
"  I.C9  Accidents,  ou  les  Abbes,"  a  piece  consid- 
ered by  Colic,  its  author,  too  licentious  to  be 
printed  with  his  other  works,  was  yet  thought 
iiuiueeiit  enough  to  be  acted  in  the  presence 
of  two  bishops,— one  of  them  holder  of  the 
J'Vuille  de.s  I36n6ficc8.  "  There  was  also,  I 
think,"  says  Colic,  "a  third  bishop  there, 
wh'iHc  name  F  forget — but  <if  the  otlier  two  I 
am  certain." 

In  the  Hubsequcnt  reign  the  court  gave  t^o 
U)Ut:  in  iietin^;,  um  in  all  other  Hurts  of  amuse- 
iiientn.  Never  was  I  here  a  more  Howery  path 
to  niin  than  (hat  of  the  unfortunate  Marie  An- 
loijXilt^j  nor  h  it  jMiH»ible  to  rend  of  the  fes- 


tivities of  Marly,  and  cf  the  Little  Trianon, 
without  shuddering  to  think  of  the  dreadful 
tragedies  that  followed.  The  practice,  so 
prevalent  at  that  period,  of  throwing  ridicule 
upon  all  established  institutions,  (a  fate,  for 
which  established  institutions  had  to  thank 
their  own  corruption  and  folly,)  was,  with 
most  short-sighted  levity,  adopted  at  court; 
and  one  of  the  favorite  amusements  of  the 
queen  and  her  gay  companions,  was  to  parody 
the  sittings  of  the  parliament,^''  in  a  sort  of 
mock-heroic  pantomime, — one  of  the  princes 
playing  the  part  of  president,  and  the  beau 
DUlon,  Besenvald,  tS;c.,  representing  ludicrous- 
ly the  other  personages.  It  was  on  one  of 
these  occasions  that  the  role  of  Procureur-Gene- 
ral  was  sustained  by  a  youth,  who  little  then 
foresaw  the  destiny  that  awaited  him  ;— Mho, 
instrumental  in  the  formation  of  two  great  re- 
publics, has  survived,  it  is  true,  the  brief  glory 
of  the  one,  b\it  has  lived  to  receive  an  immor- 
tal reward,  in  the  universal  gratitude  and  hom- 
age of  the  other. 

To  these  pantomimes  succeeded  ballets,  and 
such  jcux  de  socic/c  as  "  La  Peur,"  and  "  De- 
campativos  ;" — the  former,  a  sort  of  dumb 
show,  in  which  the  actors  put  on  the  appear- 
ance of  dying  and  coming  to  life  again,  and 
the  latter,  a  more  refined  species  of  Blind- 
man's  Buff.  To  such  an  excess  did  these  royal 
persons  carry  their  love  of  sport  and  mounte- 
bankism,  that  the  Comtc  d'Artois — his  present 
^Lijesty  Charles  X. — actually  took  lessons, 
for  some  time,  in  rope-dancing,  from  Placido 
and  the  celebrated  Little  Devil." 

At  length,  tired  both  of  ballets  and  blind- 
man's  bull',  these  royal  playfellows  aspired  to 
regular  acting;  and  to  the  queen  it  was  a  re- 
lief, from  the  representation  of  royalty,  to  act 
the  soiibrettes  in  the  "Gagenre  Imprevuo," 
and  the  "Dcvin  dii  VillaLK'."  It  was  not, 
however,  without  a  struggle  with  some  parts 
of  her  family,  that  she  was  allowed  to  indulge 
in  this  favorite  jjursuit.  The  brother  of  the 
king  would  not  sufl'er  Madame  to  act;  and 
the  king  himself,  in  onl  >r  t<>  discourage  what 
he  considered  an  iiideeon'us  proceeding,  is 
said  to  have  hissed  the  royal  djlmlanle  the 
firet  night.  Prom  what  has  transpired,  in- 
deed, of  the  merits  of  her  Majesty's  .icling, 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


ihere  is  littlo  doubt  tiiat  the  great  majority  of 
the  audience  must  have  been  "  de  I'avis  de 
I'aspic,"  as  well  as  the  king.  But  royalty 
"  quicquid  agit,  quoquo  vestigia  vertit,"  is 
sure  of  applause,  and  the  only  honest  opinion 
hazarded  at  the  time,  is  that  which  Madame 
Campan,  as  well  as  Montjoie,  has  recorded  ; — 
"  11  iiiut  avouer  que  c"est  royalement  mal 
:oue." 

Of  the  history  of  the  German  Drama  we 
profess  to  know  little  ;  but,  from  the  time  of 
Reuehlin,  the  earliest  writer  and  actor  of 
plays  in  the  academie-s  of  Germany,  down  to 
Schiller,  whose  sole  experiment  in  the  way  of 
acting  seems  to  have  been  still  more  unfortu- 
nate than  that  of  Rousseau  f  we  have  no 
doubt  that  a  sufficient  contribution  of  materi- 
als towards  a  history  of  private  theatres  might 
be  found. 

In  England,  the  Drama,  in  its  rise  and  pro- 
gress, has  followed  j>retty  nearly  the  same 
course  as  in  France.  The  sacred  comedy,  or 
mystery,  was  its  first  essay,  and  showmen  and 
priests  the  earliest  actors.  From  the  church, 
too,  after  a  similar  sort  of  divorce,  the  histri- 
onic art  passed  to  the  universities  and  schools, 
— iu  the  former  of  which  it  flourished  to  a 
very  late  period,  while  in  the  latter  some 
relics  of  it  even  still  remain.  "  Gammer 
Gurton's  Needle,"  the  production  of  a  bishop 
of  Bath  and  Wells,  and  the  first  approach  to 
any  thing  like  a  regular  comedy  in  our  lan- 
guage, was  acted  at  Christ's  College,  Cain- 
bridge,  in  the  year  1523.  About  forty  years 
afterwards,  both  Oxford  and  Cambridge  rep- 
resented plays  before  Queen  Elizabeth,  in 
English  as  well  as  in  Latin ;  and  a  Drama, 
composed  by  a  learned  Doctor  of  Divinity 
of  Cambridge,  had  the  honor,  we  are  told,  of 
putting  his  Majesty  King  James  I.  fast  to 
sleep. 

Warton  is  of  opinion,  that  to  these  early 
collegiate  representations  the  dramatic  taste 
of  the  nation  was,  in  no  small  degree,  indebted 
for  its  improvement ;  nor  must  some  share  of 
the  merit  be  denied  to  another  class  of  private 
actors,  the  Gentlemen  of  the  Inns  of  Court, 
who,  both  liy  writing  and  acting,  conduced 
considerably  to  the  same  object.  John  Roos, 
4  student  of  Gray's  Inn,  and  aftei-wards  ser- 


geant-at-law,  wrote  a  comedy  which  was  acted. 
in  the  hall  of  the  society  in  1511  ;  and  the 
Tragedy  of  Ferrex  and  Porrex,  the  first  speci- 
men of  a  heroic  play  in  our  language,  was 
performed  by  the  students  of  the  Inner  Tem- 
ple, in  the  year  1501,  before  Elizabeth,  at 
Whitehall. 

We  have  seen  that,  in  Italy  and  France,  the 
cultivation  of  the  histrionic  art  among  ama- 
teurs of  rank  and  station,  had  prevailed  long 
before  the  establishment  of  public  actors.  But 
in  England,  mercenary  stage-players  existed 
from  a  very  early  period,  and  most  of  the  en- 
tertaumients  we  read  of  at  court,  and  at  the 
houses  of  nobility,  were  evidently  performed 
by  persons  of  this  description.  From  the  very 
infancy,  indeed,  of  the  drama,  there  appears  to 
have  been  a  regular  company  of  actors  attach- 
ed to  the  court,  both  in  England  and  Scotland, 
and  the  only  entertainments  of  a  theatrical  na- 
ture, in  which  royal  and  noble  personages  them- 
selves condescended  to  apjiear,  were  those  alle- 
gorical pageants  and  pomps  with  which  it  was 
the  custom  to  celebrate  all  solemn  occasions 

Those  costly  shows,  becoming  gradually 
more  refined  and  dramatic,  assumed,  at  a  later 
period,  a  more  elevated  character  under  the 
name  of  masques,  and,  calling  incident  and 
beautiful  poetry  to  their  aid,  have  been  en- 
shrined imperishably  in  our  literature,  by  the 
pens  of  Jonson  and  Milton.'' 

It  was  in  the  reign  of  James  I.  and  his  suc- 
cessor that  these  splendid  creations  attained 
their  highest  perfection.  "  Thus  magnificently 
constructed,"  observes  Mr.  Gifford,  "the 
masque  was  not  committed  to  ordinary  per- 
formers. It  was  composed,  as  Lord  Bacon 
says,  for  princes,  and  by  princes  it  was  played. 
The  prime  nobility  of  both  sexes,  led  on  by 
James  and  his  queen,  took  upon  themselves 
the  respective  characters ;  and  it  may  be  justly 
questioned  whether  a  nobler  display  of  grace, 
and  elegance,  and  beauty,  was  ever  beheld, 
than  appeared  in  the  masques  of  Jonson.  The 
songs  in  these  entertainments  were  probably 
intiusted  to  professional  men ;  but  the  dialogue, 
and,  above  all,  the  dances,  which  were  adapted 
to  the  fable,  and  acquired  without  much  study 
and  practice,  were  e.xecuted  bv  tlic  court  Iheni 
selves  "' 


lii 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  JJTERARY 


It  would  be  by  no  means  an  unamusing  or 
uninstruetive  lask  to  collect  such  paiticulais 
as  are  recorded  of  these  rich  and  faneirul  spec- 
tacles, on  which  the  Veres,  the  Derbys,  the 
Bedlbrds,  the  ailTords,  the  Arundels,  and  other 
historical  names,  reflect  such  lustre.  In  Jon- 
son's  Masque  of  Blackness,  the  queen  and  the 
ladies  Suffolk,  Derby,  Effingham,  Herberts, 
dec.,  personated  the  parts  of  ilooi-s,  and  had, 
as  we  are  informed  by  Sir  Dudley  Carleton, 
"  their  faces  and  arms,  up  to  the  elbows,  paint- 
ed black." — "  But  it  became  them,"  adds  the 
learned  secretary,  "nothing  so  well  as  their 
own  red  and  white."  In  the  masque  of  Obcr- 
on,  Sir  Jolm  Finnct  tells  us,  "  the  little  Duke 
Charles  (Charles  I.)  was  still  found  to  be  in 
the  midst  of  the  fairy  dancers."  The  "  Hue 
and  Cry  after  Cupid,"  as  performed  at  Lord 
Haddington's  marriiige,  1G08,  transcended  in 
c.xpensivencss  even  the  ever  memorable  fete 
this  year  nt  Boyle  Farm — having  cost  the 
eleven  noblemen  and  gentlemen  concerned  in 
it,  "£:}00aman."" 

The  last  attempt  made  to  revive  this  species 
of  entertainment  was  in  the  reign  of  Charles 
II.,  when  the  two  future  queens,  Mary  and 
Anne,  assisted  by  many  of  the  young  nobility 
of  both  sexes,  performed  a  masque,  called 
"  Calisto,"  written  by  Crowne,  and  the  unfor- 
tunate Duke  of  Monmouth  appeared  among 
the  dancers.  Evelyn  thus  speaks  of  this  rep- 
resentation : — "  Saw  a  comedy  at  night  at 
court,  acted  by  the  ladies  only  ;  amongst 
them,  Lady  Mary  and  Anne,  his  R.  H.'s  two 
daughters,  and  my  dear  friend  Mis.  Blagg, 
who  having  the  principal  part,  performed  it 
to  admiration." 

From  that  time  we  hear  no  mor^  of  such 
courtly  pageants  in  England  ;  tliough,  within 
these  fv.\f  years,  a  taste  for  perfurmaiiccs  some- 
what similar  seems  to  have  sprung  up  in  some 
of  the  courts  on  the  Continent,  wht-re  specla- 
cles  fmindcd  (in  the  storii;s  of  Ivanhoe  and  Lalla 
liookh  have  been  got  up  with  a  splendor  which 
even  the  maMqucs  of  our  ancient  kings  could 
hardly  parallel.  In  the  "  Divorti.seniont"  from 
Lalla  llnokli,  performed  at  the  court  of  Berlin 
in  \H-i'i,  the  pre.Heiit  ICtnperor  and  Fmpress  of 
Ruxnia  playcil  the  parts  of  Ferainoiv,  and  Lalla 
RookU  :  Uiu  Duke  of  Cuoibcrlaiul  personated 


Abdallah,  the  lather  of  the  Royal  ilinstrel ; 
and  the  other  characters  in  the  tableaux,  select- 
ed from  the  poem,  were  represented  by  the 
Princes  and  Princesses  of  Prussia,  and  by  the 
most  distinguished  persons  of  the  court  and 
society  of  Berlin." 

We  should  have  mentioued,  that  during  the 
reign  of  Oliver  and  his  Saints,  when  *tagp 
plays  were  so  strictly  prohibited,  there  were, 
besides  the  entertainments  set  on  foot  by  Sir 
William  Davcnant  at  Rutland  House,  occa- 
sional representations  of  plays  at  the  houses 
of  the  nobility  ;  and  Holland  House,  among  its 
other  memorable  associations,  is  particularly 
mentioned  as  having  been  used  for  this  pur- 
pose. These  performances,  however,  though 
clandestine,  or  at  least  connived  at  by  the  ru- 
ling powers,  cannot  fairly  be  classed  under  thp 
head  of  private  theatricals  ;  their  object  being 
to  give  relief  to  the  unemployed  players,  who 
chiefly,  if  not  exclusively,  performed  on  these 
occasions.  The  same  remark  applies  to  whaV 
is  Killed  the  "  private"  theatre  of  Davenant — 
Mr.  Malone,  wj  believe,  having  no  autioritv 
for  asserting,  that  in  the  pieces  at  Rutland 
House,  "  no  .«tage-playcr  performed." 

From  the  time  of  Charles  II.,  till  near  the 
end  of  the  last  century,  the  Theatre  tie  SociUe. 
of  England  afford  but  little,  as  fir  as  we  know, 
that  is  interesting.  In  the  Memoirs  of  Lord 
Orfcrd,  we  find,  inider  the  dale  1751,  the  tbl- 
lorting  curious  notice  : — "  The  7th  was  ap- 
pointed for  the  Naturalisation  Bill,  but  the 
House  adjourned  to  attend  at  Drury-Lano, 
where  Othello  was  acted  by  a  Mr.  Delaval 
and  his  fimily,  who  had  hired  the  theatre  on 
purpose.  The  crowd  of  people  of  fiishion  was 
so  great,  that  the  footmen's  gallery  was  hung 
with  blue  ribbons." 

The  periijrniances  at  the  Duchess  of  Queens. 
berry's,  for  llic  amusement  of  the  royal  per- 
sonages of  Leicester  House,  are  ofily  lucinora- 
ble,  we  believe,  for  having  enabled  the  favorite, 
Ijord  Bute,  to  display  his  fine  legs,  (of  which 
he  was  so  proud,)  in  the  gay  character  of 
Lothario.  We  might  next  pass  in  review  the 
theatricals  of  Whilerslow,  where  no  le-^s  an 
actor  on  the  .stage  of  life,  than  the  late  ("iiarles 
Fox — "  ewhxtix  hie  in.  dicendo  vir" — played 
Horatio  in  the  Fair  Penitent.  ;U'd  Sir  Ilan-j' 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR 


lliJ 


in  Ilij^h  Lire  Below  Stairs.  Atllollancl  House, 
too,  Mr.  Fos.  i^layeJ  Hustings  to  the  Jane 
Shore  of  the  beautiful  Lady  Saiah  liunbury. 

KichmonJ  House  presents  anotlier  patrieian 
theatre  of  the  by-gone  tiiiies,  whose  attractions, 
on  one  occasion,  shortened  the  solemn  sittings 
of  the  Senate,  and  brought  Mr.  Pitt  himself  (to 
use  his  own  words,  on  another  occasion)  "  un- 
der the  wand  of  the  enchanter."'  If  the  anec- 
dote be  true,  which  attributes  to  that  festive 
evening  the  glory  of  having  collected  Pitt, 
Fo.x,  and  Sheridan  together  in  one  hackney- 
ooach — of  which  hackney-coach  it  might  well 
be  said,  "  sideraque  alta  trahit" — it  is  an  event 
that,  among  the  memorabilia  of  private  thea- 
tres is  deserving  of  special  and  emphatic  record. 

We  have  thus  hastily,  and,  we  rather  fear, 
tiresomely,  put  together  the  few  particulars 
relating  to  private  theatres  that  have  flillen 
within  the  range  of  our  research.  It  is  now 
time,  we  feel,  to  take  a  little  notice  of  the 
volume  which  has  been  the  innocent  cause  of 
all  this  cauierie,  and  which,  though  not  intend- 
ed, we  believe,  for  circulation  beyond  the 
members  of  the  institution  to  which  it  refers, 
appeared  to  us  to  warrant,  by  its  connection 
with  the  general  history  of  the  drama,  the  use 
that  we  have  made  of  it. 

The  city  of  Kilkenny — where  the  perform- 
ances commemorated  in  this  volume  were  con- 
tinued annually,  with  but  few  interruptions, 
from  the  year  180:2  to  1319 — possesses  some 
ancient  claims  on  the  reverence  of  all  lovers 
of  the  drama.  The  celebrated  Bale,  whose 
tragedy  of  Pammachius  was  acted  at  Christ's 
College,  Cambridge,  in  1644,  inhabited  for 
some  time,  as  Bishop  of  Ossory,  the  palace  of 
Kilkenny;  and  two  of  his  sacred  comedies,  or 
mysteries,  were,  as  he  himself  tells  us,  acted 
at  the  market-ci-oss  in  that  town.  "  On  the 
XX  daye  of  August  was  the  Ladye  Marye,  with 
us  at  Kilkeunye,  proclaimed  Queen  of  England, 
&c.  The  yonge  men  in  the  forenone  played  a 
a  tragedye  of  '  God's  Promises  in  the  Old 
Lawe,'  at  the  market-crosse,  with  organe- 
plaingis  and  songes,  very  aptely.  In  the  af- 
ternone,  again,  they  played  a  comedie  of  Sanct 
Johan  Baptiste's  Preachings,  of  Christc's  Bap- 
lisynge,  and  of  his  Temptacion  in  the  Vilder- 
3essp.'"'* 


From  that  period,  till  the  middle  of  the  last 
century,  Ireland  furnishes  but  few  materials  foi 
a  History  of  the  Stage,  Public  or  Pi  ivate.  So 
slow,  indeed,  was  the  progress  of  the  drama  in 
that  country,  that,  in  the  year  of  1600,  when 
England  had  been,  for  some  time,  enjoying  the 
inspirations  of  Shakspcare's  muse,  we  find  the 
old  tragedy  of  Ferre.x  and  Porrex,  the  first  rude 
essay  of  the  art,  represented  before  Lord  Mont- 
joy  at  the  Castle  of  Dublin.  It  was,  indeed, 
about  the  same  period,  when,  as  we  have  said, 
the  taste  for  private  acting  reappeared  in  En- 
gland, that  a  similar  feeling  manifested  itself 
among  the  higher  ranks  of  society  in  Ireland ; 
and,  in  the  year  1750,  a  series  of  amuse- 
ments of  this  kind  took  jjlace  at  Lurgan,  in  the 
county  of  Armagh,  the  seat  of  that  distinguish- 
ed Member  of  the  Irish  Parliament,  William 
Browulow.  "  To  this  meeting,"  says  the  edi- 
tor of  the  volume  before  us,  in  his  feitroduction, 
'•  the  stage  is  indebted  for  the  popular  enter- 
tainment of  Midas.  It  was  written  upon  that 
occasion  by  one  of  the  company,  the  late  Mr. 
Kane  O'Hara,  and  originally  consisted  of  but 
one  act,  commencing  ^vith  the  fall  of  Apollo 
from  the  clouds.  The  characters  in  the  piece 
were  undertaken  by  the  members  of  the  fami- 
ly, and  their  relatives,  with  the  exception  of 
the  part  of  Pan,  which  was  reserved  by  the 
author  for  himself.  Manj-  additions  were  made 
to  it  before  its  introduction  to  the  public,  and, 
among  others,  the  opening  scene  of  'Jove  in 
his  Chair,'  as  it  is  now  represented." 

To  these  representations  succeeded,  in  1760, 
a  sort  of  Theatrical  Jubilee,  at  Castletown,  the 
residence  of  the  Right  Hon.  Thomas  Conollj', — 
where,  after  the  performance  of  the  "  First  Part 
of  Henry  IV.,"  an  epilogue  was,  it  appears, 
spoken  by  Hussy  Burgh — afterwards  Baron  of 
the  Exchequer — one  of  the  most  accomplished 
men  that  the  bar  of  Ireland  has  ever  produced. 
In  the  year. 1761,  the  Duke  of  Leinster  opened 
his  princely  mansion  at  Cartown,  to  a  series 
of  entertainments  of  the  same  description ;  and, 
in  a  list  of  the  characters  of  the  Beggar's  Opera, 
which  was  one  of  the  pieces  performed  on  this 
occasion,  we  find,  among  a  number  of  other 
distinguished  names  (Lord  Charlemont,  Lady 
Louisa  ConoUy,  &c.)  the  rather  startling  an- 
nouncement of — "  Lockit  bv  (he  Pew  Dean 


hv 


BIOGEAPHICAL  AND  LITER AEY 


Marly.""  Tliis  worthy  pendant  to  the  Bibienus 
of  the  (Jourt  of  Leo  X.,  spoke  also  a  Pro- 
logue on  the  same  occasion,  written  by  liim- 
self,  the  concluding  lines  of  which  are  as 
follows  : — 

*•  Bui  when  tliid  busy  mimic  scene  is  o'er, 
All  shall  resujne  the  worth  they  bad  before  ; 
L^tckit  himself  his  knavery  shall  resign. 
And  lose  the  Jailer  in  the  dull  Divine." 

Among  the  most  interesting  of  the  other 
performances  recorded  in  this  volume,  are  those 
got  up  in  the  year  1774,  at  the  seats  of  Sir 
Hercules  Langrishe  and  Ish:  Henry  Flood, — 
where  the  two  celebrated  orators,  Grattan  and 
Flood,  appeared  together  on  the  stage,  and, 
in  personating  the  two  contending  chieftains, 
Macbeth  and  ^Macduff,  had  a  sort  of  poetical 
foretaste  of  their  own  future  rivalry, — '■  belli 
propinqni  rudimenta."  We  find  the  name  of 
Mr.  Grattan  again  connected  with  private  the- 
atricals in  the  year  177G,  when,  after  a  repre- 
sentation of  the  Masque  of  Comus,  at  the  coun- 
try-seat of  the  Right  Hon.  David  La  Touche, 
an  epilogue  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Grattan  was 
spoken — the  only  copy  of  verses,  we  believe, 
that  this  illustrious  son  of  Ireland  is  known  to 
have  written.  The  verses  of  great  statesmen 
are  always  sure  to  be  objects  of  curiosity, — 
even  when,  like  those  of  Cicero,  they  have  no 
other  recommendation  than  their  badness. 
Some  specimens  of  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Burke 
h;ive  lately  been  given  to  the  world,  and  those 
who  complain  of  his  being  too  poetical  in  his 
prose,  will  perhaps  lie  consoled  by  finding  him 
so  prosaic  in  his  poetry.  Pope  says,  with 
perhaps  rather  an  undue  pride  in  his  art,  that 
"  the  corru[>lion  of  a  poet  is  the  generation  of 
a  statesman  ;" — if  so,  Uurkc  must  htyvc  Ijccn 
far  gone  in  decomposition,  when  ho  wrote  such 
verses.  The  epilogue  of  }>\v.  Grattan,  how- 
ever, coiUain*  some  lively  and  fluent  lines,  and 
our  readers,  we  presume,  will  not  be  displeased 
to  soe  a  few  <if  lli'iii  here  : — 


*  lUit  I  hint !  I  \wnr  n  tlnmu  of  fiutliion  iny, 
iMtiit  liow  «1>4iird  Ihi)  herotno  of  tliU  piny  ! 
A  tfrMl  ormnk  Rhd  Rlntlnn  wafl  an  good 
To  tnko  a  lAily  from  a  hldoouH  wimxI,— 
nrniiKhl  hrr  t<i  all  Hip  plciMiirmiir  lilR  court, 
fif  loir,  (tnd  tn"M.  nnj  ni'jnlr  thl  n**ort ;' 
Hhl  minli  and  tran«|iurt  watt  on  hrr  command ; 
Gavti  hvr  a  twll,  and  gff«r«d  bvr  lili  band  ' 


And  she,  quite  cttM/ifry,  obstinate,  and  muliah, 
Extremely  fine,  perhaps,  but  vastly  foolish. 
Would  neither  speak,  nor  lau^'h,  nor  dance,  noi  sin^, 
Nor  condescend,  nor  wed.  nor — any  thing." 

•  *  •  • 

But,  geulle  ladies  !  you'll,  I'm  sure,  approve 
Vour  sex's  triumph  over  suilty  love  ; 
Nor  will  our  sports  of  gayety  alarm  you ; — 
These  little  bacchanals  wiU  never  harm  you ;  9» 
Nor  Comus' wreathed  smiles;  and  you'll  admire. 
Once  more,  true  English  force  and  f;enuineQre  ; 
Milton's  chaste  majesty, — .Vrne's  airy  song. 
The  light  note  tripping  on  Allegro's  tongue; 
Uliile  the  sweet  (lowing  of  the  piu-est  breast, 
Like  iMUton  tuneful,  vestal  as  his  taste. 
Calls  music  from  her  cell,  and  warbles  high 
The  rapturous  soul  of  song  and  sovereign  ecstasy." 

Wc  shall  not  further  pursue  the  enumeia- 
tions  which  this  volume  supjilies  of  the  various 
amateur  performances  that  preceded  those  of 
Kilkenny, — except  to  remark  that,  in  the  list 
of  the  actors  at  Shane's  Castle  in  1785,  there 
occurs  one  name,  which,  in  the  hearts  of  all 
true  Irishmen,  awakens  feelings  which  they 
can  hardly  trust  their  lips  to  utter — Lord  Ed- 
ward Fitzgerald. 

With  the  theatricals  of  Kilkenny  expired 
the  last  faint  remains  of  what  may  be  called 
the  social  era  of  Ireland.  "  Adieu,  Soci6te  !" 
was  the  lively  dying  speech  of  one  of  the  i\']- 
low-conspirators  of  Bertou,  when  about  to 
submit  his  neck  to  the  guillotine ;— and 
"adieu,  societ6!"  might,  with  the  same  "tra- 
gical mirth,"  have  been  ejaculated  by  Irelainl 
at  the  period  of  the  Union.  To  such  times  as 
we  have  been  describing — to  such  classic  and 
humanizing  amusements — has  succeeded  an 
age  of  bitter  cant  and  bewildering  contro- 
versy. Instead  of  opening  their  mansions, 
as  of  old,  to  -such  innocent  and  ennobling  hos- 
pitalities, the  Saint-Pccrs  of  the  present  day 
convert  their  halls  into  conventicles  and  con- 
version-shops. Where  the  theatre  once  re- 
echoed the  young  voices  of  a  Grattjin  and 
a  Flood,  tlio  arena  is  now  prepared  for  the 
disputations  of  the  Kevcrend  Popes  and  Ma- 
guires.  The  stjenes  of  Otway  and  Siiakspcaic 
have  given  way  to  the  often-annoiinoed  tnigc- 
dics  of  Pastorini,  and  even  Farce  has  taken  its 
Inst  refuge  in  Sir  Hnrcourt  Lees. 

Wo  have  only  to  add,  (hat  this  curious 
volume,  which  will,  one  day  or  other,  be  a 
gem  in  the  eyes  of  the  Bibliomaniac,  contains 
portraits  of  a!l  the  most  distinguished  mcnibe'* 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


Iv 


of  the  Tlioatrical  Society  of  Kilkenny,  Mi-. 
Grattan,  Mr.  Thomas  IMoorc,  Mr.  James  Cor- 
ry,  &c.,  &c.  There  is  also  prefixed  to  the 
work,  a  porti-ait  of  the  Founder  of  the  So- 
ciety, the  late  Mr.  Ilichard  Power, — followed 
by  a  tribute  to  the  high  qualities  of  that  ex- 
cellent man,  from  "  one  of  the  best  and  warm- 
est hearts,  (says  the  Editor  of  the  work,) 
united  with,  perhaps,  the  finest  talents  that 
Ireland  ever  produced."  "  From  this  just  and 
eloquent  eulogy  we  give  ihe  following  short 
extract, 

"  It  was  truly  said  of  him,  that  '  he  never 
made  an  enemy,  or  lost  a  friend,' — and  in  a 
country  distracted  by  civil  and  religious  dis- 
cord, a  man  could  not  be  found,  of  any  sect  or 
party,  who  felt  unkindly  towards  him.  Yet 
this  popularity  was  not  eai-ned  by  the  compli- 
ances of  a  timid  or  assenting  character  ;  he  had 
a  benevolent  disposition,  which  made  it  pleas- 
ure to  him  to  malce  others  happy,  and  he 
shrunk  from  giving  pain  almost  with  the  same 
instinct  that  men  shrink  from  suffering  it.  This 
made  him  prompt  to  approve,  and  slow  to 
censure ;  indulgent  to  error,  and  encouraging 
to  merit ;  yet  there  was  something  about  him 
that  repelled  and  rebuked  whatever  was  sordid 
or  mean  ;  and  when  firmness  was  required,  his 
integrity  was  uncompromising,  and  his  courage 
not  to  be  shaken." 

On  my  return  from  the  interesting  visit  to 
Rome,  of  which  some  account  hasbeen  given  in 
the  preceding  pages,  I  took  up  my  abode  in 
Paris,  and,  being  joined  there  by  my  family, 
continued  to  reside  in  that  capital,  or  its  en- 
virons, till  about  the  close  of  the  year  1822. 
As  no  life,  however  sunny,  is  without  its  clouds, 
I  could  not  escape,  of  course,  my  share  of  such 
passing  shadows ;  and  this  long  estrangement 
from  our  happy  English  home,  towards  which 
my  famil)'  yearned  even  more  fondly  than 
myself,  had  been  caitsed  by  difficulties  of  a 
pecuniary  nature,  and  to  a  large  amoimt,  in 
\\hich  I  had  been  involved  by  the  conduct  of 
the  person  who  acted  as  my  deputy  in4he  small 
office  I  held  at  Bermuda. 

That  I  should  ever  have  come  to  be  chosen 
f()r  such  an  employment,  seems  one  of  those 
freaks  or  anomalies  of  human  destiny  which 


baflle  all  ordinary  speculation ;  and  wenf.  far, 
indeed,  to  realize  Beaumarchais'  notion  of  the 
sort  of  standard  by  which,  too  frequently, 
qualification  for  place  is  regulated, — "II  fiillut 
un  calculateur  ;  ce  fut  un  danseurqui  I'obtint." 

But  however  much,  in  this  instance,  I  suf- 
fered from  my  want  of  schooling  in  matters  of 
business,  and  more  especially  from  my  having 
neglected  the  ordinary  precaution  of  requiring 
security  from  my  deputy,  I  was  more  than 
consoled  for  all  such  embarrassment,  wci-e  it 
even  ten  times  as  much,  by  the  eager  kindness 
with  which  fi'iends  pressed  forward  to  help  to 
release  me  from  my  difliculties.  Could  I  ven- 
ture to  name  the  persons, — and  they  were 
many, — who  thus  volunteered  their  aid,  it 
would  be  found  they  were  all  of  them  men 
whose  characters  enhanced  such  a  serxice,  and 
that,  in  all,  the  name  and  the  act  reflected 
honor  upon  each  other. 

I  shall  so  far  lift  the  veil  in  which  such  deli- 
cate generosity  seeks  to  shroud  itself,  as  to 
mention  briefly  the  manner  in  which  one  of 
these  kind  friends, — -himself  possessing  but 
limited  means, — ^proposed  to  contribute  to 
the  object  of  releasing  me  from  my  etnbar- 
rassments.  After  adverting,  in  his  letter,  to 
my  misfortunes,  and  "  the  noble  way,"  as  he 
was  pleased  to  say,  "  in  which  I  bore  them," 
he  adds, — "  would  it  be  very  impertinent  to 
say,  that  I  have  500/.  entirely  at  your  disposal, 
to  be  paid  when  you  like ;  and  as  much  more 
that  I  could  advance,  upon  any  reasonable  se- 
curity, payable  in  seven  years  1"  The  writer 
concludes  by  apologizing  anxiously  and  deli- 
cately for  "  the  liberty  which  he  thus  takes," 
assuring  me  that  "  he  would  not  have  made 
the  offer  if  he  did  not  feel  that  he  woidd  most 
readily  accept  the  same  assistance  from  me." 
I  select  this  one  instance  from  among  the  many 
\vbw>J3  that  trying  event  of  my  life  en.ables  me 
10  adduce,  botli  on  account  of  the  deliberate 
feeling  of  manly  regard  which  it  manifests, 
and  also  from  other  considerations  which  it 
would  be  out  of  place  here  to  mention,  but 
which  rendered  so  genuine  a  mark  of  friend- 
ship from  such  a  quarter  peculiarly  toudiing 
and  welcome  to  me. 

When  such  were  the  men  who  hastened  to 
my  aid  in  this  emergency,  I  need  hardly  say.  it 


Ivi 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  LITEEAEY 


was  from  no  squeamish  pride, — for  the  pride 
woiiid  have  been  ia  receiving  favors  fi'om  such 
hands, — tkU  I  came  to  the  resolution  of  grate- 
fully declining  their  offers,  and  endeavoring  to 
work  out  my  deliverance  by  my  ovm  efforts. 
With  a  credit  still  fresh  in  the  market  of  liter- 
ature, and  with  publishci-s  ready  as  ever  to 
risk  their  thousands  on  my  name,  I  could  not 
but  feel  that,  however  gratifying  was  the  gen- 
erous zeal  of  such  friends,  I  should  best  show 
that  I,  in  some  degree,  deserved  their  offers, 
by  declining,  under  such  circumstances,  to  ac- 
cept them. 

Meanwliile,an  attachment  had  issued  against 
me  from  the  Court  of  Admiralty  ;  and  as  a 
negotiation  was  about  to  be  opened  with  the 
American  claimants,  for  a  reduction  of  their 
large  demand  upon  me, — supposed,  at  that 
time,  to  amount  to  six  thousand  pounds, — it 
was  deemed  necessary  that,  pending  the  treaty, 
I  should  take  up  my  abode  in  France. 

To  write  for  the  means  of  daily  subsistence, 
and  even  in  most  instances  to  "  forestall  the 
slow  harvest  of  the  brain,"  was  for  me,  un- 
luckily, no  novel  task.     But   I  had  now,  in 
addition  to  thc-c  home  calls  upon  the  !Muse,  a 
new,  painful,  and,  in  its  first  aspect,  overwhelm- 
ing exigence  to  provide  for;    and,  certainly, 
Paris,  swarming  throughout  as  it  was,  at  that 
period,  with  rich,  gay,  and  dissipated  English, 
was,  to  a  person  of  my  social  habits  and  mul- 
tifarious acquaintance,  the  very  worst  possible 
place  that  could  have  been  resorted  to  for  even 
the  semblance  of  a  quiet  or  studious  home. 
The  only  tranquil,  and,  therefore,  to  me,  most 
()rccious  portions  of  that  period  wcie  the  two 
Hummers  pa-tscd  by  my  family  and  myself  with 
our  kind  Spanish  friends,  the  V*******ls, 
at  their  beautiful  place,  T-a  Bulfc  Coaslin,  on 
the  rt.ad  up  to  Bellevuc.     There,  in  a  cottage 
belonging  to  Jf .  V  *******  1,  and  but  a 
few    steps    from    his  house,  we  contrived  to 
conjure  "[>  an  apfiaritioti  of  Sloperton  ;''"  and  I 
was  able  fur  •'oine  time  to  work  with  a  feeling 
of  comfort  and  home.     I  used  frequently  to 
pnM  the  morning  in  rambling?  ulone  through 
•he  M'lblc  [inrk  of  St.  Cloud,  with  no  apiiaratiis 
for  the  wurk  of  authoriliiii  but  my  memoran- 
dum-book and  pcnciJH,  forming  Bcntcnccs  to 
nin  timooth  nnd  mruMing  verson  info  shape. 


In  the  evenings  I  generally  joined  with  Madame 
Y  *******!  ij^  Italian  duets,  or,  with  far 
more  pleasure,  sat  as  listener,  while  she  sur.g 
to  the  Spanish  guitar  those  sweet  songs  of  her 
own  country  to  which  few  voices  could  do  such 
justice. 

One  of  the  pleasant  circumstances  connected 
with  our  summer  visits  to  La  Butte  was  the 
near  neighboihood  of  our  friend  Mr.  Kenny, 
the  lively  dramatic  writer,  who  was  lodged 
picturesquely  in  the  remains  of  the  Palace  of 
the  King's  Aunts,  at  Bollevue.  I  remember, 
on  my  fu-st  telling  Kenny  the  particulars  of  my 
Bernmda  mishap,  his  saying,  after  a  pause  of 
real  feeling,  '•  Well, — it's  lucky  yo\i're  a  poet; 
— a  philosopher  never  coulJ  have  borne  it." 
Washington  Irving  also  was,  lor  a  short  time, 
our  visiter ;  and  still  recollects,  I  trust,  his 
reading  to  me  some  parts  of  his  then  forth- 
coming work,  Bracebridge  Hall,  as  we  sat 
together  on  the  grass  walk  that  leads  to  the 
Rocher,  at  La  Butte. 

Among  the  writings,  then  but  in  embryo,  to 
which  1  looked  forward  for  the  means  of  my 
enfranchisement,  one  of  the  most  important, 
as  well  as  most  likely  to  be  productive,  was 
my  intended  Life  of  Sheridan.  But  I  soon 
found  that,  at  such  a  distance  from  all  those 
livina  authorities  from  whom  alone  I  could 
gain  any  interesting  information  respecting 
the  private  life  of  one  who  left  behind  him 
so  little  epistolary  correspondence,  it  would 
be  wholly  impossible  to  proceed  satisfactorily 
with  this  task.  Accordingly  I  wrote  to  Mr. 
Murray  and  Mr.  Wilkie,  who  were  at  that  time 
the  intended  publishers  of  the  work,  to  apprize 
them  of  this  temporary  obstacle  to  its  progress. 

Being  thus  baffled  in  the  very  first  of  the 
few  resources  I  had  looked  to,  I  next  thought 
of  a  Romance  in  verse,  in  the  form  of  Letters, 
or  Epistles;  and  with  this  view  sketched  out  a 
story,  on  an  Egyptian  subject,  differing  not 
much  from  that  which,  some  years  after, 
formed  the  groundwork  of  the  E[>icurean. 
After  laboring,  however,  for  some  months, 
at  this  txperiment,  amidst  interruption,  dis- 
sipation, and  distraction,  which  might  well 
put  all  the  nine  Muses  to  fliglit,  I  gave  up 
the  attempt  in  despair; — fully  convinced  of 
the  truth  of  tli.at  warning  conveyed  in  noma 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


Ivii 


early  verses  of  my  own,  addressed  to  the  In- 
visible Girl : — 

Uli  hint  lollie  bjird, 'lis  rclireincnt  aioi.3 
Can  h:illow  its  harp  or  emiuble  its  tone: 
Like  you,  with  a  veil  of  seclusion  between. 
His  auny  to  tlie  world  let  liiia  utter  unseen, 

It  was,  indeed,  to  the  secluded  life  I  led 
during  the  years  1813-181G,  in  a  lone  cot- 
tage among  the  fields  in  Derbyshire,  that  I 
owed  the  inspiration,  whatever  may  have  been 
its  value,  of  some  of  the  best  and  most  popular 
portions  of  Lalla  Eookh.  It  was  amidst  the 
snows  of  two  or  three  Derbyshire  winters  that 
I  found  myself  enabled,  by  that  concentration 
of  thought  which  retii'ement  alone  gives,  to  call 
up  around  me  some  of  the  sunniest  of  those 
Eastern  scenes  which  have  since  been  wel- 
comed in  India  itself,  as  almost  native  to  its 
clime. 

But,  abortive  as  had  now  been  all  my  efforts 
to  woo  the  shy  spirit  of  Poesy,  amidst  such 
unquiet  scenes,  the  course  of  reading  I  found 
time  to  pursue,  on  the  subject  of  Egypt,  was 
of  no  small  service  in  storing  my  mind  with 
the  various  knowledge  respecting  that  country, 
which  some  years  later  I  turned  tc  account,  in 
writing  the  story  of  the  Epicurean.  The  kind 
facilities,  indeed,  towards  this  object,  which 
some  of  the  most  distinguished  French  scholars 
and  artists  afforded  me,  are  still  remembered 
by  me  with  thankfulness.  Besides  my  old 
acquaintance,  Denon,  whose  di'awings  of  Egypt, 
then  of  Some  value,  I  frequently  consulted,  I 
found  Mons.  Fourier  and  Mons.  Langles  no  less 
prompt  in  placing  books  at  my  disposal.  With 
Humboldt,  also,  who  was  at  that  time  in  Paris, 
I  had  more  than  once  some  co'nversation  on  the 
subject  of  Egypt,  and  remember  his  expressing 
himself  in  no  very  laudatory  terms  respecting 
the  labors  of  the  French  savaiis  in  that  country. 

I  had  now  been  foiled  and  frustrated  in  two 
of  those  literary  projects  on  which  I  had 
counted  most  sanguinely  in  the  calculation  of 
my  resources  ;  and,  though  I  had  found  suffi- 
cient time  to  furnish  my  musical  publisher 
with  the  Eighth  Number  of  the  Irish  Melo- 
dies, and  also  a  Number  of  the  National  Airs, 
these  works  alone,  I  knew,  would  yield  but  an 
Insufficient  supply,  compared  with  the  demands 


so  closely  and  threateningly  hanging  over  me. 
In  this  difficulty  I  called  to  mind  a  subject, — 
the  Eastern  allegory  of  the  Loves  of  the  An- 
gels,— on  which  I  had,  some  years  before, 
begun  a  prose  story,  but  in  which,  as  a  theme 
for  poetry,  I  had  now  been  anticipated  by  Lord 
Byron,  in  one  of  the  most  sublime  of  his 
many  poetical  miracles,  "  Heaven  and  Earth." 
Knowing  how  soon  I  should  be  lost  in  the 
shadow  into  which  so  gigantic  a  precursor 
would  cast  me,  I  had  endeavored,  by  a  speed 
of  composition  which  must  have  astonished 
my  habitually  slow  pen,  to  get  the  start  of  my 
noble  friend  in  the  time  of  publication,  and 
thus  afford  myself  the  sole  chance  I  could  jicr- 
haps  expect,  under  such  unequal  rivalry,  of 
attractuig  to  my  work  the  attention  of  the 
public.  In  this  humble  speculation,  however, 
I  failed  ;  for  both  works,  if  I  recollect  right, 
made  their  appearance  at  the  same  time. 

In  the  mean  while,  the  negotiation  which  had 
been  entered  into  with  the  Amei'ican  claim- 
ants, for  a  reduction  of  the  amount  of  their 
demands  upon  me,  had  continued  to  "  drag  its 
slow  length  along  :"  nor  was  it  till  the  month 
of  September,  1822,  that,  by  a  letter  from  the 
Messrs.  Longman,  I  received  the  welcome 
intelligence  that  the  terms  offered,  as  our  ul- 
timatum, to  the  opposite  party,  had  been  at 
last,  accepted,  and  that  I  might  now  with 
safety  return  to  England.  I  lost  no  time,  of 
coui'se,  of  availing  myself  of  so  welcome  a 
privilege ;  and  as  all  that  remains  now  to  be 
told  of  this  trying  episode  in  my  past  life  may 
be  comprised  within  a  small  compass,  I  shall 
trust  to  the  patience  of  my  readers  for  tolera- 
ting the  recital. 

On  arriving  in  England  I  learned,  for  the 
first  time, — having  been,  till  then,  kept  very 
much  in  darkness  on  the  subject, — that,  after 
a  long  and  frequently  interrupted  course  of 
negotiation,  the  amount  of  the  claims  of  the 
American  merchants  had  been  reduced  to  the 
sum  of  one  thousand  guineas,  and  that  towards 
the  payment  of  *h''s  the  uncle  of  my  deputy, — 
a  rich  London  merchant, — had  been  brought, 
with  some  difficulty,  to  contribute  three  hun- 
dred pounds.  I  w;i*  likewise  informed,  that  a 
very  dear  and  di^Unguished  friend  of  711  ine,  to 
nhorr ,  by  his  own  desire,  the  state  of  the  Ufr 


IvilL 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY 


cotiation  was,  from  time  to  time,  reported, 
Lad,  upon  fmding  that  there  appeared,  at  last, 
some  chance  of  an  arrangement,  and  learning 
also  the  amount  of  the  advance  made  by  my 
deputy's  relative,  immediately  deposited  in 
the  hands  of  a  banker  the  remaining  portion 
(7o0l.)  of  the  required  sum,  to  be  there  in  read- 
iness for  the  final  settlement  of  the  demand. 

Though  still  adhering  to  my  original  pur- 
pose of  owing  to  my  own  exertions  alone  the 
means  of  relief  from  these  difficulties,  I  yet 
ft'lt  a  pleasure  in  allowing  this  thoughtful  de- 
posite  to  be  applied  to  the  generous  purpose 
for  which  it  was  destined;  and  having  em- 
ployed in  this  manner  the  750/.,  I  then  trans- 
mitted to  my  kind  friend, — I  need  hardly  say 
with  what  feelings  of  thankfulness, — a  check 
on  my  publishers  for  the  amount. 

Though  this  effort  of  the  poet's  purse  was 
Ijut,  as  usual,  a  new  launch  into  the  Future, — 
a  new  anticipation  of  yet  unborn  means, — the 
result  showed  that,  at  least  in  this  instance,  I 
had  not  counted  on  my  bank  "  in  nitbibus"  too 
sanguinely  ;  for,  on  receiving  my  publishers' 
account,  in  the  month  of  June  following,  I 
found  1000/.  placed  to  my  credit  from  the  sale 
of  tiic  Loves  of  the  Angels,  and  500/.  from  the 
Fables  of  the  Holy  Alliance. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention,  that,  among  the 
resources  at  that  time  placed  at  my  disposal, 
was  one  small  and  sacred  sum,  which  had  been 
set  apart  by  its  young  possessor  for  some  such 
beneficient  purpose.  ITiis  fund,  amounting  to 
about  300/.,  arose  from  the  proceeds  of  the 
sale  <if  the  first  edition  of  a  biographical  work, 
then  recently  published,  which  will  long  be 
memorable,  as  well  from  its  own  merits  and 
s\ibject,  as  from  the  lustre  that  has  been  since 
shed  back  upon  it  from  the  pnl)lic  career  of  its 
noble  author.  To  a  gift  from  such  hands  might 
well  have  l)ccn  applied  the  words  of  Ovid, 

■ccoptlnlmn  tomppr 

Muncre  tunt,  ■uclor  quic  prvllou  facit. 

'lliat,  liiingby  naluresolittlo  prone  to  spleen 
or  liilternc!««,  I  should  yet  have  frcfjuented  so 
ituioh  the  tliomy  paths  of  8ntirc,ha.s  always,  to 
my  Hi  \f  niid  thosp  licst  ncr|imliitod  with  me,  been 
n  maitcr  of  Hurprixc.  Ily  Hup[>()siri){tlie  iiniigi- 
031  ion,  lK>w(.vcr,  Ui  lie,  in  .tuth  raseii,  the  solo 


or  chief  prompter  of  the  satire — which,  in  my 
o\TO  instance,  I  must  say,  it  has  generally  been 
— an  easy  solution  is  foimd  for  the  difficulty. 
The  same  readiness  of  fancy  which,  with  but 
little  help  from  reality,  can  deck  out  "  the 
Cynthia  of  the  minute"  with  all  possible  at- 
tractions, will  likewise  be  able,  when  in  the 
vein,  to  shower  ridicule  on  a  political  adver- 
sary, without  allowing  a  single  feeling  of  real 
bitterness  to  mix  itself  with  the  operation. 
Even  that  sternest  of  all  satirists,  Dante,  who, 
not  content  with  the  penal  fire  of  the  pen.  kept 
an  Inferno  ever  ready  to  receive  the  victims  of 
his  wrath, — even  Dante,  on  becoming  ac- 
quainted with  some  of  the  persons  whom  he 
had  thus  doomed,  not  only  revoked  their  awful 
sentence,  but  even  honored  them  with  warm 
praise ;"'  and  probably,  on  a  little  further  ac- 
quaintance, would  have  admitted  them  into  liis 
Paradiso.  When  thus  loosely  and  sliallowly 
even  the  sublime  satire  of  Dante  could  strike 
its  roots  in  his  own  heart  and  memory,  it  is 
easy  to  conceive  how  light  and  passing  may 
be  the  feeling  of  hostility  with  which  a  parti- 
san in  the  field  of  satire  plies  his  laughing 
warfare ;  and  how  often  it  may  happen  that 
even  the  pride  of  hitting  his  mark  outlives  but 
a  short  time  the  flight  of  the  shaft. 

I  cannot  dismiss  from  my  hands  these  polit- 
ical tridcs, — 

"Tills  swarm  of  IliPmcs  Hint  settloil  on  my  pen, 
Which  I,  like  hiiminer-nies,  nhnka  olT  ujjaiu," — 

without  venturing  to  add  that  I  have  now  to 
connect  with  them  one  mournful  recollection — 
one  loss  from  among  the  circle  of  those  I  have 
longest  looked  up  to  with  affection  and  admira- 
tion— which  1  little  thought,  when  I  began  this 
series  of  prefatory  sketches,  I  should  have  to 
mourn  before  their  close.  I  need  hardly  add, 
that,  in  thus  alluding  to  a  great  light  of  the 
social  and  political  world  recently  gone  out,  I 
mean  the  late  Lord  Holland. 

It  may  be  recollected,  perhaps,  that,  in  men- 
tioning some  particulars  respecting  an  early 
squib  of  mine, — the  Parody  on  the  Princo 
Regent's  Letter, — I  spoke  of  a  dinner  at  which 
I  wa.s  present  on  the  very  day  of  the  first  pub- 
lication of  that  Parody,  when  it  was  the  subject 
cf  much  convcrfiation  at  tablr  and  n^no  of  the 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


Ux 


party,  except  our  host,  had  any  suspicion  that 
I  was  the  author  of  it.  This  host  was  Lord 
Holland ;  and  as  such  a  name  could  not  but 
lend  value  to  any  anecdote  connected  •with  lit- 
erature, I  only  forbore  the  pleasure  of  adding 
such  an  ornament  to  my  page,  from  knowing 
that  Lord  Holland  ha'l  long  viewed  with  dis- 
approbation and  regret  much  of  that  conduct 
of  the  Whig  party  towards  the  Regent  in 
1813-13,'™  of  the  history  of  which  this  squib, 
and  the  welcome  reception  it  n\et  with,  forms 
an  humble  episode. 

Lord  Holland  himself,  in  addition  to  his 
higher  intellectual  accomplishments,  possessed 
in  no  ordinary  degree  the  talent  of  writing 
easy  and  playful  vers  de  societe  ;  and,  among 
the  instances  I  could  give  of  the  lightness  of 
his  hand  at  such  trifles,  there  is  one  no  less 
characteristic  of  his  good-nature  than  his  wit, 
as  it  accompanied  a  copy  of  the  octavo  edition 
of  Bayle,'"  which,  on  hearing  me  rejoice  one 
day  that  so  agreeable  an  author  had  been  at 
last  made  portable,  he  kindly  ordered  for  me 
from  Paris. 

So  late,  indeed,  as  only  a  month  or  two  be- 
fore his  lordship's  death,  he  was  employuig 
himself,  with  all  his  usual  cheerful  eagerness, 
in  translating  some  verses  of  Metastasio  ;  and 
occasionally  consulted  both  Mr.  Rogers  and 
myself  as  to  different  readings  of  some  of  the 
lines.  In  one  of  the  letters  which  I  received 
from  him  while  thus  occupied,  I  find  the  fol- 
lowing postscript : — 

**  Tis  thus  I  turn  tti'  Italian's  song. 
Nor  deem  1  read  his  ineauin^  wrons. 
Rut  with  rough  Encrlish  to  combine 
The  sweetness  that's  in  every  line, 
Asks  for  your  Muse,  and  not  for  mine, 
Sense  onlijvxW  not  quit  the  score  ; 
We  must  have  that,  and — little  More.'" 

He  then  adds,  "  I  send  you,  too,  a  melan- 
cholj'  Epigram  of  mine,  of  which  I  have  seen 
many,  alas,  witness  the  truth  : — 

"  A  minister's  answer  is  always  so  kind  ! 
I  starve,  and  he  tells  me  he'll  keep  me  in  mind. 
Hatf  his  promise,  God  knows,  would  ray  spirits  restore  : 
Let  him  keep  me — and,  faith,  I  will  ask  for  no  more." 

The  only  portion  of  the  mass  of  trifles  that 
first  found  it=;  way  to  the  public  eye  through 
any  more  resjionsiblo  channel  than  a  news- 
paper, was  the  Letters  of  the  Fudge  Family 


in  England, — a  work  which  was  sure,  from  its 
very  nature,  to  encounter  the  double  risk  of 
being  thought  dull  as  a  mere  sequel,  and  light 
and  unsafe  as  touching  on  follies  connected 
with  the  name  of  Religion.  Into  the  question 
of  the  comparative  duluess  of  any  of  my  pro- 
ductions, it  is  not  for  me,  of  course,  to  enter  ; 
but  to  the  charge  of  treatmg  religious  subjects 
irreverently,  I  shall  content  myself  with  reply- 
ing in  the  words  of  Pascal, — "  II  a  bien  de  la 
diflerence  entre  rirc  de  la  religion  et  rire  de 
ceux  qui  la  profanent  p.ir  leurs  opinions  e.\- 
travagantes." 

The  story  of  the  Epicurean  was  intended 
originally  to  be  told  m  verse ;  and  a  great 
portion  of  it  was  at  first  written  in  that 
form.  This  fact,  as  well  as  the  character,  per- 
haps, of  the  whole  work,  which  a  good  deal 
partakes  of  the  cast  and  coloring  of  poetry, 
have  been  thought  sufiicient  to  entitle  it  to  a 
place  m  this  general  collection  of  my  poetical 
writings. 

How  little  akin  to  romance  or  poesy  were 
some  of  the  circumstances  under  which  the 
Epicurean  was  first  projected  by  me,  the 
reader  may  have  seen  from  the  preceding 
pages ;  and  the  following  rough  outline,  which 
I  have  found  among  my  papers,  dated  Paris, 
July  25,  1820,  will  show  both  my  first  general 
conception,  or  foreshadowing  of  the  story,  and 
likewise  the  extent  to  which  I  thought  right,  in 
afterwards  working  out  this  design,  to  reject 
or  modify  some  of  its  details. 

"  Began  my  Egyptian  poem,  and  wrote 
about  thirteen  or  fourteen  lines  of  it.  The 
story  to  be  told  in  letters  from  a  young  Epi- 
curean philosopher,  who,  in  the  second  century 
of  the  Christian  era,  goes  to  Egypt  for  the 
purpose  of  discovering  the  elixir  of  immortal- 
ity, which  is  supposed  to  be  one  of  the  secrets 
of  the  Egyptian  priests.  During  the  Festival 
on  the  Nile,  he  meets  with  a  beautiful  maiden, 
the  daughter  of  one  of  the  priests  lately  dead. 
She  enters  the  catacombs,  and  disappears.  He 
hovers  around  the  spot,  and  at  last  finds  the 
well  and  secret  passages,  &c.,  by  which  those 
who  are  initiated  enter.  He  sees  this  m.aiden 
in  one  of  those  theatrical  spectacles  which 
formed  a  part  of  the  subterranean  Elysium  of 
the  Pyramids — finds  opportunities  of  convei- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY 


Bing  with  her — their  intercourse  to  this  myste- 
rious region  described.  They  are  discovered ; 
and  li*^  is  tIuo\\ii  into  those  subterranean  pris- 
ons, M  here  they  who  violate  the  rules  of  Ini- 
tiation are  confined.  He  is  liberated  from 
thence  by  the  young  maiden,  and  taking  flight 
together,  they  reach  some  beautiful  region, 
where  they  linger,  for  a  time,  delighted,  and 
she  is  near  becoming  a  victim  to  his  arts.  But 
taking  alarm,  she  flies  ;  and  seeks  refuge  with 
a  Christian  monk,  in  the  Thebaid,  to  whom  her 
mother,  who  was  secretly  a  Christian,  had  con- 
signed her  in  dying.  The  struggles  of  her 
love  with  her  religion.  A  persecution  of  the 
Christians  takes  place,  and  she  is  seized  (chieny 
through  the  unmtentional  means  of  her  lover) 
and  suffers  martyrdom.  The  scene  of  her  mar- 
tyrdom described,  in  a  letter  from  the  Solitary 
of  the  Thebaid,  and  the  attempt  made  by  the 
young  pliilosophcr  to  rescue  her.  He  is  carried 
off"  from  thence  to  the  cell  of  the  Solitary. 
His  letters  from  that  retreat,  after  he  has  be- 
(»mc  a  Cliristian,  devoting  his  thoughts  entirely 
to  repentance  and  the  recollection  of  the  be- 
loved saint  who  had  gone  before  him. — If  I 
■lon't  make  something  out  of  all  this,  the 
deuce  is  in't." 

According  to  this  plan,  the  events  of  the 
story  were  to  be  told  in  Letters,  or  Epistolary 
Poems,  addressed  by  the  philosopher  to  a 
young  Athenian  friend  ;  but,  for  greater  va- 
riety, as  well  as  convenience,  I  afterwards 
distributed  the  task  of  narration  among  the 
chief  personages  of  the  Tale.  The  great  diffi- 
culty, however,  of  managing,  in  rhyme,  the 
minor  details  of  a  story,  so  as  to  be  clear 
without  growing  prosaic,  and  still  more,  the 
diffuse  length  to  which  I  saw  narration  in 
verse  would  extend,  deterred  mo  from  fol- 
lowing this  pl.in  any  further;  and  I  then  com- 
menced the  tale  anew  in  its  present  shape. 

Of  the  Poems  written  for  my  first  experi- 
ment, a  few  gpccimcns,  the  best  I  could  select, 
were  introduced  intollie  prnso  story  ;  but  the 
rcninin'Icr  I  liad  thrown  aside,  and  nearly  for- 
gotten even  their  existence,  when  a  circum- 
■taneo,  Homcwlmt  flmraclcri»tic,  perhaps,  of 
timt  triwlinj;  jtiiirit  which  has  now  converted 
PnrnntMiH  iticlf  Into  a  markr-l,  again  ralU'd 
mv  ntl'-ntion  to  them.    The  late  Mr.  Macrone, 


to  whose  general  talents  and  enterprise  in  bus 
iness  all  who  knew  him  will  bear  ready  testi- 
mony, had  long  Ijeeu  anxious  that  1  should 
undertake  for  him  some  new  Poem  or  Story, 
afTording  such  subjects  for  illustration  as  might 
call  into  play  the  fanciful  pencil  of  Mv.  Turner. 
Other  tasks  and  ties,  however,  had  rendered 
my  compliance  with  this  wish  impracticable ; 
and  he  was  about  to  give  up  all  thoughts  of 
attaining  his  object,  when  on  learning  from  me 
accidentally  that  the  Epicurean  was  still  my 
own  property,  he  proposed  to  purchase  of  me 
the  use  of  the  copyright  for  a  single  illustrated 
edition. 

Tlie  terms  proffered  by  him  being  most 
liberal,  I  readily  acceded  to  the  proposed  ar 
rangement ;  but  on  further  consideration,  there 
arose  some  difficulty  in  the  way  of  our  treaty — 
the  work  itself  being  found  insufficient  to  form 
a  volume  of  such  dimensions  as  would  yield 
any  hope  of  defraying  the  cost  of  the  numerous 
illustrations  then  intended  for  it.  Some  modi- 
fication, therefore,  of  our  terms  was  thought 
necessary  ;  and  then  first  was  the  notion  sug- 
gested to  me  of  bringing  forth  from  auKing  my 
papers  the  original  sketch,  or  opening  of  the 
story,  and  adding  these  fragments,  as  a  sort  of 
make-weight  in  the  mutual  adjustment  of  our 
terms. 

That  1  had  myself  regarded  the  first  experi- 
ment as  a  fiiilurc,  was  sufficiently  shown  by 
my  relinquishment  of  it.  But,  as  the  published 
work  had  then  passed  through  several  edi- 
tions, and  had  been  translated  into  most  of  the 
languages  of  Europe,  it  was  thought  that  an 
insight  into  the  anxious  process  by  wliiih  such 
success  luad  been  attained,  might,  as  an  encour- 
agement, at  least,  to  the  humble  merit  of 
painstaking,  bo  deemed  of  some  little  use. 

The  following  are  the  translations  of  this 
Tale  which  have  roaohi'd  me :  viz.,  two  in 
French;  two  in  Italian,  (Milan,  1830— Venice, 
1835;)  one  in  German,  (Inspruc,  18"28  ;)  and 
one  in  Dutch,  by  M.  Herman  van  Logliem, 
(noventer,  18'2!).") 

For  the  following  account  of  Moore's  The- 
atrical performances,  we  arc  indebted  to  hia 
gifteil  friend  and  cotmtryman  Thomas  Crofti.u 
Crokor,  Esq.  : — 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOll. 


Ixi 


In  a  little  vohimc  of  excessive  rarity,  cnti- 
iled  the  Private  Tlicatre  of  Kilkenny,  privately 
[irinted  by  Mr.  Richard  Power,  the  chronicle 
of  the  compaiues  alone  is  a  curious  record. 
These  amateur  performances  were  establislied 
in  1802,  and  continued  annually  without  inter- 
ruption to  1811.  They  were  occasionally  and 
irregularly  repeated  in  181-2,  1817,  1818,  and 
1819.  Mr.  Power  died  on  the  18th  of  De- 
cember, 1824,  and  in  1825,  copies,  accompa- 
nied by  some  introductory  observations,  were 
presented  to  his  personal  friends.  These  copies 
contain  portraits  of  Power,  of  Grattan,  of 
Apollo  Crampton,  (Sir  Piiilip  Crampton's 
brother,)  of  Sir  William  Wrixon  Beeher,  of 
Bush;:',  of  Thomas  Moore,  and  three  other  gen- 
tlemen whose  features  we  do  not  recognise,  as 
all  the  plates  in  the  only  copy  we  have  seen 
are  unlettered.  The  two  female  portraits  we 
conjecture  to  have  been  intended  for  Miss 
Walstein  and  Miss  O'Noil,  now  Lady  Beeher. 

Moore  appears  to  have  been  a  member  of 
the  Amateur  Kilkenny  Theatrical  Company 
in  October,  1808.  On  the  19th,  Mr.  Moore, 
as  he  was  called  in  the  bills,  enacted  David,  in 
the  Rivals,  and  Mungo,  in  the  Padlock  ;  and 
on  the  28th  of  October,  the  tenth  night  of  the 
season,  Moore  played  Spado,  in  the  Castle  of 
Andalusia.  The  Kilkenny  season  of  1809, 
commenced  on  the  2d  of  October,  with  a 
prologue  wi-itten  and  spoken  by  Moore,  and 
among  the  ladies  engaged  to  perform,  the 
names  of  Miss  Dyke,  Miss  E.  Dyke,  and  Miss 
A.  Dyke,  appear,  one  of  whom  is  the  present 
Mrs.  Thomas  Moore ;  and  Moore  again  ap- 
peared as  Spado.  On  the  second  night  he 
played  Tom,  in  the  Farce  of  Peeping  Tom ; 
and  on  the  third  night,  personified  Sadi,  in  the 
Mountaineers,  which  character  he  repeated  on 
the  sixth  night  of  the  Kilkenny  season,  (15th 
October,  1809,)  with  his  original  part  of 
Spado.  On  the  eighth  night,  Moore  played 
Risk,  in  Love  Laughs  at  Locksmiths,  and  on 
the  ninth  night,  (20th  October,)  again  ap. 
peared  as  Peeping  Tom. 

Moore  rejoined  the  Kilkenny  Theatricals  in 
1810,  among  the  acting  company  of  which 
association,  the  names  of  Miss  Dyke,  and  Miss 
A.  Dyke  appear,  and  also  that  of  Sir  John 
Stevenoon.      Moore   then    recited    twice   his 


Mclologuc  on  National  Music,  (."d  and  19th 
October,)  which  was  termed,  in  the  bills,  an 
Occasional  Address.  In  the  Surrender  of  Calais, 
on  the  5th,  he  personified  La  Gloire,  and  Sam, 
in  the  afterpiece  of  Raising  the  Wind.  On 
the  8th,  Moore  again  appeared  as  Spado,  and 
on  the  12th,  (the  sixth  night's  performance,) 
as  Robin  Roughhcad,  in  Fortune's  Frolics. 
On  the  19th,  an  Occasional  Epilogue,  written 
by  Moore,  was  sjDoken  by  Mr.  Corry  after  the 
play  of  the  Dramatist,  in  the  character  of 
Vapid.  Moore,  on  the  eighth  niglit,  personi- 
fied Walter,  in  the  Children  of  the  Wood,  and 
on  the  ninth,  repeated  his  representation  of 
Risk.  In  Macbeth,  on  the  twelfth  night,  he 
appeared  as  the  First  Witch,  Sir  Jolm  Steven 
son  performing  one  of  the  Singing  Witches. 
And  on  the  last  night  of  this  glorious  theatri 
cal  meeting,  (20th  Oct.,)  Moore  played  once 
more  his  favorite  part  of  Peeping  Tom. 

Here  ends  Moore's  history  as  preserved  in 
the  records  of  the  Private  Theatre  of  Kilkenny. 

In  contemplating  the  long  and  varied  life  of 
Moore,  it  is  no  less  delightful  to  mark  the 
noble  appreciation  unstained  by  envy,  with 
which  he  regarded  his  distinguished  competi- 
tors in  the  world  of  letters,  than  to  observe 
how  cordially  and,  in  many  cases,  ardently  it 
was  reciprocated  ;  especially  did  the  generous 
heart  of  Byron,  casting  aside  all  cold  conven- 
tionalities, throw  itself  at  once  into  his  bosom 
with  all  the  trust  and  confidence  of  a  brother. 
The  splendor  of  genius,  the  wild  warfiire  of 
passion,  and  the  ever  visible  consciousness  of 
some  deep  devouring  regret,  mirij;ling,  but 
never  coming  in  collision,  with  the  deep  and 
devoted  friendship  which  steadily  maintained, 
and  glowingly  expressed,  does  honor  to  both. 
How  pleasurable  must  have  been  the  perusal 
of  the  sentiments  thus  expressed  in  various 
letters  from  Byron.  In  one  of  Sept.,  181.3, 
he  says,  "  It  may  be,  and  would  appear  to  a 
third  person,  an  incredible  thing,  but  I  know 
you  will  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  am  as 
anxious  for  your  success  as  one  human  being 
can  be  for  another, — as  much  as  if  I  had  never 
scribbled  a  line.  Suiily  the  field  of  fame  is 
wide  enough  for  all ;  and  if  it  were  not,  I  would 
not  willingly  rob  my  neighbor  of  a  rood  of  it," 


iXIl 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY 


On  Sept.  5,  1813,  he  says,  "  3-ou  stand  greatly 
in  need  of  a  '  lij(  with  Mackintosh.  IMy  dear 
Moore,  you  strangely  underrate  yourself;  I 
should  conceive  it  an  affectation  in  any  other ; 
but  I  think  I  know  you  well  enough  to  believe 
that  you  don't  know  your  own  value.  How- 
ever, 'tis  a  fault  that  generally  mends;  and 
in  your  case  it  really  ought.  I  have  heard 
him  speak  of  you  as  highly  as  your  wife  could 
wish;  and  enough  to  give  all  your  friends  the 
jaundice."  The  following  extract  is  too  in- 
teresting and  characteristic  of  both,  to  need 
apology  for  inserting  it  in  a  notice  of  the  life 
of  one  to  whom  it  so  nearly  relates.  Dec.  8, 
1813:  "  Your  letter,  like  all  the  best  and  even 
■kindest  things  in  this  world,  is  both  painful 
and  pleasing.  But,  first,  to  what  sits  nearest. 
Do  you  know  I  was  actually  about  to  dedicate 
lo  you, — not  in  a  formal  inscription,  as  to  one's 
elders, — but  through  a  short  prefatory  letter, 
in  which  I  boasted  myself  your  intimate,  and 
held  forth  the  prospect  of  your  Poem ;  when, 
lo,  the  recollection  of  your  strict  injunctions 
of  sccrcsy  as  to  the  said  Pern,  more  than 
once  repeated  by  word  and  let'  r,  flashed  upon 
me,  and  marred  my  intents.  I  could  have 
no  motive  for  repressing  my  own  desire  of 
alluding  to  you,  (and  not  a  day  passes  that  I 
do  not  think  and  talk  of  you,)  but  an  idea  that 
you  might,  yourself,  dislike  it.  You  cannot 
doubt  my  sincere  admiration,  waiving  personal 
fricnd>hip  fc>r  the  present,  which,  bj'  the  by, 
is  not  less  sincere  and  deep-rooted.  I  have 
you  by  note  and  by  heart;  of  which  'ecce 
signum.'  When  I  was  at  *  *  *,  on  my  first 
visit,  I  had  a  habit  (in  passing  my  time  a 
good  dc;il  alone)  of,  I  won't  c;ill  it  singing,  for 
that  I  never  attempt  except  to  myself,  but  of 
uttering,  to  M'hat  I  think  tunes,  your  'Oh 
breathe  not,'  '  When  the  last  glimpse,'  and 
'  When  ho  who  adores  thee,'  with  others  of 
tlie  same  minstrel ;  tlicy  are  my  matins  and 
Vi.'8]HTs.  I  asHuredly  did  not  intend  them  lo  be 
overheard  ;  but  one  moniing  in  comes,  not  La 
Donnn,  but  II  Marilo,  with  a  very  grave  face, 
laying,  '  Myron,  I  must  request  yon  won't  sing 
any  more,  at  least  of  llioac  songs.'  I  started, 
end  said,  '  f.Vrfaiidy,  but  why?'  'To  tell  you 
the  tnith,'  qiiuth  he,  '(hoy  make  my  wife  cry, 
uid  fo  melancholy,  that  I  wish  her  lo  hear  no 


more  of  them.'  Now,  my  dear  Moore,  the 
effect  must  have  been  from  your  words,  and 
certainly  not  my  music.  1  merely  mention 
this  foolish  story,  to  show  you  how  much  I 
am  indebted  to  you  for  even  your  pastimes. 
A  man  may  praise  and  praise,  but  no  one 
recollects  but  that  which  pleases — at  least  in 
composition,  lliough  I  think  no  one  equal  to 
you  in  that  department,  or  in  satire, — and 
surely  no  one  was  ever  so  popular  in  both, — 
I  certainly  am  of  opinion  that  you  have  not 
yet  done  all  yoii  can  do,  though  more  than 
enough  for  any  one  else.  I  want,  and  the 
world  expects,  a  longer  work  from  you ;  and 
I  see  in  you  what  I  never  saw  in  poet  bcfoie, 
a  strange  diffidence  of  your  own  powers,  which 
I  cannot  account  for,  and  which  must  be  un- 
accountable, when  a  Cossack  like  me  can  appal 
a  Cuirassier.'''' 

These  genuine  outpourings  of  one  of  the 
most  frank  and  aficctionatc  hearts  that  ever 
breathed,  must,  we  think,  be  always  considered 
as  among  the  most  precious  and  illustrious 
testimonies  to  the  worth  and  genius  that  has 
called  them  forth.  The  fiicndship  of  Scott, 
though  less  demonstrative,  was  equally  stor 
ling  and  sincere :  the  manner  in  which  he 
received  Moore  on  his  first  visit  to  Allbot^ford 
well  accords  with  that  innate  goodness  which 
formed  the  staple  of  his  character.  This 
frankness  was  met  as  it  shmild  have  been  by 
the  brother  poet;  and  when  he  entered  Scott's 
room  next  morning,  "  ho  laid  his  hand,"  says 
Mr.  Moore,  "with  a  sort  of  cordial  earnest- 
ness on  my  breast,  and  said,  '  Now,  my  dear 
Moore,  we  are  friends  for  life.' "  Words  like 
these  from  such  a  man  as  Sir  Walter  Scott 
were  priceless. 

In  striking  contrast  to  llie  bright  rccol  loci  ion 
of  those  palmy  days  of  literal  iirc  when  Hyron, 
Scott,  Moore,  Campbell,  and  Kngers  shi)iie 
together  in  the  meridian  of  tiicir  lame,  ligbliiig 
up  men's  minds  from  time  to  tinuv  willi 
thoughts  of  power  and  beauty,  nolde  scnli- 
ments,  and  brilliant  flashes  of  wit  and  Immor 
that  refined  away  half  the  dross  of  their  lives, 
— is  (he  melancholy  thought  that,  e.\co|itiiig 
in  their  works,  no  traces  of  these  once  worM- 
worshippcd  beings  then  selves  (save  in  the 
last  fcebla  indications  of  exisleiice  still  faiiulv 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


Ixiii 


visible  in  Rogers  and  Moore)  new  I'crnaln, — 
no  sons  to  bear  tlicir  lather's  honors — lineage 
and  name  again  merged  in  the  undistuigiiished 
mass  of  mediocrity. 

In  his  domestic  life,  Moore  appears  to  have 
been  peculiarly  happy.  The  sacred  tics  of 
love  and  home  seem  never  to  have  been  rudely 
torn  apart ;  and  though,  doubtless,  many  of 
their  links  have  been  severed  by  death,  and, 
one  by  one,  dear  and  venerable  forms  have 
been  consigned  to  the  grave,  yet  in  the  holy 
tears  that  embalm  their  memories  the  bitter- 
ness of  death  is  not — and  to  use  the  poet's  own 
beautiful  thought, — 

"  You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase  if  you  will, 
But  the  sceut  of  the  roaes  will  hang  round  it  atiU." 

Mrs.  Moore,  the  beautiful  Miss  Dyke  of 
his  theatrical  days,  still  survives,  sharing 
with  her  husband  the  peaceful  cottage  near 
Devizes,  hallowed  by  long  years  of  wedded 
happiness.  Byron,  in  one  of  his  gay  post- 
scripts to  Moore,  May  20,  1812,  says,  "My 
best  wishes  and  respects  to  Mrs.  Moore, — she 
is  beautiful.  I  may  say  so  even  to  you,  for  I 
never  was  more  struck  with  a  countenance." 
In  his  own  person,  Moore  was  small,  well-pro- 
portioned, and  compact ;  with  head  erect, 
countenance  florid  and  animated,  and  eyes 
ftdl  of  the  genuine  Milesian  fire  and  brilliancy. 
When  excited,  the  energy  of  his  manner,  the 
spirit  which  beamed  in  every  feature,  the 
varying  tones  of  his  expressive  voice  rendered 
him  perfectly  irresistible — a  person  once  seen 
who  must  ever  afterwards  be  remembered 
•with  admiration  and  interes-t., 

On  one  occasion,  at  a  splendid'  banquet  in 
London,  got  up  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining 
subscriptions  to  erect  a  monument  at  Ayr  to 
the  memory  of  Burns,  at  which  the  Duke  of 
Sussex  presided,  and  which  was  numerously 
attended  by  many  of  the  nobility  and  most 
distinguished  literary  and  scientific  men  of  the 
day.  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  after  the  de- 
parture of  His  Royal  Highness,  took  the  chair, 
and  frequently  during  the  evening,  when  speak- 
"  ing  of  Bums,  designated  him  as  the  distin- 
guishecl  peasant- — the  illustrious  ploughman, 
with  an  iteration  that  was  any  thing  but  pleas- 
ing to  many  of  the  company,  and  must  have 


been  peculiarly  grating  to  the  sensitive  mina 
of  Moore,  who,  after  returning  thanlis  for 
the  toast  of  "  Tliomas  Moore  aiid  the  Bards 
of  Ireland,"  took  occasion  to  say  he  ob- 
served that  his  llonoi'able  friend  in  the  chair 
had  several  times  during  the  evening,  when 
speaking  of  Scotland's  noblest  Bard,  character- 
ized him  as  the  distinguished  peasant,  the  \\\us- 
trlous ploxiffhman.  "  But,  gentlemen  !"  said  he, 
kindling  as  he  spoke,  "  it  signifies  nothing  to 
genius  whether  it  is  Byron  the  Peer,  or  Burns 
the  PLOucnMAN  !  for,  to  use  his  own  energetic 
language,  (striking  his  breast,  and  throwing 
his  arm  quivering  and  indignantly  upward,) 
"  the  ranlc  is  but  the  guinea  stamp  ;  the  nuvi's 
the  gowd  !"  then  pausing,  w  hile  the  immense 
hall  rang  with  such  plaudits  as  it  never  did 
before,  he  sat  down  without  another  word, 
well  knowing,  that  he  could  not  surpass  the 
electric  eflect  already  produced,  which  had 
evidently  thrilled  the  inmost  heart  of  his 
hearers. 

The  mental  powers  of  Moore  were  of  the 
highest  os'der,  sensibilities  the  most  acute, 
boundless  imagination,  sparkling  wit,  keen 
judgment,  and  knowledge  the  most  varied  and 
extensive,  the  whole  enriched  by  cultivation, 
and  adorned  by  all  the  delicacies  and  refine- 
ments of  art.  The  fascination  of  his  poetry 
consists  in  the  power  it  possesses  of  touching 
the  tenderest  chords  of  the  heart,  of  awa^ 
kening  its  finest  sensibilities  and  its  holiest 
fires. 

The  grandeur  of  his  ideas  is  everywhere 
apparent;  while  in  the  melodious  fiow  of  his 
verse,  the  exquisite  beauty  and  variety  of  his 
similes,  the  polish  and  harmony  of  his  numbers, 
he  has  never  been  surpassed.  To  gifts  and 
acquirements  like  these  was  united  a  noble 
and  generous  nature,  a  heart  full  of  kindly 
affections  and  benevolent  purposes,  which, 
altiiough  continually  thwarted  by  the  pro- 
verbial waywardness  of  fortune  to  her  poetic 
sons,  he  yet  found  means  perpetually  to  ex- 
ercise and  gratify. 

Mr.  Burton,  the  inimitable  comedian  of  New 
York,  whose  name  instantly  converts  the  gra- 
■\"est  American  countenance  into  a  comic  mask, 
relates,  with  a  feeling  that  does  him  honor, 
tlie  following  anecdote.     "  Many   years   agoi, 


Ixiv 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  LITERARY 


while  travelling  in  the  south  of  England,  a  vio- 
lent attack  ol'  fever  and  ague  compelled  hira  to 
remain  some  time  at  the  inn  at  Devizes,  cele- 
brated as  being  the  birthplace  and  early  home 
of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  the  distinguished  ar- 
tist, whose  father  was  formerly  its  landlord. 
Here,  in  the  very  room  in  which  the  groat 
painter  was  born,  did  the  unlucky  traveller 
experience  for  many  weeks,  the  scorching  and 
shuddering  alternations  of  liis  torturing  mal- 
ady. In  the  intervals  of  the  paroxysms,  with 
just  strength  enough  to  crawl  from  the  bed  to 
the  window ;  he  would  there  sit  for  hours, 
listlessly  gazing,  with  blank  and  melancholy 
visage,  on  the  passers-by,  vainly  longing  to 
recognise  among  them  some  familiar  face — 
his  spirits  weighed  down  by  that  dreadful  ner- 
vous depression  which  is  one  of  the  most  hor- 
rible accompaniments  of  the  disease.  The 
library  of  the  landlady,  although  entirely  at 
his  service,  consisted  but  of  two  books,  which, 
soon  cast  aside,  left  him  even  more  hopeless 
and  desponding  than  before.  The  poor  little 
window  and  dull  street,  with  its  unknown  pas- 
sengers, being  after  all,  the  only  links  that 
seemed  to  connect  him  with  the  living.  One 
rainy  day,  while  seated  as  usual  gloomily  ru- 
minating on  all  the  misfortunes  that  had  ever 
befallen  him,  he  saw  a  short  farmer-looking 
personage,  closely  buttoned  up  in  a  rough 
duflcl  coat,  and  mounted  on  a  strong  little 
pony,  briskly  trotting  up  to  the  door;  dis- 
mounting, he  ascended  the  .taircas3,  and  soon 
made  his  appearance  in  the  chamber,  kindly 
shaking  the  invalid  by  the  hand,  and  intro- 
duciiig  himself  by  saying  the  landlady  had 
informed  him  a  sick  gentleman  was  in  lu'r 
house  who  wished  for  some  books ;  these  he 
had  called  to  ofler,  and  any  thing  else  which 
might  be  acceptable.  Overcome  with  such 
unexpected  kindncsn,  it  was  some  time  before 
Mr.  Hurt  on  could  summon  suflicient  strength  to 
litter  more  than  a  few  unconnected  sentences; 
but  the  honest  countenance,  and  frr.nk  manner 
of  liis  new  guest,  added  to  tiie  unmi:<takal»lc 
fcign-i  of  a  mind  and  heart  wliich  needed  '  not 
the  guinea  sliiiiip'  to  hi'iglitcn  their  lustre, 
iMxin  biinl'lird  all  icsitvc,  and  a  lively  convcr- 
■alion  cHHiiod  that  for  some  time  flowed  on 


most  agreeably.  At  length  the  visitor  rose  to 
depart,  and  was  disappearing  through  the  door- 
way ere  ]Mr.  Burton  had  recollected  to  ask  his 
name.  Tliis  he  now  did,  and  as  liis  new  friend 
with  a  merry  twinkle  of  his  eye,  said,  'Oh, 
my  name  is  Moore,  and  I  live  close  by,  at 
Slopcrton,'  the  pleasurable  surprise  of  the  an- 
noimcement  may  be  readily  imagined  ;  as  like- 
wise that  so  agreeable  an  incident,  followed  up 
as  it  was  by  man}'  succeeding  interviews,  in 
which  Moore  played  and  sung  to  him,  besides 
a  thousand  little  acts  of  generosity  and  good- 
ness, did  more  towards  banishing  the  fever  and 
ague  than  could  have  been  accomplished  by 
the  whole  College  of  Physicians."  In  tliis  lit- 
tle anecdote  is  made  evident  that  rare  union 
of  fine  qualities  which  gave  to  his  manner  that 
inexpressible  charm  which  made  so  deep  an 
impression  on  all  with  whom  he  associ.iled. 

Scott  says,  "  There  is  a  manl\-  frankness 
about  A[oorc  which  is  delightful.  Not  the  least 
touch  of  the  poet  or  the  pedant.  His  counte- 
nance is  plain,  but  the  expression  so  animated, 
especially  in  speaking  or  singing,  that  it  is 
far  more  interesting  than  the  finest  features 
could  have  rendered  it. 

Byron  says,  "  Moore  is  the  only  poet  I  know 
whose  conversation  equals  his  \Tritings;  he 
comes  into  society  with  a  mind  as  fresh  and 
buoyant  as  if  he  had  not  expended  such  a  mul- 
tiplicity of  thoughts  on  paper,  and  leaves  be- 
hind him  an  impression  that  he  possesses  an 
inexhaustible  mine  equally  brilliant  as  the 
specimens  he  has  given  us.  No  one  writes 
songs  like  Moore,  and  I  know-  no  greater  treat 
than  to  hoar  him  sing  his  own  compositions; 
the  powerful  expression  he  gives  to  ihem,  and 
the  pathos  of  the  tones  of  his  voice,  tend  to 
produce  an  eflect  on  my  feelings  that  no  other 
songs  or  singers  ever  could." 

.lames  Hogg,  that  most  unso)ihisticatod  ol' 
mortals,  had  no  such  love  or  admiration  for 
Erin's  bard,  but  as  Scott  relates,  "  opines  wJth 
delightful  naivete,  that  'ifuir's  ver.ses  are  far 
owre  sweet,' — answered  by  Thomson,  that 
Moore's  car  or  notes,  I  forgot  whirli,  were 
finely  strung.  'They  arc  far  owre  finely 
strung,'  replied  lie  of  the  forest,  '  for  mine  arc 
just  right.'  " 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


Ixv 


NOTES. 


(J)  Somo  conrased  notion  of  this  fact  has  led  tLc  writer  of  a 
Mfmciir  prefixed  to  tho  "  Pocket  Edition"  of  my  Poems,  print- 
ed at  Zwickau,  to  state  that  IJrinalcy  Sheridan  was  my  tutor  : 
—'•'Great  attention  waa  paid  to  his  education  by  his  tutor, 
Sheridan." 

(2)  Appointed  Provost  of  the  University  in  the  year  1799, 
And  made  afterwaida  Bishop  of  Ossory.  ■ 

(3)  When  the  monument  to  Provost  Baldwin,  which  stands 
in  the  hall  of  the  college  of  Dublin,  arrived  from  Italy,  there 
came  in  the  same  pacicin^-case  with  it  two  copies  of  this  work 
ofSpaletli,  one  of  which  waa  presented  by  Dr.  Troy,  the 
Roman  Catholic  Archbishop,  as  a  gift  from  the  Pope  to  the 
Library  of  the  University,  and  the  other  (of  which  1  waa  sub- 
sequently favored  with  the  use)  he  presented,  in  like  manner, 
to  my  friend,  Dr.  Kearney.  Thus,  curiously  enough,  while  An- 
acreon  in  English  was  considered — and,  I  grant,  on  no  unrea- 
Bonable  grounds — as  a  work  to  which  grave  collegiate  author- 
ities could  not  openly  lend  their  sanction,  Anacreon  in  Orcek 
was  thought  no  unfitting  present  to  be  received  by  a  Protestant 
bishop,  through  the  medium  of  a  Catholic  ai'chbishop,  from 
the  hands  of  his  holiness,  tlie  Pope. 

(4)  Fragments  of  Voyages  and  Travels,  vol.  ii.  chap.  vi. 

(5)  A  representation  of  this  calabash,  taken  from  a  drawing 
of  it  made  on  the  spot,  by  Dr.  Savage  of  the  Royal  Artillery, 
has  been  introduced  in  tho  vignette  prefixed  to  tho  second  vol- 
ume of  the  edition  in  ten  volumes. 

(G)  The  Commodore  of  the  Lakes,  as  he  is  styled. 

(7)  The  first  two  sentences  of  the  above  paragraph,  as  well  as 
u  passage  that  occurs  in  the  subsequent  column,  stood  original- 
ly as  part  of  the  Notes  on  one  of  the  American  Poems. 

(8)  Introduced  in  the  Epistle  to  Lady  Charlotte  Rawdon, 
vol.  ii.  p,  155  uf  this  edition, 

(9)  This  brave  and  amiable  officer  was  killed  at  Queenston,  in 
(fppcr  Canada,  soon  after  the  commencement  of  the  war  with 
America,  in  ttie  year  1810.  He  wn.s  in  the  act  of  cheering  on 
his  men  when  lie  fell.  The  inscriplion  on  the  monument  raised 
to  his  memory,  on  Queenston  Heights,  does  but  duo  honor  to 
his  manly  character. 

(10)  "  It  is  singularly  gratifying,"  the  author  adds,  "  to  dis- 
cover that,  to  this  hour,  the  Canadian  voija^eurs  never  omit 
their  offerings  to  the  shrine  of  St.  Anne,  before  engaging  in 
any  enterprise;  and  that  during  its  performance,  they  omit  no 
opportunity  of  keeping  up  so  propitious  an  intercourse.  The 
lloui'ishing  village  which  surrounds  the  church  on  the  *  Green 
Ule'  in  question  owes  its  existence  and  support  entirely  to 
Uiese  pious  contributions." 

(11)  Uoli.igbrcke  himself  acknowledges  that  "both  partiea 
war*  become  factions,  in  tho  strict  fiei'so  of  the  wrrd." 

(J?)  Vul.  iii.  p.3ia 


(13)  The  f^landard,  August  21,  183-1. 


(U) 


"Theaamo/rtu^fwiVi  and  girandoles— 
The  same  gold  asses,  pretty  souls, 
That,  in  this  rich  and  classic  dome, 
Appear  so  perfectly  at'home ; 
The  same  bright  river,  'mong  the  dishes, 
But  not— ah  I    not  the  same  dear  fishes. 
Late  hours  and  claret  killed  the  old  ones ; 
So,  stead  of  silver  and  of  gold  ones, 
(It  being  rather  hard  to  raise 
Fish  of  that  specie  now-a-days) 
Some  spiats  have  been,  by  Yarmouth's  wish, 
Promoted  into  silver  fish, 
And  gudgeons  (so  Vausittart  told 
The  Regent)  are  as  good  as  gold." 

Twopenny  Post-^n^. 


(15) 


Ante  fores  stabat  Jovis  llusiiitis  ara 


OV'D. 


(16)  Edinburgh  Review,  No.  c.xxxv.,  George  the  Fuurik  and 
Q_ucen  Caroline — "  When  the  Prince  entered  upon  public  life, 
he  was  found  to  have  exhausted  the  resources  of  a  career  ol 
pleasure  ;  to  have  gained  followers  without  making  friends; 
to  have  acquired  much  envy  and  some  admiration  among  the 
unthinking  multitude  of  polished  society  ;  but  not  to  command 

in  any  quarter  eitlier  respect  or  esteem The  portrait 

which  we  have  painted  of  him  is  undoubtedly  one  cf  the  dark- 
est shade  and  most  repulsive  form." 

(17)  "There  ia  no  doubt  whatever  that  The  Bool:,  written  by 
Mr.  Perceval,  and  privately  printed  at  his  house,  under  Lord 
Eldon's  superintendence  and  his  own,  was  prepared  in  concert 
with  the  King,  and  was  intended  to  sound  the  alarm  against 
Carlton  House  and  the  Whigs."— £:d.  Review,  i&. 

(18)  Tmopenny  Post-Bag.  I  avail  myself  of  tho  mention  here 
of  this  latter  squib,  to  recant  a  correction  which  I  too  hastily 
made  in  the  two  following  lines  of  it  '.-^ 

"  And,  though  statesmen  may  glory  in  being  unbought, 
In  an  author,  we  think,  sir,  that's  rather  a  fault." 

Forgetting  that  Pope's  ear  was  satisfied  with  the  sort  of  rhyme 
here  used,  I  foolishly  altered  (and  spoiled)  tho  wholo  couplet 
to  get  rid  of  it. 

(19)  '■  Pee,  for  instance,"  says  Mr.  Lockhi'jt,  "  the  Ecist^e  o*" 
Lady  Cork  ;  or  that  of  Messrs.  Lackington,  booksellers,  to  ont 
of  their  dandy  authors  : 

" '  Shoidd  you  feel  any  touch  of  poetical  glow, 
We've  a  scheme  to  suggest: — Jlr,  Scott,  yon  roust  know, 
(Who,  we're  sorry  to  say  it,  now  works  for  the  Row,) 
Having  quilled  the  Borders,  to  seek  new  renown, 
Is  coming,  by  long  Quarto  stages,  to  Town  ; 
And  beginning  with  Kokeby  (the  job's  sure  to  pay; 
Means  to  do  all  the  Gentlemen's  Seats  on  the  way. 
Now,  the  scheme  is  (though  none  of  our  hackneys  caa  bNA 

him) 
To  start  a  freah  Poet  through  Higbgate  to  meet  him  ; 


Ixn 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  LITERAEY 


VTho,  by  means  of  quick  prooffe— no  revises— long  coaches- 
May  do  tt  few  villas,  belor©  Scott  approaches. 
Indeed,  if  our  Pegasus  be  not  curst  shabby, 
Ho'll  reach,  wilhoul  foundering,  at  least  Woburn  Abbey.' " 

(20)  Alluding  to  a  speech  delivered  in  Ibe  yearilS13  by  the 
Bigbl  Hon.  Charles  Abbott  (.lli^n  Spt-aker)  against  Mr.  Grat- 
Uji's  motion  for  a  Committee  on  the  Cluiius  of  the  Calholica. 

(21)  Author  of  "  The  ^Vncient  Indian." 

.■K)  '*ifet  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old." 

(33)  »  Oh,  breaihe  not  bis  name.** 

(S4)  «  She  is  for  from  the  laud  where  her  young  hero  sleeps." 

0i3)  Miss  Curran. 

(26)  So  thought  also  higher  auihoriiies;  for  among  the  ex- 
ttacts  from  The  Press  brought  forward  by  the  Secret  Commit 
tee  of  the  House  of  Comraona  to  show  how  formidable  had 
been  the  designs  of  the  United  Irishmen,  there  are  two  or 
three  paragraphs  cited  from  this  redoubtable  Letter. 

(27)  Of  the  depth  and  extent  to  which  Hudson  had  involved 
himself  iu  the  conspiracy,  none  of  our  family  had  harbored  the 
least  notiou ;  till,  on  the  seizure  of  the  thirteen  Leinster 
delegates,  at  Oliver  Bond's,  in  the  month  of  .March,  1793,  we 
found,  to  our  aatoaiahment  and  sorrow,  thai  he  was  one  of  the 
number. 

To  those  unread  in  the  painful  history  of  this  period,  it  is 
right  to  mention  that  almost  all  the  leaders  of  the  United 
Irish  conspiracy  were  rroleslants.  Among  those  companions 
of  my  own  alluded  to  in  these  pages,  1  scarcely  remember  a 
iingle  Calhoiic. 

(38)  Id  the  Report  from  Ibe  Secret  Committee  of  the  Irish 
House  of  Lords,  this  extension  of  the  plot  to  the  college  is  no- 
ticed US  *•  a  desperate  project  of  the  same  faction  to  corrupt 
the  youth  of  the  country  by  introduciii;;  their  organized  system 
of  treason  into  the  University." 

cut)  One  of  these  brothers  has  long  been  a  general  in  the 
French  army ;  having  taken  a  part  in  all  those  greut  enter- 
prises of  Napoleon  which  have  now  become  matter  of  history. 
Should  these  pages  meet  the  eye  of  General  •••"••,  ihey  will 
call  to  his  mind  tho  days  we  passed  together  in  Xoniiauily,  a 
few  summers  since;— more  especially  our  excursion  to  Uayeux, 
when,  as  we  Uilked  on  the  way  of  old  college  times  and  friends, 
all  the  eventful  and  stormy  scenes  ho  had  passed  through  since 
•cemud  quite  forgotten. 

(30)  There  had  been  two  questions  put  to  all  those  examined 
on  the  flml  day,—**  Were  you  ever  asked  to  join  any  of  these 
ttoch'lies  ■/**— and  **  By  whom  were  you  aaked  V"—whlch  I 
should  have  refused  to  answer,  and  mujil,  of  course,  have  abi- 
ded the  consequences. 

(Dl)  For  tho  correctness  of  the  above  report  of  this  short  ex- 
amination, I  can  pretty  conlidcntlully  answer.  It  may  amuso, 
•herefiirr,  my  rewlers,— as  showing  tho  manner  Iu  wbirU  bi- 
ogr«|ihor«  make  thn  most  of  small  facts,— to  see  an  extrnct  or 
two  from  annlhr-r  account  of  this  affair,  published  not  many 
yrUT*  sinro  by  nn  old  and  /enloun  friend  of  our  rnmlly.  Afler 
stating  with  lidernhlo  correctness  one  or  two  of  my  answers, 
thowriKr  thus  proceeds  :—"  Upon  thU,  I*<trd  Clare  repented 
Ihf  r)>ir«tion,nnd  youn;(  Moore  made  such  an  nppeal.ni>ciiu*ed 
hta  lordship  to  r-Inz,  austere  and  rigid  os  he  wu.  Tho 
w»>r<l*  I  cnnnol  eioclly  rem"mber ;  lh«  subMnmn  waJi  m  fol- 
luws  :~lhnt  ho  ontrrrd  rollPKe  lo  receive  the  oducnllon  of  a 
•rhoarsitd  a  gnnlb  rnnn ;  tbnt  he  knew  not  how  to  compro- 
aiM  V>fi>  <\.iu»cirit  by  InrTmlDg  itfalDit  hit  collegn  com- 


panions ;  that  his  own  speeches  in  the  debating  society  bad 
been  ill  construed,  when  the  worst  that  could  be  said  of  tbem 

was,  if  truth  had  been  spoken,  that  they  were  patriotic 

that  he  was  awiire  of  Ihe  high-minded  nobleman  he  had  tho 
honor  of  appealing  to,  and  if  his  lordship  could  for  a  moment 
condescend  lo  step  from  his  high  station,  and  place  himself  in 
his  siuiation,  then  say  how  he  would  act  uuder  SLy;h  cu-cum- 
stances,  it  would  bo  his  guidance." — Herbert's  Irisk  t'arie- 
tics.     Loudon,  1836. 

(32)  "  When,  in  consequence  of  the  compact  entered  into  be- 
tween goverinuent  and  the  chief  leaders  ot  the  conspiracy,  the 
State  Prisoners,  before  proceeding  into  exile,  were  allowed  to 
see  their  friends^  I  piud  a  visit  to  Henry  Hudson,  in  Ilie  jail  of 
Kilmainham.  where  he  had  then  lain  immured  for  four  or  five 
months,  hearing  of  friend  after  friend  being  led  out  to  death, 
and  expecting  every  week  his  own  turn  to  come.  1  found  that 
to  amuse  his  solitude  he  had  made  a  large  drawing  with  char- 
coal on  the  wall  of  bis  prison,  representing  that  fancied  origin 
of  the  Irish  harp  which,  some  years  afler,  1  adoi)led  as  the  sub- 
ject of  one  of  the  *  Melodies.'" — Life  and  Death  of  Lord  Ed 
icard  Fitzgerald^  voL  i. 

(,33)  Quarterly  Review,  vol.  xli.  p.  294. 

(34)  The  following  is  a  specimen  of  thest-  memorandums,  as 
given  by  Foscolo :— '*  I  must  make  these  two  verses  over  again, 
singing  them,  and  I  must  transpose  them— 3  o'clock,  a.m.  I9th 
October."  Frequently  lo  sonnets  of  that  lime  such  notices  as 
the  following  were  prellxed :— "  Intonation  per  Fraucum" — 
*'Scriplor  dedil  sonumj'^ 

(35)  The  late  Rev.  William  Crowe,  author  of  tho  noble  poem 
of  '*Lewisden  Hill,"  was  likewise  a  musician,  and  has  left  a 
Treatise  ou  Knglish  versification,  to  which  his  knowledge  of 
the  sister  ui-l  lends  a  peculiar  interest. 

So  little  does  even  tho  origin  of  the  word  "  lyric,"  as  ap- 
plied to  poetry,  seem  to  be  presen*.  to  the  minds  of  some  wri- 
ters, thai  the  poet.  Young,  has  lell  us  uu  Essay  on  Lyric  Poetry, 
in  which  there  is  not  a  single  allusion  to  .Music,  from  beginning 
to  end. 

(30)  Life  by  Lockliarl,  vol.  vi.  p.  128. 

(37)  "  We  went  to  tho  theatre  together,  and  tho  house  being 
luckily  a  good  one,  received  T.  .M.  with  raplure.  I  could  have 
hugged  them,  for  it  paid  back  tho  debt  of  the  kind  reception  I 
met  with  in  Ireland.'^ 

(38)  Written  by  Mr.  nensonllill. 

(39)  Tho  writer  was  here  mistaken.  There  was  one  lady  of 
our  party  ;  but  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Lockhart  was  present. 

(40)  It  appears  certain,  notwithstanding,  that  ho  was,  in  his 
youth,  wholly  Insensible  to  music.  In  opeaking  of  him  and 
his  brother,  Mr.  .Murdoch,  their  preceptor,  nays. »'  Robert's  ear. 
In  particular,  was  reniiirkably  dull,  and  his  voice  nnlunablo. 
It  was  long  before  I  could  get  him  lo  distinguish  one  tune  from 
another. 

(U)  I  know  not  whether  It  has  over  boon  before  romnrked, 
that  the  wclt-known  lines  In  one  of  Hurns'smost  splritod  aonga, 

"The  lille's  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 
The  man's  tho  gold  for  a'  Ihat," 

may  possibly  have  been  suggrdtrd  by  tho  following  passage 
In  Wycherley's  phiy,  Ihe  "Country  Wife  :"— "  I  weigh  the  mnn* 
not  his  tiUr :  'tis  not  Iho  king's  niamp  can  make  the  metal 
butter." 

<43)  I  canuiil  lot  ('tu  tho  luckleDtoi  moutloo  beie  of  Ihia 


NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHOR 


ixvii 


Nocial  and  public-spirited  nobleman,  without  expressing  my 

Plrone  senso  of  his  kindly  qualities,  and  lamenting  the  loss 
which  nut  only  society,  but  tho  cause  of  sound  and  progres- 
Hive  Poiilicitl  Uoforin,  hua  sustiiined  by  his  death. 

(43)  The  Kpicureim  had  been  publishi-d  but  the  day  before. 

(14)  I  shnll  avail  myself  of  this  onpuitunity  uf  noticing  the 
charge  brought  by  Mr.  Uunting  against  Sir  John  Stuvenson,  of 
having  made  alterations  iu  many  of  the  airs  that  formed  our 
Irish  Cullection.  Whatever  changes  of  tliis  kind  have  been 
ventured  upon,  (and  they  are  but  few  and  slight,)  the  responsi- 
bility for  them  rests  solely  with  me  ;  as,  leaving  the  Harmonist's 
department  to  my  friend  Stovjnson,  I  reserved  to  myself  en- 
tirely the  selection  and  managaraent  of  the  airs. 

(4,1)  April  10,  1815. 

(46;  November  9,  1816. 

(47)  VoUaire,  in  his  tragedy  of  "  LesGuebres,"  written  with 
a  similar  nnder-current  of  meaning,  was  accused  of  having 
transformed  his  Fire-worshippers  into  Jansenists  : — "  Quelques 
llguristea,"  he  says,  "  pr^tendent  que  les  Guebres  sont  les  Jau- 
tscuisLes.'* 

(48)  The  Fire-worshippers. 

(49)  Tradunt  autem  Hebriei  banc  fabiUam  quod  Abraham  in 
i^nem  missus  sit  quia  ignem  adorare  noluit.— St.  IIieron. 
in  QuiEstt  in  Ocnes-int. 

(50)  Lalla  Roukh,  Divertissement  mel6  de  Chants  et  de 
Danses.  Berlin,  1822.  The  work  contains  a  series  of  colored 
engravings,  representing  groups,  processions,  &lc..  in  different 
Oriental  costumes. 

(5!)  Mr.  Rogers. 

(52)  See  Lines  addressed  to  Lady  Charlotte  Rawdon. 

(53)  In  employing  the  pas-t  tenae  here,  I  do  the  present  lord 
injustice,  whoso  filial  wish  I  know  it  is  to  keep  all  at  Doulng- 
ton  exactly  as  his  noble  father  left  it. 

(54)  See  vol.  ii.  p.  124  of  this  edi'.ion. 

(55)  "Pinnigero,  non  armigero  in  corpore  tela  exercctinlur  :" 
the  words  put  by  Acciua  in  the  mouth  of  Philoctetes. 

(56)  See  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

(57)  See  vol.  i.  p.  45  of  this  edition. 

(58)  Abraham  dismissing  Hagar,  by  Guerclno. 

(59)  A  statue,  1  believe,  of  Pius  VI, 

(GO)  See  Rhymes  on  the  Road,  Extr,  xv. 

(^61)  A  slight  alteration  here  has  rendered  these  verses  more 
true  to  the  actual  fact  than  they  were  in  the  original  form. 

(G2)  See  occasional  Epilogue  spoken  by  Mr.  Corry. 

(G3)  "  That  all  the  arguments  of  Berkeley,  (says  Hume,) 
though  otherwise  intended,  are,  in  reality,  merely  skeptical, 
appears  from  this— that  they  admit  of  no  answer  and  "soduce 
uo  conviction." 


mere  sophistry :— "Les  Comfidimis  n'ctaicnt  rtputAn  infames  a 
Rome  que  par  lo  vice  de  leur  nais^ance,  ct  non  pas  a  cause  de 
leur  prolession  ;  ct  el  elle  n'eut  C-tt  exerc6e  que  par  dcs  horn 
mes  libros,  ils  umaient  cu  aulant  do  respect  que  leur  art  en 
raferitc."  Whether  the  law  pronounced  the  profession  ilecM 
lo  bo  infamous,  or  attiilued  the  same  end  by  allowing  none  but 
infnmous  persons  to  practise  it,  makes  assuredly  no  ditStrencc 
in  the  real  stale  of  the  case. 

(G5)  "  Ego,  bis  triceuis  annis  aclis  sine  noti, 

Eques  Romanus  ex  lare  egressua  meo, 
Domura  revertar  mimus:  nimirum  hoc  die 
IJnoplus  vixi  mihi  quam  vivendum  fuit." 

(bG)  The  academiciaiis  of  Sleunii  were  long  famous  for  lliei 
theatrical  exhibitions.  The  Inlronati  of  that  learned  city 
played  the  "  Amor  Costaute"  of  the  Archbishop  Piccolomini 
before  Charles  V.,  when  he  visited  Sienna  in  1.536 ;— and  the 
Ortensio  of  the  same  archiepiscopal  dramatist  was  performed 
by  tliem  before  Cosmo  1.,  in  1560. 

(67>  "  La  premiere  trag6die  qui  juriit  sur  lo  Thtiilre,  en  bon 
style,  et  nvec  quelque  idee  d'tme  action  r6gulierement  con- 
duite,  est  rOiphte  d'Ange  Politien.''  Oinguere.  Dr.  Burney 
traces  the  origin  of  the  Italian  Opera  to  the  Orfeo. 

(G8)  "  11  6tait  le  plus  bel  homme  do  son  siecle--il  avail  h\ 
mine  haute,  la  taille  extraordinaire."  P'^arillas^  Histoiro  Se- 
crete de  la  Maison  de  .Mtdicis. 

(69)  '•  Les  AsUologues  dressf;renl  I'-Horoscope  da  Prince  de 
la  Mirandole,  et  trouverent  deux  choses  rcmarqu:iblc5 :— Punc, 
qu*il  ne  mettrait  pas  la  derniere  main  a  son  ouvrage  conlre 
eux,  et  I'autre,  qu'il  ne  passerait  pas  PAge  de  trente-deux  ans. 
Ils  lui  envoyerent  signifier  cet  arret,  dont  il  se  moqua.  filaii 
rAv6uement  justifia  leur  prediction."     Varillas. 

(70)  I>eo  was  nominated  a  Cardinal  in  his  thiricenth  >eur. 

(71)  Sud  quid  te  crucial  rellexa  roi'ia 

Si  interdum  gero?  PuUt. 

(72)  "  Facie  nequaquam  ingenua  et  liberali.  ab  enorml  prae- 
aertim  naso,  subluscoque  oculo  perabsurdo."        Paul  Joi\ 

(73)  There  are  several  poems  in  praise  of  this  lady  among 
the  works  of  Politian;  and  there  is  also  an  answer  of  hers, 
which — considering  that  it  is  Greek — is  very  modest  aud  un- 
assuming. 

(74)  Baldastarre  Peruzzi  is  said  to  have  painted  the  scenery 
for  this  representation  at  the  Vaticaa 

(75)  By  some  the  invention  of  painted  scenes  is  attributed 
to  Cardinal  Riario,  nephew  of  the  unprincipled  Sixlus  IV. 

(7G)  .Antiquities  of  the  House  of  Brunswick. 

(77)  The  historian,  who  was  then  Governor  of  Modena. 

(78)  There  is  a  published  translation  of  the  Asinaria  of  Plan 
tus,  which,  as  appears  from  the  title-page,  was  "rapprcsentata 
uel  raonastero  di  S.  Stefano  in  Venezia,  1528." 

(79)  Addison  speaks  of  the  theatrical  amusements  of  the 
nuns  at  the  time  when  he  visited  Venice,  1701. 

(80)  See  Lady  Morgan's  lively  account  of  these  exliibitiona 
in  her  Life  of  this  Painter. 


.  (64)  The  defence  which  a  writer  in  the  M^moires  de  PAcadt- 
mie  attempta  to  set  up  for  the  Illiberal  law  of  the  Romans,  is 


(81)  M^moires  sur  le  Royaume  de  Naples. — Belvedere  waj 
followed  by  Amenta,  the  couiicpoet.  whodied  in  1719.    "Com- 


iX.YlU 


BIOGE^VPniCAL  AND  LITERAEY  NOTICES. 


me  Bchcilore,"  sajs  M.  Duval.  "  il  faisait  jouer  ches  lul  ees 
proprcs  pieces  par  des  amateurs  qu'il  avail  forints  a  Part  du 
TLtatre." 

(Si)  L'Oratorij  do'  PP.  di  S.  Filippo  Ncri. 

(83)  MC'langes  do  Liltiralure. 

pM)  llisloirede  rUnivcrsile  do  Paris,  torn.  i.  p.  IDl. 

(8j)  Anolhcr  inslauce  maj-  be  scon  in  Bajlc,  Art.  "  Scliorus." 

iS6)  The  allusions  in  the  Esllier  to  Jfadame  de  Blonlespan 
&ul  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  are  ,in  eternal  dis- 
grace to  Racine. 

(B!)  The  .\b:lte  Conli,  wlio  translated  tlio  Atlialie  into  Italian. 

(88)  "C'esl  le  plus  excellent  acleur,  (says  Colic,)  ct  Ic  plus 
vral,  qno  j'aie  vu." 

l89)  Pee  the  whole  of  this  anecdote  in  Le  lvaiu"3  interesting 
account  of  his  acquaintance  with  Vullalro,  given  by  Condorcet, 
vol.  ii. 

(DO)  Segur*s  .Memoirs. 

(91)  "  M.  lo  Comtc  d'Artois,  qui  par  sn  Uilllc,  sa  jeuncssc, 
ft  ses  graces  naturolle?,  est  fait  pour  rtussir  dans  tons  Ics  ex- 
ercices  du  corps,  a  ambitionne  nussi  la  gloire  de  danser  sur  la 
corde.  11  a  pris  longtcms  en  silence,  el  duns  lo  plus  grand 
Kcrct,  des  lefuns  du  Sicur  Placido  et  du  Petit  Diable."— .1/*- 
WMirta  Burets  pour  strcirj  k.c.    Tom.  XV.,  p.  IB2. 

(W)  Schiller  acted,  while  ul  the  university,  io  a  piece  played 
Dofors  tlie  Duke  of  Wirlcmberg.  "II  choisit  le  dramo  do 
Clarigo,  do  Gocllic,  el  s'y  rvscrvu  lo  princij>al  role.  Co  ne  fill 
point  pour  lui  line  occasion  de  succes ;  il  le  nioiitra  fort  gauche 
it  fort  empf'cbrt."— KiV  de  Sekitter, 


(9n)  The  Arcadns  of  Blilton  were  performed  by  the  cbtldrei 
of  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Derby,  at  her  scat  IlareJlcI  J-Place  ; 
mid  the  Comus,  says  Johnson, "  was  presented  at  Ludlow,  tlieu 
the  residence  of  the  Lord  President  of  Wales,  iu  10.34,  and  had 
the  honor  of  bcinj  acted  by  the  Earl  of  Bridjcwalcr'a  sons  and 
daughters.*' 

(94)  Lodge's  Illustrations,  vol.  iii.  p.  343. 

(95)  "  L.illa  Roukli,  Divertissement  mt!6  do  Chants  ct  do 
Danscs  exiScute  an  Ciiateau  Royal  de  Berlin,  lo  27  .lanvicr,  18K, 
i:c.,  &c.— avec  23  planches  colori^s." 

(96)  Tho  Vocacion  of  John  Bale. 

(97)  .AlXerwards  Bishop  of  Waterford. 

(93)  Tho  Masquo  was  acted  by  children. 

(99)  The  person  alluded  to  as  tho  writer  of  tlin  Eulogy,  is, 
we  have  reason  to  believe,  the  able  and  eloquent  Chief  Juslico 
Bushe. 


(100) 


'  A  little  cot,  with  trees  arow, 
And,  like  its  master,  very  low." 


(101)  See  vol.  ii.  p.  105  of  this  edition. 

(102)  In  his  Coiiri'fo  ho  praises  very  warmly  some  persons 
whom  he  had  before  abused.— See  Toscolo,  Disciirso  sut  Testa 
di  Dante. 

(103)  This  w  ill  bo  seen  whenever  those  valuable  pnpers  coins 
to  be  published,  which  Lord  Holland  lel'l  behind  him,  con- 
taining Memoirs  of  his  own  times  and  of  those  iininediateljF 
preceding  them. 

(104!  In  sislccn  volumes,  published  ut  Paris,  bl  ll<»(wr. 


THE  LOVES'  or  THE  ANGELS. 


EDITOR'S  REMARKS 


ir  nas  seldom,  if  ever,  before  happened,  that 
two  contemporaneous  and  popular  poets  have 
taken  the  same  subject,  till  Moore  and  Byron,  un- 
kno-A-ing  each  other's  intention,  worked  out  the 
apocryphal  idea  oa  wliich  tlio  "  Heaven  and  Earth" 
of  the  one,  and  "  The  Loves  of  the  Angels"  of  the 
otlier,  are  founded. 

The  peculiarities  of  each  are  here  singular- 
ly developed  : — the  fire  and  gloomy  grandeur 
of  Byron,  and  the  exquisite  grace  and  felicitous 
metaphor  of  Moore,  are  wonderfully  displayed 
in  these  celebrated  productions ,  the  contrast 
is  perfect — while  one  is  Titanic  in  its  treatment, 
the  other  partakes  of  that  sylph-like  beauty 
which  is  so  great  a  charm  in  the  writings  of  the 
Bard  of  Erin. 

Moore  had  finished  "  The  Loves  of  the  Angels" 
before  Byron  had  begun  his  poem ;  when  the 
former  discovered  that  both  had  selected  the  same 
subject,  he  immediately  hurried  his  through  the 
press,  stating  to  liis  brother  bard  that  "  if  his  were 
not  first  presented  to  the  public  it  would  be  invisi- 
ble through  the  brilliancy  of  the  greater  luminary." 
He  might,  however,  have  made  himself  perfectly 
easy  on  this  point,  for  never  did  two  poets  display 
the  distinctive  character  of  their  genius  more  thor- 
oughly than  Byron  and  Jloore  in  these  celebrated 
productions.  The  very  names  of  the  characters  are 
eminently  suggestive  of  these  "  arcades  ambo." 


Wliile  one  is  full  of  grand  description,  magnifi. 
cent  doubt,  and  metaphysical  declamation,  the 
otlier  is  redolent  of  the  most  musical  metaphors, 
and  exquisite  conceits :  while  one  breathes  passion- 
ate imagination,  the  other  glows  \vith  the  utmost 
brilliancy  of  fancy  ;  both  are  unreal,  but  t'aetr  dit- 
ference  is  most  complete:  one  peoples  liis  drama 
with  beings  fit  for  the  gloomiest  and  grandai?. 
scenery;  the  other  selects  his  from  those  who  at  • 
calculated  for  the  drawing-room  of  Arcadia;  tlii 
very  measure  in  which  both  are  composed  ia  ad 
mirably  adapted  to  bring  out  their  v.arious  powers 

How  gracefully  Moore  enshrines  his  meta,- 
phors : — 

"  Sighing,  as  o^er  the  shadowy  past, 
Like  a  tomb-searcher,  Memory  ran, 
Lifting  the  shrouds  that  Time  had  cast 
O'er  buried  hopes,  he  thus  began." 

But  the  whole  poem  is  so  full  of  these  feiicitiea 
of  thought  and  expression,  that  there  would  be  no 
end  of  quotations  were  we  to  indulge  the  desire  to 
extend  them.  We  sh.all,  therefore,  content  our- 
selves with  merely  calling  the  reader's  attention  U: 
that  incomparable  Love  Song — 

"  Come,  pray  with  me,  my  seraph  love, 
My  angel-lord,  come  pray  with  me ; 
In  vain  to-night  my  lip  hath  strove 
To  send  one  holy  prayer  above — 
The  knee  raay  bend,  the  lip  may  move. 
But  pray  I  cannot,  without  thee  I 


MOCEE'S  WORKS. 


»  Pre  fed  Ihe  ollar  in  my  bower 

With  droppings  from  tbo  incense  tree 
Tve  sheller'd  it  from  wind  and  shower, 
But  dim  it  bums  the  livelong  hour, 
As  if,  like  me,  it  had  no  power 
Of  life  or  lustre,  w  ithout  thee! 

■'  A  boat  at  midnight  sent  alone 
To  drift  upon  the  moonless  sea, 
A  lute,  whose  leading  chord  is  gone, 
A  wounded  bird,  that  hath  but  ono 
Imperfect  wing  to  soar  upon, 
Are  like  what  I  am,  without  liee ! 

"  Then  ne'er,  my  spirit-love,  diiide, 

In  life  or  death,  thyself  from  me ; 
But  when  again,  in  sunny  pride. 
Thou  walk'st  through  Eden,  let  me  glide, 
A  prostrate  shadow,  by  thy  side — 

Oh  happier  thus  than  without  thee !" 

It  may,  perlmps,  interest  tlie  public  to  linOw  that 
the  Second  Angel,  Rubi,  was  intended  to  represent 
Lord  Byron. 

One  remarkable  feature  about  this  poem  is,  its 
total  absence  of  learning.  The  angels  are  amorous 
ind  coctifal  men,  and  not  sensuous  spiritualities. 


Coleridge  has  very  happily  ridiculed  tlie  prevalent 
idea  of  heavenly  beings,  by  terming  them  "  celestial 
poultry."  It  is  certainly  the  fact,  that  the  common 
notion  of  an  angel,  is  a  man  with  the  addition  of 
feathers,  in  contradistinction  to  Plato's  definition 
of  man,  which  was  a  "  biped  without  feathers." 
Every  body  linows  that  the  cynic,  Diogenes,  ridi- 
culed this,  by  stripping  a  cock  of  its  plumage,  and 
calling  it  "Plato's  man." 

A  young  poet  of  the  day,  Charles  Mackay,  has, 
in  a  poem  called  the  Salamandrine,  worked  out 
very  ingeniously  the  passion  of  a  female  spirituality 
for  a  young  warrior.  Our  readers  can  compare 
them  at  llieir  leisure. 

In  conclusion,  we  may  point  out  the  singular 
manner  in  which  Moore  has  run  line  into  line,  in 
order  to  give  variety  to  the  measure.  With  all 
deference  to  so  finished  a  versifier  as  our  author, 
we  do  not  think  he  has  eminently  succeeded;  sliU, 
his  Loves  of  the  Angels  is  a  poem  fit  ic  be  read  in 
the  Boudoir  of  Paradise. 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


MOORE'S  PREFACE. 


The  Eastern  story  of  tlie  angels  Harut  and  M:;- 
rut,'  and  the  Rabbinical  fictions  of  tlie  loves  of 
Uzziel  and  Shamchazai,^  are  the  only  sources  to 
which  I  need  refer,  for  the  origin  of  the  notion  on 
which  tliis  Romance  is  founded.  In  addition  to  the 
fitness  of  the  subject  for  poetry,  it  struck  me  also 
as  capable  of  affording  an  allegorical  medium, 
Oirough  whicli  might  be  shadowed  out  (as  I  have 
endeavored  to  do  in  the  following  stories)  the 
fall  of  tlie  Soul  from  its  original  purity' — the  loss 
of  light  and  happiness  which  it  suffers  in  the  pur- 
suit of  this  world's  perishable  pleasures — and  Jie 
punishments,  both  from  conscience  and  Di\ine 
justice,  with  whicli  impurity,  pride,  and  presump- 
tuous inquuy  into  the  awful  secrets  of  He.aven  are 
sure  to  be  visited.  The  beautiful  story  of  Cupid 
and  Psyche  owes  its  cliief  ch.-irm  to  tliis  sort  of 
"  veiled  meaning,"  and  it  has  been  my  wish  (how- 
ever I  may  have  f:iiled  in  the  .attempt)  to  com- 
municate to  the  following  pages  the  same  moral 
interest. 

Among  the  doctrines,  or  notions,  derived  by 
Plato  from  the  East,  one  of  the  most  n.itural  and 
sublime  is  th.at  which  inculcates  the  pre-e.\istenco 
of  the  soul,  and  its  gradu.al  descent  into  this  dark 
material  world,  from  that  region  of  spirit  and  light 
which  it  is  supposed  to  have  once  inh.abited,  and 
to  which,  after  a  long  lapse  of  purification  and 
Irial,  it  will  return.  This  belief,  under  various 
symbolical  forms,  may  be  traced  through  almost 
all  the  Oriental  theologies.  The  Ch.aldeans  repre- 
sent the  Soul  as  originally  endowed  with  \vings, 
winch   fall   away  when   it   sinks   from   its   native 


element,  and  must  be  reproduced  before  it  can 
hope  to  return.  Some  disciples  of  Zoroaster  once 
inquu-ed  of  him,  "How  the  wings  of  the  Soul 
might  be  made  to  grow  again  ?" — "  By  sprinkling 
them,"  he  replied,  "  with  the  Waters  of  Life." — 
"  But  where  are  those  Waters  to  be  found  V'  they 
asked. — "In  the  Carden  of  God,"  replied  Zoro- 
aster. 

The  mythology  of  the  Persians  has  allegorized 
the  same  doctrine,  in  the  liistory  of  those  genii  of 
light  who  str.ayed  from  their  dwellings  in  the  stars, 
and  obscured  their  original  nature  by  mi.\ture 
with  this  material  sphere ;  wliile  the  Egyptians, 
connecting  it  with  tlie  descent  and  ascent  of  the 
sun  in  the  zodiac,  considered  Autumn  as  emblem- 
atic of  the  Soul's  decline  towards  darkness,  and 
the  reappe.arance  of  Spring  as  its  return  to  life  and 
light. 

Besides  the  chief  spirits  of  the  Mahometan 
heaven,  such  as  G.abriel,  the  angel  of  Reveliition, 
Israfil,  by  whom  the  last  trumpet  is  to  be  sounded, 
and  Azrael,  the  angel  of  death,  there  were  also  a 
number  of  sub.altern  intelligences,  of  wliich  tr.v 
dition  has  preserved  the  names,  appointed  to  pre- 
side over  the  different  stages,  or  ascents,  into 
which  the  celesti.al  world  was  supposed  to  be 
di\'ided.'  Thus  Kekail  governs  the  fifth  heaven ; 
while  Sadiel,  the  presiding  spirit  of  the  third,  is 
also  employed  in  steadying  the  motions  of  the 
earth,  which  would  be  in  a  constant  state  of 
agitation,  if  this  angel  did  not  keep  his  foot  planted 
upon  its  orb.' 

Among  other  miraculous  interpositioos  in  favoj 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


of  Mahomet,  we  find  commemorated  in  the  pages 
of  the  Koran  the  appearance  of  five  thousand 
angels  on  his  side  at  the  battle  of  3edr. 

Tlie  ancient  Persians  supposed  that  Ormuzd 
appointed  tliirty  angels  to  preside  successively  over 
the  days  of  the  month,  and  twelve  greater  ones  to 
assume  the  jjovernment  of  the  months  themselves ; 
among  whom  Bahman  (to  whom  Ormuzd  committed 
the  custody  of  all  animals,  except  man)  was  the 
greatest.  Mihr,  tlic  angel  of  the  7th  month,  was 
also  the  spirit  that  watched  over  tlie  affairs  of 
friendship  and  love ; — Chdr  bad  the  care  of  the 
disk  of  the  sun ; — ilah  was  agent  for  the  concerns 
of  the  moon ; — Isphandirmaz  (whom  Cazvin  calls 
the  Spirit  of  the  Earth)  was  the  tutelar  genius  of 
good  and  virtuous  women,  &c.,  &.C.,  &c.  For  all 
this  the  reader  may  consult  the  19th  and  20th  chap- 
ters of  Hyde  de  Relig.  Vet.  Persarum,  wliere  the 
names  and  attributes  of  these  daily  and  monthly 
angels  are  with  much  minuteness  and  erudition  ex- 
plained. It  appears,  from  the  Zend-avesta,  that  the 
Persians  Ijid  a  certain  ofHce  or  prayer  for  every  day 


of  the  raontli,  (addi'essed  to  the  particular  ar^el  who 
presided  over  it,)  which  they  called  the  Sirouze. 

The  Celestial  Hierarchy  of  tlie  Syrians,  as 
described  by  lurcher,  appears  to  be  tl^c  most  reg- 
ularly graduated  of  any  of  these  systems.  In  the 
sphere  of  the  Moon  tliey  placed  the  angels,  in  that 
of  Mercury  tlie  archangels,  Venus  and  the  Sun 
contained  the  Principalities  and  the  Powers ; — and 
so  on  to  tlie  summit  of  the  planetary  system, 
where,  in  the  sphere  of  Saturn,  tlie  Tlirones  had 
their  station.  Above  this  was  the  habitation  of 
the  Cherubim  in  the  sphere  of  the  fixed  stars ;  and 
still  higher,  in  the  region  of  those  stars  wliich  are 
so  distant  as  to  be  imperceptible,  the  Seraphim, 
we  are  told,  the  most  perfect  of  all  celestial  cre.a- 
turos,  dwelt. 

Tlie  Sabe.ins  also  (as  D'llerbelot  tells  us)  had 
their  classes  of  angels,  to  whom  tliey  jiraycd  as 
mediators,  or  intercessors;  and  the  Arabians  wor- 
sliippcd  female  angels,  whom  th;y  called  Bcnad 
Hasche,  or  Daughters  of  God. 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


'TwAS  when  (ho  world  was  in  its  prime, 

When  the  fresh  stars  had  just  begun 
Their  race  of  glory,  and  young  Time 

Told  his  first  hii-th-days  by  the  sun; 
When,  in  the  light  of  Nature's  dawn 

Rejoicing,  men  and  angels  met" 
On  the  liigli  hill  and  sunny  lawn, — 
Ere  sorrow  came,  or  Sin  had  drawn 

'Twixt  man  and  heav'n  her  curtain  yet ! 
When  eartli  lay  nearer  to  the  skies 

Than  in  these  days  of  crime  and  woe. 
And  mortals  saw,  without  surprise. 
In  the  mid-air,  angelic  eyes 

Gazing  upon  this  world  below. 

Alas,  that  Passion  should  profane, 
Ev'n  then,  the  morning  of  the  earth  ! 

That,  sadder  still,  the  fatal  stain 

Should  fall  on  hearts  of  heav'nly  birth — 

And  that  from  Woman's  love  should  fall 

So  dark  a  stain,  most  sad  of  all ! 

Oile  ev'ning,  in  that  prunal  liour, 

On  a  hill's  side,  where  hung  the  ray 
Of  sunset,  bright'ning  rill  and  bow'r. 

Three  noble  youths  conversing  lay ; 
And,  as  they  look'd,  from  time  to  time, 

To  the  fiir  sky,  where  D.aylight  furl'd 
His  radiant  wing,  their  brows  sublime 

Bespoke  them  of  that  distant  world — 
Spirits,  who  once,  in  brotherhood 
Of  faith  and  bliss,  near  Alla  stood. 
And  o'er  whose  cheeks  full  oft  had  blown 
The  wind  that  breathes  from  Alla's  throne ; — ' 
Creatures  of  light,  such  as  sliU  play. 

Like  motes  in  sunshine,  round  the  Lord, 
And  through  theu'  infinite  array, 
Transmit  each  moment,  night  and  d.ay, 

The  echo  of  His  luminous  word ! 

Of  Heaven  they  spoke,  and,  still  more  oft. 

Of  the  bright  eyes  that  charmed  them  tlience ; 
Till,  yielding  gradual  to  the  soft 

And  balmy  evening's  influence — 
The  silent  breatliing  of  the  flow'rs, 

The  melting  light  that  beam'd  above. 
As  on  theu'  first,  fond,  erring  hours, 

Each  told  the  story  of  Ids  love, 
Tlie  liistory  of  that  hour  unblest 
Wlien,  like  a  bird,  from  its  high  nest 


Won  down  by  fascinating  eyes. 

For  Woman's  smile — he  lost  the  skies! 

Tlie  First  who  spoke,  was  one  \\\\\\  look 

The  least  celestial  of  the  three — 
A  Sph-it  of  light  mould,  that  took 

The  prints  of  earth  most  yieldingly ; 
Who,  ev'n  in  heav'n,  was  not  of  those 

Nearest  the  Throne,"  but  held  a  place 
Far  off,  among  tliose  shining  rows 

That  circle  out  through  endless  space. 
And  o'er  whose  wings  the  light  from  Him 
In  Heaven's  bright  centre  falls  most  dim 

Still  fair  and  glorious,  he  but  shone 
Among  those  youths  th'  unheavenliest  ono— 
A  creature,  to  whom  light  remain'd 
From  Eden  still,  but  alter'd,  stain'd, 
And  o'er  whose  brow  not  Love  alone 

A  blight  had,  in  liis  transit,  cast, 
But  other,  earthlier  joys  had  gone, 

And  left  their  foot-prints  as  they  pasa'd. 
Sigliing,  as  back  through  ages  flown, 

Like  a  tomb-searcher,  Mem'ry  ran. 
Lifting  each  shroud  that  Time  had  thrown 

O'er  buried  hopes,  he  thus  began ; — 


FIRST  ANGEL'S  STORY. 

"  'TwAs  ill  a  land,  that  far  aw-ay 

Into  the  golden  orient  lies. 
Where  Nature  knows  not  night's  delay. 
But  springs  to  meet  her  bridegroom,  Daj 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  skies. 
One  morn,  on  earthly  mission  bent,' 

And  midway  choosing  where  to  light, 
I  saw,  from  the  blue  element — 
(Oh  beautiful,  but  fatal  sight!) 
One  of  eartli's  fairest  womankind, 
Half  veiled  from  view,  or  rather  shrined 
In  the  clear  crystal  of  a  brook ; 

Which,  while  it  hid  no  single  gleam 
Of  her  young  beauties,  made  them  look 

More  spirit-like,  as  they  might  seem 

Througli  the  dim  sh.adowing  of  a  dream 

Pausing  in  wonder  I  look'd  on, 

Willie,  pLayfully  around  her  bre.Tl;ing 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Tlie  waters,  that  like  diamonds  shone, 

She  moved  in  light  of  her  owii  making. 
At  length,  as  ftom  that  airj-  height 
I  gently  lower'd  my  breathless  flight, 
The  tremble  of  my  wing  aU  o'er 

(For  through  each  plume  I  felt  the  thrll) 
Startled  her,  as  she  reachM  the  shore 

Of  that  small  lake — her  mirror  still — 
Above  whose  brink  she  stood,  like  snow 
When  rosy  ^vith  a  sunset  glow. 
Never  shall  I  forget  those  eyes  I — 
The  shame,  the  innocent  surprise 
Of  that  bright  face,  when  in  the  air 
Uplooking,  she  beheld  me  tliere. 
It  seem'd  as  if  each  thought,  and  look. 

And  motion,  were  that  minute  chain'd 
Fast  to  the  spot,  such  root  she  took, 
And — like  a  sunflower  by  a  brook, 

With  face  upturn'd — so  still  remained! 

In  pity  to  tlie  wond'ring  maid, 

Though  loath  from  such  a  vision  turning. 
Downward  I  bent,  beneatli  the  shade 

Of  my  spread  wings  to  hide  the  burning 
Of  glances,  whicli — I  well  could  feel — 

For  me,  for  her,  too  warmly  shone; 
But,  ore  I  could  again  unseal 
My  restless  eyes,  or  even  steal 

One  sidelong  look,  the  maid  was  gone-  - 
Hid  from  me  in  the  forest  leaves, 

Sudden  as  when,  in  all  her  charms 
Of  full-blown  light,  some  cloud  receives 

The  Moon  into  his  dusky  arms. 

Tis  not  in  words  to  tell  the  power. 
The  despotism  that,  from  that  liour, 
Passion  held  o'er  rae.     Day  and  night 

1  sought  around  each  neighboring  spot ; 
And,  in  tlie  cliaso  of  this  sweet  light. 

My  task,  and  lieaven,  and  all  forgot ; — 
All,  but  the  one,  solo,  haunting  dream 
Of  her  I  saw  in  tlrnt  briglil  sircani. 

Nor  was  it  long,  ere  by  her  side 

I  found  myself,  whole  linppy  days, 
Ijsl'ning  to  wordu,  whose  music  vied 
Willi  our  own  Kden's  .seraph  lays 
When  Benipli  lays  are  warmed  by  love. 
Bill,  wnnliiig  Ihal,  far,  far  above! — 
f      And  lookini;  into  eycH  where,  blue 
And  brniilifiil,  like  Hkii's  seen  through 
The  Hlei'piiig  wave,  for  iiic  there  kIioiu- 
A  hi'ftvcii,  inirc  worHliIppM  Ihaii  my  own. 
Oh  what,  whih"  I  could  hrar  and  hvo 
Hucli  W'lnl.H  mill  lookN,  wiw  he«v'ii  to  me' 


Though  gross  the  ah-  on  sarth  1  drew, 
'Twas  blessed,  while  ehe  breathed  it  too ; 
Though  dark  the  flow'rs,  though  dim  the  sky 
Love  lent  them  light,  while  she  was  nigh. 
Throughout  creation  I  but  knew 
Two  separate  worlds — the  oTie,  that  small, 

Beloved,  and  consecrated  spot 
\Vliere  Lea  was — the  other,  all 

The  dull,  wide  waste,  where  she  was  net ! 

But  vain  my  suit,  my  madness  vain ; 
Though  gladly,  from  her  eyes  to  gain 

One  earthly  look,  one  stray  desire, 
I  would  have  torn  the  wings,  that  hung 

Furl'd  at  my  back,  and  o'er  the  Fire 
In  Gehim's"  pit  their  fragments  flung ; — 
'Twas  hopeless  all — pure  and  unmoved 

She  stood,  as  lilies  in  tlie  light 

Of  the  hot  noon  but  look  more  wliite ; 
And  thougli  she  loved  me,  deeply  loved, 
'Twas  not  as  man,  as  mortal — no, 
Nothuig  of  eartli  was  in  that  glow — 
She  loved  me  but  as  one,  of  race 
Angelic,  from  tliat  radiant  place 
She  saw  so  oft  in  dreams — that  Heaven, 

To  which  lier  prayers  at  morn  were  sent, 
And  on  whose  liglit  slie  gazed  at  even. 
Wishing  for  wings,  that  she  might  go 
Out  of  this  shadowy  world  below. 

To  tliat  free,  glorious  clement! 

Well  I  remember  by  her  side 

Sitting  at  ro.sy  even-tide, 

Wlien, — turning  to  tlie  star,  whose  liead 

Look'd  out,  as  from  .a  bridal  bed, 

At  lliat  mute,  blusliing  luiur, — slie  said, 

'  Oh !  that  it  were  my  doom  to  be 

'  Tlie  Spirit  of  yon  beauteous  star, 
'  nwelling  up  there  in  purity, 

'Alone,  as  all  sncli  briglit  thing.'*  are; — 
'  My  sole  employ  to  pray  and  shine, 

'To  liglit  my  censer  ;it  the  sun, 
'  And  cast  its  Are  towards  tlic  shrine 

'  Of  Him  in  heay'ii,  111'  Klcnial  one!' 

So  innocent  tlic  maid,  so  free 

From  mortal  taint  in  soul  and  frame, 
Whom  'twas  my  crime — my  destiny — 
To  love,  ny,  burn  for,  with  a  flame, 
To  which  earth's  wildest  fires  are  tamo. 
Had  you  but  seen  her  look,  when  first 
From  my  mad  lips  Ih'  avowal  burst; 
Not  anger'd — no — the  feeling  camo 
From  dcptlm  beyond  mere  n'ljter'ii  fliiimv— 


THE  LOVES  OE  THE  ANGELS. 


It  was  a  sorrow,  calm  as  deep, 
A  rDournt'ulnoss  that  could  not  weep, 
So  fiU'd  her  heart  was  to  the  brink, 
So  fix'd  and  Iroz'n  with  grief,  to  think 
Tliat  angel  natures — tliat  ev'n  I, 
Whose  love  she  clung  to,  as  the  tie 
Between  her  spuit  and  the  sl;y — 
Should  fall  thus  headlong  from  the  height 
Of  all  that  heav'n  hath  pure  and  bright! 

That  very  night — my  heart  had  grown 

Impatient  of  its  inward  burning ; 
The  term,  too,  of  my  stay  was  flown, 
And  the  bright  Watcliers  near  the  throne. 
Already,  if  a  meteor  shone 
Between  them  and  this  nether  zone. 

Thought  'twas  their  herald's  mng  returning. 
Oft  did  the  potent  spell-word,  giv'n 

To  Envoys  hither  from  the  skies, 
To  be  pronounced,  when  back  to  heav'n 

It  is  their  time  or  wish  to  rise. 
Come  to  my  lips  that  fatal  day ; 

And  once,  too,  was  so  nearly  spoken, 
That  my  spread  plumage  in  the  ray 
And  breeze  of  heav'n  began  to  play ; — 

When  my  heart  fail'd — the  spell  was  broken — 
Tlie  word  unfinish'd  died  away. 
And  my  oheok'd  plumes,  ready  to  soar. 
Fell  slack  and  lifeless  as  before. 
How  could  I  leave  a  world  which  she, 
Or  lost  or  won,  made  all  to  me  ^ 
No  matter  where  my  wand'rings  were, 

So  there  she  look'd,  breathed,  moved  about — 
Woe,  ruin,  death,  more  sweet  with  her, 

Than  Paradise  itself,  without ! 

But,  to  return — that  very  day 

A  feast  was  held,  where,  full  of  mii-th. 
Came — crowding  thick  as  flow'rs  tliat  play 
In  summer  winds — the  young  and  gay 

And  beautiful  of  this  bright  earth. 
And  she  was  there,  and  'mid  the  young 

And  beautiful  stood  first,  alone ; 
Though  on  her  gentle  brow  still  hung 

The  shadow  I  that  morn  had  thrown— 
The  first,  that  ever  shame  or  woe 
Had  cast  upon  its  vernal  snow. 
My  heart  was  inadden'd ; — in  the  flush 

Of  the  wild  revel  I  gave  way 
To  all  that  frantic  mirth — that  rush 

Of  desp'rate  gayety,  which  they. 
Who  never  felt  how  pain's  e.\cess 
Can  break  out  thus,  think  happiness ! 
Sad  mimicry  of  mirth  and  life, 
Whose  flashes  come  but  from  the  strife 


Of  inward  jiassions — like  the  light 
Struck  out  by  clasliing  swords  in  fight. 

Then,  too,  that  juice  of  earth,  the  bane 
And  blessing  of  man's  heart  and  brain — 
That  draught  of  sorcery,  which  brings 
Piiantoms  of  fair,  forbidden  tilings — 
Wliose  drops,  like  tliose  of  rainbows,  smile 

Upon  the  mists  that  circle  man, 
Bright'ning  not  only  Earth,  the  while. 

But  grasping  Heav'n,  too,  in  their  span  ! — 
Then  first  the  fatal  wine-cup  rain'd 

Its  dews  of  darkness  throiigli  my  lips," 
Casting  whate'er  of  light  remain'd 

To  my  lost  soul  into  eclipse  ; 
And  filling  it  with  such  wild  di-eams, 

Such  fantasies  and  wrong  desires. 
As,  in  the  absence  of  heav'n's  team.?, 

Haunt  us  for  ever — like  wild-fires 

That  walk  tliis  earth,  when  day  retires. 

Now  hear  the  rest ; — our  banquet  done, 
I  sought  her  in  tli'  accustomed  bow'r. 
Where  late  we  oft,  when  day  was  gone. 
And  the  world  hush'd,  had  met  alone. 
At  the  same  silent,  moonlight  hour. 
Her  eyes,  as  usual,  were  upturn'd 
To  her  loved  star,  whose  lustre  burn'd 
Purer  than  ever  on  that  night ; 
Wliile  she.  In  looking,  grew  more  bright, 
As  though  she  borrow'd  of  its  light. 

There  was  a  virtue  in  that  scene, 

A  spell  of  holiness  around. 
Which,  had  my  burning  brain  not  been 

Thus  madden'd,  would  h.ave  held  me  bound, 

As  though  I  trod  celestial  ground. 
Ev'n  as  it  was,  with  soul  all  flame, 

And  lips  that  burn'd  in  their  own  sighs, 
I  stood  to  gaze,  with  awe  and  slianie — 
The  memory  of  Eden  came 

Full  o'er  me  when  I  saw  those  eyes ; 
And  though  too  well  each  glance  of  mine 

To  the  pale,  shrinking  maiden  proved 
How  far,  alas,  from  .auglit  divine. 
Aught  worthy  of  so  pure  a  shrine, 

Was  the  \nld  love  with  whicli  I  loved, 
Yet  must  she,  too,  have  seen — oh  yes, 

'Tis  soothing  but  to  think  she  saw 
The  deep,  true,  soul-felt  tenderness. 

The  homage  of  an  Angel's  awe 
To  her,  a  mortal,  whom  pure  love 
Then  placed  above  liim — far  above — 
And  all  that  struggle  to  repress 
A  sinful  spirit's  mad  excess, 


8 


MOOKE'S  WORKS. 


Which  work'd  witliin  me  at  that  hour. 

When,  with  a  voice,  wliere  Passion  shed 
All  the  deep  sadness  of  her  power, 

Her  melancholy  power — I  said, 
'  Then  he  it  so ;  if  back  to  heaven 

'I  must  unloved,  unpitied  fly, 
Without  one  blest  memorial  giv'n 

'  To  soothe  me  in  tliat  lonely  sky ; 
'  One  look,  like  those  the  young  and  fond 

'  Give  when  tliey're  parting — which  would  be, 
'  Ev'n  in  remembrance,  far  beyond 

'  All  heav"n  hath  left  of  bliss  for  me ! 


'  Oh,  but  to  see  that  liead  recline 

'  A  minute  on  tliis  trembling  arm, 
'  And  those  mild  eyes  look  up  to  mme, 

'  Witliout  a  dread,  a  thouglit  of  harm ! 
'  To  meet,  but  once,  the  tlirillkig  touch 

'Of  lips  too  purely  fond  to  fear  me — 
'Or,  if  that  boon  be  all  too  much, 

'  Ev'n  thus  to  bring  their  fragrance  near  me ! 
'Nay,  shrink  not  so — a  look — a  word — 

'  Give  them  but  kindly  and  I  fly ; 
'  Already,  see,  my  plumes  have  stirr'd, 

'  And  tremble  for  their  home  on  liigh. 
'Thus  bo  our  parting — clieek  to  cheek — 

'  One  minute's  lapse  will  be  forgiv'n, 
•  And  thou,  the  next,  slialt  hear  me  speak 

'  Tiie  spell  that  plumes  my  wmg  for  Heav'n !' 


Willie  thus  I  spoke,  the  fearful  maid, 
Of  me,  and  of  herself  afraid, 
Had  slirinking  stood,  like  ilow'ra  beneath 
Tlie  scorching  of  the  south-wind's  breatn. 
But  when  I  named — alas,  too  well, 

I  now  recall,  though  wildcr'd  then, — 
Instantly,  when  1  named  the  spell, 

Her  brow,  her  eyes  uprose  again, 
And,  with  an  eagerness,  that  spoke 
Tlic  sudden  light  that  o'er  her  broke,    ' 
'The  spell,  the  spell! — oh,  speak  it  now, 
'  And  I  will  bless  thee!'  she  exclaim'd— 
Unknowing  what  I  did,  inllained, 
And  lo»t  already,  on  her  brow 

I  sUimpM  one  burning  kiss,  and  named 
The  mystic  word,  till  then  ne'er  told 
To  living  creature  of  earth's  mould  ! 
Scarce  was  it  wild,  when,  quick  ns  Ihouglil, 
Hit  lips  from  mine,  like  echo,  caught 
The  lioly  sound — her  hands  and  eyes 
Wrn-  instant  liflcil  tii  the  skies, 
And  llirice  to  licnv'n  she  spoke  it  out 
Willi  tlmt  Iriimiplinnt  look  Fnltli  wearn, 


^^^len  not  a  cloud  of  fear  or  doubt, 
A  vapor  from  this  vale  of  tears. 
Between  her  and  her  God  appears ! 

That  very  moment  her  whole  frame 
All  bright  and  gloriOed  became. 
And  at  her  back  I  saw  unclose 
Two  wings,  magnificent  as  those 

That  sparkle  around  Alla's  Throne, 
Wliose  plumes,  as  buoyantly  she  rose. 

Above  me,  in  the  moonbeam  slione 
With  a  pure  light,  which — from  its  hue, 
Unlvnown  upon  this  earth — I  knew 
Was  light  from  Eden,  glist'nmg  through  , 
Most  holy  vision !  ne'er  before 

Did  aught  so  radiant^ — since  the  day 
When  Eblis,  in  Iiis  downfall,  bore 

The  third  of  the  bright  stars  away- 
Rise,  in  earth's  beauty,  to  repair 
Tiiat  loss  of  light  and  glory  there  ! 

But  did  I  tamely  view  her  flight  1 

Did  not  /,  too,  prochiini  out  tliricc 
The  pow'rful  words  tliat  wore,  that  night,- 
Oh,  ev'n  for  heaven  too  much  delight  !— 

Again  to  bring  us,  eyes  to  eyes, 

And  soul  to  soul,  in  Paradise  ? 
I  did — I  spoke  it  o'er  and  o'er — 

I  pray'd,  I  wept,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
For  me  the  spell  had  jiou'r  no  more. 

Tlicre  seemed  around  me  some  dark  c:aUi 
Which  still,  as  I  essay'd  to  soar, 

Bafllod,  alas,  each  wild  endeavor : 
Dead  lay  my  wings,  as  they  have  hiin 
Since  tliat  sad  hour,  and  will  remain — 

So  wills  th'  oll'eiidod  God— for  ever! 

It  was  to  yonder  star  1  traced 
Her  joiirnoy  up  th'  illviniincd  waste — 
That  isle  in  the  blue  fu-nmnient, 
Tu  viliicli  so  oft  !ier  f:iiicy  went 

Til  wishes  and  in  dreams  before, 
And  which  was  now — such.  Purity, 
Thy  bless'd  reward — ordain'd  to  be 

Her  home  of  light  for  cNcrmore! 
Once — or  diil  I  but  fancy  so  ? — 

Ev'n  ill  her  fliglit  to  that  fair  spliere, 
'Jlid  nil  her  Hpirit's  new-felt  glow, 
A  pitying  look  she  turned  below 

On  liiiii  who  stood  in  darkness  hero; 
Him  whom,  perhaps,  if  vain  regret 
Can  dwell  ill  licnveii,  she  pities  yet; 
And  oft,  wlieii  liioking  to  this  dim 
And  distant  worlil,  remembers  hini, 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


But  soon  that  passing  dream  was  gone; 

'Twi.xt  whom  and  them  was  distance  far 

Farther  and  farther  off  she  shone, 

And  wide  as  would  the  journey  be 

Till  lessen'd  to  a  point,  as  small 

To  reach  from  any  island  star 

As  arc  those  specks  that  yonder  burn, — 

The  vague-shores  of  Infinity ! 

Those  vivid  drops  of  light,  that  fall 

The  last  from  Day's  exliausted  urn. 

'Twas  Rum,  in  wliose  mournful  eye 

Ai  d  wlien  at  Icngtli  she  merged,  afar, 

Slept  tlie  dim  light  of  days  gone  by; 

[n(o  her  own  immortal  star. 

Whose  voice,  though  sweet,  fell  on  the  ear 

And  when  at  length  ray  straining  sight 

Like  echoes,  in  some  silent  place. 

Had  caught  her  wing's  last  fading  ray, 

When  fii-st  awaked  for  many  a  year ; 

That  minute  from  my  soul  the  light 

And  when  he  smiled,  if  o'er  his  face 

Of  heav'n  and  love  botli  passed  away  ; 

Smile  ever  shone,  'twas  like  the  grace 

And  I  forgot  my  home,  my  birth. 

Of  moonliglit  rainbows,  fair,  but  wan. 

Profaned  my  spirit,  sunk  my  brow. 

The  sunny  life,  the  glory  gone. 

And  revell'd  in  gross  joys  of  earth, 

Ev'n  o'er  his  pride,  though  still  the  same, 

Till  I  became — what  I  am  now !" 

A  soft'ning  shade  from  sorrow  came; 

And  though  at  times  his  spirit  knew 

The  Spirit  bow'd  his  head  in  shame ; 

The  kindlings  of  disdain  and  ire. 

A  shame,  that  of  itself  would  tell — 

Short  was  the  fitful  glare  they  tlirew — 

Were  there  not  ev'n  those  breaks  of  flame. 

Like  the  last  flashes,  fierce  but  few, 

Celestial,  through  his  clouded  frame — 

Seen  through  some  noble  pile  on  fire! 

How  grand  the  height  from  wluch  he  fell  ! 

That  holy  Shame,  which  ne'er  forgets 

Such  was  the  Angel,  who  now  broke 

Th'  unblench'd  renown  it  used  to  wear ; 

The  silence  that  had  come  o'er  all, 

Wliose  blush  remains,  when  Virtue  sets. 

When  he,  the  Spirit  that  last  spoke. 

To  show  her  sunshine  has  been  there. 

Closed  the  sad  hist'ry  of  his  fall ; 

And,  wliile  a  sacred  lustre,  flown 

Once  only,  while  the  tale  he  told, 

For  many  a  day,  relumed  his  cheek — 

Were  his  eyes  lifted  to  behold 

Beautiful,  as  in  days  of  old ; 

That  happy,  stainless  star,  where  she 

And  not  those  eloquent  lips  alone 

Dwelt  in  her  bower  of  purity  ! 

But  every  feature  seem'd  to  speak — 

One  minute  did  he  look,  and  then — 

Thus  his  eventful  story  told ; — 

As  though  he  felt  some  deadly  pain 

From  its  sweet  light  through  heart  and  brain — 

Shrunk  back,  and  never  look'd  again. 

SECOND  ANGEL'S  STORY 

"  You  both  remember  well  the  day. 

When  unto  Eden's  new-made  bow'ra, 

Who  was  the  Second  Spirit  1  he 

Alla  convoked  the  bright  array 

Witli  tlie  proud  front  and  piercing  glance — 

Of  his  supreme  angelic  pow'rs, 

Wlio  secm'd,  when  viewing  heaven's  expanse. 

To  witness  the  one  wonder  yet, 

As  tliough  his  far-sent  eye  could  see 

Beyond  man,  angel,  star,  or  sun. 

On,  on  into  th'  Immensity 

He  must  achieve,  ere  he  could  set 

Behind  the  veils  of  that  blue  sky, 

His  seal  upon  the  world,  as  done — 

Wliere  Alla's  grandest  secrets  lie  ? — 

To  see  that  last  perfection  rise, 

His  wings,  the  while,  though  day  was  gone, 

That  crowning  of  creation's  birth, 

Flashing  with  many  a  various  hue 

WTien,  mid  the  worship  and  surprise 

Of  light  they  from  themselves  alone, 

Of  circling  angels.  Woman's  eyes 

Instinct  with  Eden's  brightness,  drew. 

First  open'd  upon  heav'n  and  earth  ; 

'Twas  RuBi — once  among  the  prime 

And  from  their  lids  a  thrill  was  sent. 

And  flow'r  of  those  bright  creatures,  named 

That  through  each  living  spirit  went, 

Spirits  of  Knowledge,'^  wlio  o'er  Time 

Like  first  light  through  tlie  firmament  1 

And  Space  and  Thought  an  empire  claim'd. 

Second  alone  to  Him,  wliose  light 

Can  you  forget  how  gradual  stole 

Was,  ev'n  to  tlicirs,  as  day  to  night ; 

The  fresh-awaken'd  breath  of  soul 

10 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Throughout  her  perfect  form — which  seem'd 
To  grow  transparent,  as  there  beani'd 
That  dawn  of  Mind  withm,  and  cauglit 
New  loveliness  from  each  new  thought  ? 
Slow  as  o'er  summer  seas  we  trace 

The  progress  of  the  noontide  air, 
Dimpling  its  bright  and  silent  face 
Each  minute  into  some  new  grace, 

And  varying  hcav'n's  reflections  there — 
Or,  like  the  light  of  evening,  stealing 

O'er  some  fair  temple,  which  all  day 
Hath  slept  in  shadow,  slow  revealing 

Its  several  beauties,  ray  by  ray, 
Till  it  shines  out,  a  thing  to  bless, 
All  full  of  light  and  loveliness. 

Can  you  forget  her  blush,  when  round 
Through  Eden's  lone,  enchanted  ground 
She  look'd,  and  saw,  tlie  sea — the  skies — 

And  heard  the  rush  of  many  a  wing, 

On  high  behests  then  vanishing; 
And  saw  the  last  few  angel  eyes. 
Still  lingering — mine  among  the  rest, — 
Reluctant  le.iving  scenes  so  blest? 
From  that  rir.aculou3  hour,  the  fate 

Of  this  new,  glorious  Being  dwelt 
For  ever,  with  a  spell-like  weight, 
Upon  my  spirit — early,  late, 

Whate'er  I  did,  or  drcara'd,  or  felt, 
The  thought  of  what  might  yet  befall 
That  matchless  creature  mix'd  witli  all. — 
Nor  she  alone,  but  her  whole  race 

Through  ages  yet  to  come — wh.itc'cr 

Of  feminine,  .and  fond,  and  fair, 
Slionld  spring  from  tliat  pure  mind  .and  face. 

All  waked  my  soul's  intcnsest  care  ; 
Their  forms,  souls,  feelings,  still  to  me 
Creation's  strangest  mystery! 

It  was  my  doom — ev'n  from  the  first. 
When  witnessing  the  primal  burst 
Of  Nature's  wonders,  I  saw  rise 
Those  bright  creations  in  the  skies, — 
Those  world.H  instinct  with  life  and  light, 
Wliicli  man,  remote,  but  sees  by  night,— 
ll  was  my  doom  still  1o  be  haunted 
I!y  Hoine  new  wonder,  some  sublime 
And  matchless  work,  that,  for  the  time 
Held  nil  my  hoiiI,  enchairi'd,  enchanted, 
And  left  me  not  n  thought,  a  dre.im, 
A  word,  but  on  that  only  theme! 

The  wiiit  to  know — that  endless  thirst, 
Wlilrh  rv'n  by  qncnrhinj;  in  nwnkcd. 


And  which  becomes  or  bless'd  or  cursed. 
As  is  tlie  fount  whereat  'tis  slaked — 

Still  urged  me  onward,  with  desire 

Insatiate,  to  explore,  inquire — 

Wluite'er  the  wondrous  things  might  be 

That  waked  each  new  idolatry — 

Their  cause,  aim,  source,  whcnee-ever  sprunj{- 

Thcir  inmost  pow'rs,  as  though  for  me 
E.\istence  on  that  knowledge  hung. 

Oh  what  a  vision  were  the  stars, 

Wlien  first  1  saw  them  burn  on  liigh. 
Rolling  along,  like  living  cars 

Of  light,  for  gods  to  journey  by  I" 
They  were  my  heart's  first  passion — days 
And  nights,  unwearied,  in  their  r.ays 
Have  I  hung  floating,  till  each  sense 
Secm'd  full  of  their  bright  influence. 
Innocent  joy  !  alas,  how  much 

Of  misery  had  I  shunn'd  below, 
Could  I  have  still  lived  bless'd  with  such ; 

Nor,  proud  and  restless,  burn'd  to  know 


Often — so  mucli  I  loved  to  trace 
The  secrets  of  this  starry  race — 
Have  I  at  morn  and  evening  run 
Along  tlie  lines  of  radiance  spun 
Like  webs,  between  them  and  the  sun, 
Untwisting  all  the  Wangled  ties 
Of  light  into  tlieir  difl'ercnt  dyes — 
Then  fleetly  wing'd  I  ofl",  in  quest 
Of  tliosc,  the  farthest,  loneliest, 
Tiiat  watch,  like  winking  sentinels," 
The  void,  beyond  which  Chaos  dwells; 
And  there,  with  noiseless  plume,  pursued 
Tlicir  track  through  that  grand  solitude, 
Asking  intently  all  and  eacli 

Wliat  soul  within  their  radiance  dwelt. 
And  wishing  their  sweet  liglit  were  speech 

That  tliey  might  tell  me  all  llicy  felt. 

Nay,  oft,  80  passionate  my  eh.^Re 
Of  these  resplendent  heirs  of  space. 
Oft  did  I  follow— lest  a  ray 

Should  'scape  mc  in  tlie  farthest  night— 
Some  pilgrim  (^oniet,  on  his  way 

To  visit  distant  shrines  of  liglit. 
And  well  remember  how  I  .sung 

Exultingly,  wlien  on  my  sight 
New  worlds  of  stars,  all  fresh  and  young, 
As  if  just  born  of  darkness,  H]irung! 

Such  was  my  pure  ambition  then, 

My  HJidess  transport,  night  nnd  morn. 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


11 


Ere  yet  this  newer  world  of  men, 

Ami  tliat  most  fair  of  stars  was  boru 
WHiich  I,  in  fatal  hour,  saw  rise. 
Among  the  flow'rs  of  Paradise  ! 
Thenceforth  my  nature  all  was  changed, 

My  heart,  soul,  senses  turn'd  belov/ ; 
And  he,  wlio  but  so  lately  ranged 

Yon  wonderful  expanse,  where  glow 
Worlds  npon  worlds, — ^'et  found  liis  mind 
Ev'n  in  tliat  luminous  range  confined, — 
Now  bless'd  the  humblest,  meanest  sod 
Of  the  dark  earth  where  Woman  trod ! 

In  vain  my  former  idols  glisten'd 

From  their  far  thrones ;  in  vain  these  ears 
To  tlie  once-thriiling  music  listen'd, 

Tliat  liymn'd  around  my  fovorite  spheres — 
To  ourth,  to  earth  each  thouglit  was  giv'n. 

That  in  this  half-lost  soul  had  birth ; 
[iike  some  high  mount,  whose  head's  in  heav'n 

While  its  v\'hole  sliadow  rests  on  earth ! 

ffor  was  it  Love,  ev'n  yet,  that  thiall'd 

My  sph'it  in  liis  burning  ties; 
And  less,  still  less  could  it  be  call'd 

That  grosser  flame,  round  which  Love  flies 

Nearer  and  nearer,  till  he  dies — 
No,  it  was  wonder,  such  as  thrill'd 

At  all  God's  works  my  dazzled  sense; 
Tlie  same  rapt  wonder,  only  fill'd 

Witli  passion,  more  profound,  intense, — 
A  vehement,  but  wand'ring  fire, 
Whicli,  though  nor  love,  nor  yet  desire, —  ■ 
Tliough  through  all  womankind  it  took 

Its  range,  as  lawless  liglitnings  run. 
Vet  wanted  but  a  touch,  a  look. 

To  fix  it  burning  upon  One. 

Then,  too,  the  ever-restless  zeal, 

Th'  insatiate  curiosity 
To  know  how  shapes,  so  fair,  must  feel — 
To  look,  but  once,  beneath  tlie  seal 

Of  so  much  loveliness,  and  see 
What  souls  bclong'd  to  such  bright  eyes — 

Whether,  as  sunbeams  find  tlicii-  way 
Into  the  gem  that  hidden  lies, 

Those  looks  could  inward  turn  tlieir  ray 

And  make  the  soul  as  briglit  as  they : 
All  tliis  impcll'd  ray  anxious  chase. 

And  still  the  more  I  saw  and  knew 
Of  Woman's  fond,  weak,  conqu'ring  race, 

Th'  intenser  still  my  wonder  grew. 

I  had  beheld  then-  First,  their  Eve, 
Born  in  that  splendid  Paradise. 


Wliich  sprung  there  solely  to  receive 

The  first  light  of  her  waking  eyes. 
I  had  seen  purest  angels  lean 

In  worsliip  o'er  her  from  above; 
And  man — oh  yes,  liad  envying  seen 

Proud  man  possess'd  of  all  her  love. 
I  saw  their  happiness,  so  brief. 

So  exquisite, — her  error,  too. 
That  easy  trust,  that  prompt  belief 

In  what  tlie  warm  heart  wi.slies  true , 
That  faith  in  words,  wlien  kindly  said, 
By  which  the  whole  fond  sex  is  led — 
Mingled  with — what  I  durst  not  blame, 

For  'tis  my  own — that  zeal  to  hrwio. 

Sad,  fatal  zeal,  so  sure  of  woe ; 
Whicli,  though  from  heav'n  all  pure  it  came 
Yet  stain'd,  misused,  brought  sin  and  shame 

On  her,  on  me,  on  all  below ! 

I  had  seen  this ;  had  seen  Man,  arm'd, 

As  his  soul  is,  with  strengtii  and  sense, 
By  her  first  words  to  ruin  charm'd  ; 

His  vaunted  reason's  cold  defence, 
Like  an  ice-b.arrier  in  the  ray 
Of  melting  summer,  smiled  away. 
Nay,  stranger  yet,  spite  of  ail  this — 
Though  by  her  counsels  taught  to  err, 
Though  driv'n  from  Paradise  for  her, 
(And  wilh  her — that,  at  least,  was  bliss.) 
Had  I  not  heard  him,  ere  he  cross'd 

The  threshold  of  that  earthly  heav'n, 
Wliich  by  her  wildering  smile  he  losf>- 
So  quickly  was  the  wrong  forgiv'n ! — 
Had  I  not  heard  him,  as  he  press'd 
The  frail,  fond  trembler  to  a  breast 
Which  she  had  doom'd  to  sin  and  strife, 
Call  her— ev'n  then — his  Life!  liis  Life!'' 

Yes,  such  the  love-taught  name,  the  first, 

Th.at  ruin'd  Man  to  Woman  gave, 
Ev'n  in  his  outcast  hour,  when  cursed 
By  her  fond  witchery,  with  that  worst 

And  earliest  boon  of  love,  the  grave ! 
She,  who  brought  death  into  the  world, 

There  stood  before  him,  witli  the  ligLt 

Of  their  lost  Paradise  still  bright 
Upon  those  sunny  locks,  that  cm-l'd 
Down  her  white  shoulders  to  her  feet — 
So  beautiful  in  form,  so  sweet 
In  heart  and  voice,  as  to  redeem 

The  loss,  the  death  of  all  things  deai. 
Except  herself — and  make  it  seem 

Life,  endless  Life,  wliile  she  was  near  1 
Could  I  help  wond'ring  at  a  creature, 

Thus  circled  round  with  spells  so  strong— 


12 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


One,  to  whose  ev'ry  thought,  word,  feature, 
In  joy  and  woe,  through  right  and  wrong. 
Such  sweet  omnipotence  heaven  gave, 
To  bless  or  ruin,  curse  or  save? 

Nor  did  the  manel  cease  with  her— 

New  Eves  in  all  her  daughters  came, 
.^s  strong  to  charm,  as  weak  to  err, 

As  sure  of  man  through  praise  and  blame, 

Wiate'er  they  brought  him,  pride  or  shame. 
He  still  th'  unreasoning  worshipper, 

And  they,  throughout  all  time,  the  same, 

Enchantresses  of  soul  and  frame, 
Into  whose  hands,  from  first  to  last, 

Tliis  world  with  all  its  destinies. 
Devotedly  by  heav'n  seems  cast. 

To  save  or  rum,  as  they  please ! 
Oh,  'tis  not  to  be  told  how  long, 
■  How  restlessly  I  sigli'd  to  find 
Some  one,  from  out  that  witoliing  throng. 

Some  abstract  of  the  form  and  mind 
Of  the  whole  matchless  sex,  from  which 

In  ray  own  arms  beheld,  possess'd, 
I  miglit  learn  all  the  powers  to  witch. 

To  warm,  and  (if  my  fate  unbless'd 
Would  have  it)  ruin,  of  the  rest ! 
Into  whose  inward  soul  and  sense 

I  might  descend,  as  doth  the  bee 
fnto  the  flower's  deep  heart,  and  thence 

Rifle,  in  all  its  purity, 
The  prime,  the  quintessence,  the  whole 
Of  wondrous  Woman's  frame  and  soul ! 

At  length,  my  burning  wish,  my  prayer — 
(For  such — oh  what  will  tongues  not  dare, 
When  hearts  go  wrong? — this  lip  prcfcrr'd)— 
At  length  my  ominous  prayer  was  heard — 
But  whether  heard  in  heaven  or  hell, 
Ijjiton — .'ind  lliou  wilt  luinw  Ino  well. 

There  was  a  mai»l,  ofnll  who  move 

Like  visions  o'er  lliis  nrl>,  most  fit 
To  bo  a  bright  young  angel's  love, 

Herself  80  bright,  so  exquisite! 
The  pride,  too,  of  her  step,  as  light 

Along  th'  unconscious  earth  she  went, 
Secm'd  that  of  one,  born  witli  a  right 

To  walk  Home  hoavenlior  element, 
And  tread  in  places  where  her  feet 
A  Bliir  ttt  ev'ry  step  hIiouUI  meet. 
Tw.iii  not  nlonc  that  lovclincHS 

liy  which  the  wildcr'd  Benso  is  caught — 
or  lip*,  whoKe  very  l)roalh  could  blesH  ; 

Ofpl.iyful  bluHhen,  that  seein'd  naught 
But  luminous  oncnpes  of  thought; 


Of  eyes  that,  when  by  anger  stirr'd, 
Were  fire  itself,  but,  at  a  word 

Of  tenderness,  all  soft  became 
As  though  they  could,  like  the  suns  bird, 

Dissolve  away  in  their  own  flame- 
Of  form,  as  pliant  as  the  shoots 

Of  a  young  tree,  in  vernal  flower ; 
Yet  round  and  glowuig  as  the  fruits, 

That  drop  from  it  in  summer's  hour ; — 
'Twas  not  alone  tliis  loveliness 

That  falls  to  loveliest  women's  share, 
Though,  even  here,  her  form  could  spare 
From  its  own  beauty's  rich  excess 

Enough  to  make  cv'n  them  more  fail- — 
But  'twas  the  Jlind,  outshining  clear 
Tliough  her  wliole  frame — the  soul,  still  near, 
To  light  each  charm,  yet  independent 

Of  what  it  lighted,  as  the  sun 
That  shines  on  flowers,  would  be  resplendent 

Were  there  no  flowers  to  shine  upon — 
'Twas  this,  all  this,  in  one  combined — 

Th'  unnumbcr'd  looks  and  arts  that  form 
Tlie  glory  of  young  woman-kind, 
Taken,  in  their  perfection,  warm, 
Ere  time  had  cliill'd  a  single  charm. 
And  stamped  with  such  a  seal  of  Mind, 

As  gave  to  beauties,  that  uiiglit  I  e 
Too  sensual  else,  too  unrefined, 
The  impress  of  Divinity ! 

'Twas  tills — a  union,  whioh  the  hand 

Of  Nature  kept  for  her  alone. 
Of  every  thing  most  playful,  bland, 
Voluptuous,  spiritual,  grand, 

In  angel-natures  and  her  own — 
Oh  this  it  was  that  drew  me  nigh 
One,  who  seeni'il  kin  to  heaven  as  I, 
A  bright  twin-sister  from  on  high — 
One,  in  whose  luvc,  I  felt,  were  given 

Tlie  inix'd  delights  of  either  sphere, 
.\11  that  the  spirit  seeks  in  heaven, 

,\nd  all  thesenses  burn  for  here. 

Had  we — but  hold — hear  every  part 

Of  our  sad  tale — spite  of  the  pain 
Remembrance  gives,  when  the  fix'd  darl 

Is  stirr'd  thuH  in  the  wounrt  ngiun— 
Hear  every  Hte]),  so  full  of  bliss. 

And  yot  so  ruinous,  that  led 
Down  to  the  lasl,  dark  precipice, 

Where  perish'd  both — the  (':illeM,  Imh   Irnd! 

From  the  first  hour  she  caught  my  sigiil, 
I  never  left  her — day  and  night 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


ia 


Hovering  unseen  around  her  way, 

And  'mid  licr  loneliest  musings  near, 
r  soon  could  track  eacli  thought  that  lay, 

Gleaming  within  her  heart,  as  clear 

As  pebbles  within  brooiis  appear; 
And  there,  among  the  countless  things 

That  keep  young  hearts  for  ever  glo^ving. 
Vague  wishes,  fond  imaginings, 

Love-dreams,  as  yet  no  object  knowing — 
Light,  winged  hopes,  that  come  when  bid, 

And  rainbow  joys  that  end  in  weeping ; 
And  passions,  among  pure  thoughts  hid. 

Like  serpents  under  flowerets  sleeping : — 
'Mong  all  these  feelings — felt  where'er 
Young  hearts  are  beating — I  saw  there 
Proud  thoughts,  aspuings  high — beyond 
Whate'er  yet  dwelt  in  soul  so  fond — 
Glimpses  of  glory,  far  away 

Into  the  bright,  vague  future  given ; 
And  fancies,  free  and  grand,  whose  play, 

Ldce  that  of  ewglets,  is  near  heaven ! 
With  this,  too — what  a  soul  and  heart 
To  fall  beneath  the  tempter's  art ! — 
A  zeal  for  knowledge,  such  as  ne'er 
Enshrined  itself  in  form  so  fair. 
Since  that  first,  fatal  hour,  when  Eve, 

With  every  fruit  of  Eden  bless'd. 
Save  one  alone — rather  than  leave 

That  one  um-each'd,  lost  all  the  rest. 

It  was  in  dreams  that  first  I  stole 

With  gentle  mystery  o'er  her  mind — 
In  that  rich  twilight  of  the  soul, 

When  reason's  beam,  half  liid  behind 
The  clouds  of  sleep,  obscurely  gilds 
Eacli  shadowy  shape  the. Fancy  builds — 
'Twas  then,  by  that  soft  light,  I  brought 

Vague,  glimmering  visions  to  her  view; — 
Catches  of  radiance,  lost  when  caught. 
Bright  labyrinths,  that  led  to  naught. 

And  vistas,  with  no  pathway  through; — 
Dwellings  of  bliss,  that  opening  slione. 

Then  closed,  dissolved,  and  left  no  trace — 
All  that,  in  short,  could  tempt  Hope  on, 

But  give  her  wing  no  resting-place ; 
Myself  the  while,  with  brow,  as  yet. 
Pure  as  the  young  moon's  coronet. 
Through  every  dream  sliU  in  her  sight. 

Til'  enchanter  of  cacli  mocking  scene, 
Wlio  gave  the  hijpe,  then  brought  the  bligJit, 
Who  said, '  Behold  yon  world  of  light,' 

Then  sudden  dropp'd  a  veil  between ! 

At  length,  when  I  perceived  each  thought, 
Waking  or  sleeping,  fix'd  on  naught 


But  these  illusive  scenes,  and  me — 
The  phantom,  who  thus  came  and  went 
In  half  revealments  only  meant 

To  madden  curiosity — 
When  by  such  various  arts  I  found 
Her  fancy  to  its  utmost  wound. 
One  night — 'twas  in  a  holy  spot, 
Wliicli  she  for  prayer  had  chosen — a  grot 
Of  purest  marble,  built  below 
Her  garden  beds,  through  which  a  glow 
From  lamps  invisible  then  stole. 

Brightly  pervading  all  the  place — 
Like  that  mysterious  light  the  soul, 

Itself  unseen,  sheds  through  the  face- 
There,  .at  her  altar,  wliile  she  knelt. 
And  all  that  woman  ever  felt. 

When  God  and  man  both  claimed  her  sighs- 
Every  warm  thought,  that  ever  dwelt. 

Like  summer  clouds,  'twixt  earth  and  skies. 

Too  pure  to  fall,  too  gross  to  rise. 

Spoke  in  her  gestures,  tones,  and  eyes — 
Then,  as  the  mystic  light's  soft  ray 
Grew  softer  still,  as  though  its  ray 
Was  breathed  from  her,  I  heard  lier  say; — 

'  Oh  idol  of  my  dre.ams !  whate'er 

'  Thy  nature  be — human,  divine, 
'  Or  but  half  hcav'nly — still  too  fair, 

'  Too  heavenly  to  be  ever  mine ! 

'  Wonderful  Spirit,  who  dost  make 

'  Slumber  so  lovely  tli.at  it  seems 
'  No  longer  life  to  live  awake, 

'  Since  heaven  itself  descends  in  di-eam,s, 

'  Why  do  I  ever  lose  thee  1  why 

'  When  on  thy  realms  and  thee  I  g.aze 

'  Still  drops  that  veil,  which  I  could  die, 
'  Oh  gladly,  but  one  hour  to  raise ' 

'  Long  ore  such  miracles  as  thou 

'  And  thine  came  o'er  my  thoughts,  a  thirst 
'  For  light  was  in  this  soul,  which  now 

'  Thy  looks  have  into  passion  nursed. 

'  There's  notliing  tright  above,  below, 
'  In  sky — earth — ocean,  th.at  this  breast 

'  Doth  not  intensely  burn  to  know, 
'  And  thee,  thee,  thee,  o'er  all  the  rest ! 

'  Then  come,  oh  Spu-it,  from  behind 
'  The  curtains  of  thy  radiant  home, 

'  If  thou  wouldst  be  as  angel  shrmed, 
'Or  loved  and  'lasp'J  as  mortal,  como! 


u 


MOORE'S  WOEKS 


'  Bring  all  thy  dazzling  wonders  here, 
'  That  I  may,  waking,  know  and  see ; 

'  Or  waft  me  hence  to  thy  own  sphere, 
' Thy  heaven,  or — ay,  c\m  that  with  thee ! 

'  Demon  or  God,  who  hold'st  tlie  book 
'  Of  knowledge  spread  beneath  tliine  eye, 

'  Give  me,  mth  thee,  but  one  bright  look 
'  Into  its  leaves,  and  let  me  die ! 

'  By  those  ethereal  wings,  whose  way 
'  Lies  through  an  element,  so  fraught 

'  With  living  Mind,  that,  as  they  play, 
'  Their  every  movement  is  a  thought ! 

'  By  that  bright,  wreathed  hair,  between 
'  Whose  sumiy  clusters  the  sweet  wind 

'Of  Paradise  so  late  hath  been, 
'  And  left  its  fragrant  soul  behind  ! 

'  By  those  iuipassiond  eyes,  that  melt 
'  Tlieir  liglit  into  the  inmost  heart ; 

'Like  sunset  in  tlie  waters,  felt 

'  As  molten  fire  through  every  part — 

I  do  implore  thee,  oli  most  bright 

'  And  worsliipp'd  Spirit,  shine  but  o'er 
'My  waking,  wondering  eyes  this  night, 
'  This  one  blest  niglit — I  ask  no  more  I' 

Exhausted,  breathless,  as  she  said 
ThcHC  burning  words,  her  languid  licad 
Upon  the  altiir's  steps  she  cast, 
As  if  that  brain-throb  were  its  last — 

Till,  BtJirtlcd  by  the  breathing,  nigh. 
Of  lips,  that  echoed  back  lier  sigh. 
Sudden  her  brow  again  she  raised ; 

And  there,  just  liglited  on  tlie  slu-ine, 
Belield  me — not  as  I  had  blazed 

Around  her,  full  of  light  divine. 
In  her  late  dreams,  but  soflcn'd  down 
Into  more  mortjil  grace  ; — my  crown 
Of  (lowers,  too  radiant  for  this  worlil, 

I/'fl  hanging  on  yon  starry  sleep  ; 
My  wingH  sliut  up,  like  banners  furl'd, 

When  I'eacc  hath  put  their  pomp  to  sleep; 

Or  like  autumnal  clouds,  that  keep 
'"heir  lightnings  Hlicalh'd,  mtlier  than  mar 
Till!  dawning  hour  of  some  young  star; 
And  nothing  lefl,  but  what  bosccm'd 

Til'  niTcssihlc,  llidugh  gloriouH  mate 
( )r  mortal  woman — whose  eyes  beam'd 

Back  niion  hern,  ns  patstonate  ; 
WlioKC  ready  heart  b  -ought  flame  for  flame, 
WlioM?  iiin.  whoHp  midnoHs  was  the  Hamc; 


And  whose  soul  lost,  in  that  one  hour. 
For  her  and  for  her  love — oh  more 

Of  heavens  light  than  ev*!!  the  power 
Of  heav'n  itself  could  now  restore  ! 


And  yet,  that  liour  !"- 


The  Spij-it  here 

Stopped  in  liis  utterance,  as  if  woids 
Gave  way  beneath  the  wild  career 

Of  Ills  then  rushing  thoughts — like  chords, 
Midway  in  some  entliusiast's  song. 
Breaking  beneath  a  toucli  too  strong; 
While  the  clench'd  hand  upon  the  brow 
Told  how  remembrance  tlirobb'd  there  now ! 
But  soon  'twas  o'er — that  casual  blaze 
From  the  sunk  fire  of  other  days — 
That  relic  of  a  flame,  whose  burnmg 

Had  been  too  fierce  to  be  relumed 
Soon  pass'd  away,  and  tlie  youth,  turning 

To  his  bright  listeners,  thus  resumed : — 

"  Days,  months  elapsed,  and,  though  what  niott 

On  eartli  I  sigh'd  for  was  mine,  all — 
Yet — was  I  happy?     God,  thou  know'st, 
Ilowe'er  they  smile,  and  feign,  and  boast, 

What  happiness  is  theirs,  who  fall ! 
'Twas  bitterest  anguish — made  more  keen 
Ev'n  by  the  love,  the  bliss,  between 
WHiose  throbs  it  came,  like  gleams  of  lioil 

In  agonizing  cross-light  given 
Athwart  the  glimpses,  lliey  who  dwell 

In  purgatory"  catch  of  heaven  ! 
The  only  feeling  that  to  me 

Seem'd  joy — or  rather  my  sole  rest 
From  aching  misery — was  to  see 

My  young,  prmul,  lilnoniiiig  Iji  is  blest 
She,  the  fair  i'oniilain  of  all  ill 

To  my  lost  soul — whom  yet  its  tliirst 
Fervidly  panted  after  still. 

And  found  the  charm  fresh  as  at  first^ — 
To  see  hir  happy — to  reflect 

Whatever  beams  still  round  iiu'  ]ila\'d 
Of  former  pride,  of  glory  wreck'd, 

On  her,  my  Moon,  whoso  light  I  made, 

And  whose  soul  worsliipp'd  even  my  sliaie — 
'i'liis  was,  I  own,  cnjoynn^nt — this 
,My  sole,  last  lingering  glimpse  of  bliss. 
And  proud  she  was,  fair  creaOirc! — ]iroud, 

Beyond  what  ev'n  most  (|ueoiily  stirs 
In  woman's  heart,  nor  woulil  have  biiw'd 

That  beautiful  young  brow  of  hers 
To  aught  beneath  the  Firsi  above. 
So  hiijh  Hhe  dccm'il  her  Cherub's  love  I 


TUE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


16 


Thtn,  loo,  Uiat  passion,  hourly  growing 

Stronger  and  stronger — to  wliieli  even 
Her  love,  at  times,  gave  way — of  linowiiig 

Every  thing  strange  in  earth  and  lieaven; 
Not  only  all  that,  full  reveal'd, 

Th'  eternal  Alla  loves  to  show, 
But  all  that  He  hath  v/isely  seal'd 

In  darkness,  for  man  not  to  know — 
Ev'n  this  desire,  alas,  ill-starr'd 

And  fatal  as  it  was,  I  sought 
To  feed  each  minute,  and  unbarr'd 

Such  realms  of  wonder  on  her  thought, 
As  ne'er,  till  then,  had  let  their  light 
Escape  on  any  mortal's  sight ! 
In  the  deep  earth — beneath  tlie  sea — 

Through  caves  of  fire — through  wilds  of  air — 
Wlierever  sleeping  Jlystery 

Had  spread  her  curtain,  we  were  there — 
Love  still  beside  us,  as  we  went. 
At  home  in  each  new  element. 

And  sure  of  worship  everywhere ! 

Then  first  was  Nature  taught  to  lay 

The  wealth  of  all  her  kingdoms  down 
At  woman's  worshipp'd  feet,  and  say, 

'  Bright  creature,  this  is  all  thine  own  !' 
Then  first  wore  diamonds,  from  the  night^' 
Of  earth's  deep  centre  brought  to  light, 
And  made  to  grace  the  conquering  way 
Of  p-oud  young  beauty  with  their  ray. 

Tlien,  too,  the  pearl  from  out  its  shell 

Unsightly,  in  the  sunless  sea, 
(As  'twere  a  spirit,  forced  to  dwell 

In  form  unlovely,)  was  set  free, 
And  round  the  neck  of  woman  throw 
A  light  it  lent  and  borrow'd  too. 
For  never  did  this  maid — whate'er 

Th'  ambition  of  the  hour — forget 
Her  sex's  pride  ia  being  fair ; 
Nor  that  adornment,  tasteful,  rare. 
Which  makes  the  mighty  m.agnet,  set 
In  Woman's  form,  more  mighty  yet. 
Nor  was  there  aught  within  the  range 

Of  my  swift  wing  in  sea  or  air. 
Of  beautiful,  or  grand,  or  strange. 
That,  quickly  as  her  msh  could  ch.ange, 

I  did  not  seek,  with  such  fond  care, 
That  when  I've  seen  her  look  above 

At  some  bright  star  admiringly, 
I've  said, '  Nay,  look  not  there,  my  love, 

'  Alas,  I  cannot  give  it  thee !' " 

Hut  not  .alone  the  wonders  found 
Through  Nature's  realm — th'  unveilM,  material, 


Visible  glories,  that  abound, 

Tlirough  all  her  vjsst,  onclianted  ground-  - 

But  wliatsoe'er  unseen,  ethereal, 
Dwells  far  away  from  human  sense, 
Wrapp'd  in  its  own  intelligence — 
The  mystery  of  that  Fountain-head, 

From  which  all  vital  spirit  runs. 
All  breath  of  Life,  where'er  'tis  spread 

Through  men  or  angels,  flowers  or  sun»— 
The  workings  of  th'  Almighty  Jlind, 
Wheti  first  o'er  Cliaos  he  design'd 
Tlie  outlines  of  this  world;  and  through 

That  depth  of  d.arknoss, — Iil(e  the  bow, 
Call'd  out  of  rain-clouds,  hue  by  hue" — 

Saw  the  grand,  gradual  picture  grow ; — 
The  covenant  with  human  kind 

By  Alla  made"" — the  chains  of  Fate 
He  round  himself  and  them  hath  twined. 

Till  his  high  task  he  consummate ; — 

Till  good  from  evil,  love  from  Iiato, 
Shall  be  work'd  out  through  sin  and  pain. 
And  Fate  shall  loose  her  iron  chain. 
And  all  be  free,  be  bright  again ! 

Such  were  the  deep-drawn  mysteries, 

And  some,  ev'n  more  obscure,  profound, 
And  wilderlng  to  the  mind  than  these, 

Wliich — far  as  woman's  thought  could  sitind, 
Or  a  fall'n,  outl.aw'd  spirit  reach — 
She  d.arcd  to  learn,  and  I  to  te.aeh. 
Till — fill'd  with  such  unearthly  lore, 

And  mingling  the  pure  light  it  brings 
With  much  that  fancy  h.ad,  before. 

Shed  in  fiilse,  tinted  glimmerings — 
Th'  enthusiast  girl  spoke  out,  as  one 

Inspired,  among  her  own  dark  race, 
Wlio  from  their  ancient  shrines  would  run, 
Lea^-ing  their  lioly  rites  inidone. 

To  g.aze  upon  her  holier  face. 
And,  though  but  wild  tlie  things  she  spoke, 
Yet,  'mid  that  play  of  error's  smoke 

Into  fair  shapes  by  fancy  curl'd, 
Some  gle.ams  of  pure  religion  broke — 
Glimpses,  thiit  liave  not  yet  awoke, 

But  startled  the  still  dreaming  world ! 
Oh,  many  a  truth,  remote,  sublime, 

Wliich  Hcav'n  would  from  the  minds  of  lucn 
Have  kept  conce.al'd,  till  its  own  time. 

Stole  out  in  these  revealments  then — 
Revealments  dim,  that  h.ave  forerun. 
By  ages,  the  gre.at,  Sealing  One !" 
Like  that  imperfect  dawni,  or  light'' 

Escaping  from  the  Zodiac's  signs, 
Wliich  makes  the  doubtful  east  half  brijjht, 

Before  the  re.Vl  morning  shines! 


.6 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Thus  did  some  moons  of  bliss  go  by — 

Of  bliss  to  her,  who  saw  but  love 
And  knowledge  throughout  earth  and  sky 
To  whose  enamor'd  soul  and  eye, 
I  seem'd — as  is  the  sun  on  high — 

The  light  of  all  below,  above, 
The  spirit  of  sen,  and  land,  and  air 
WTiose  influence,  felt  everywhere. 
Spread  from  its  centre,  her  own  heart, 
Ev'n  to  the  world's  extremest  part ; 
Wliile  through  that  world  her  reinless  tnind 

Ilad  now  career'd  so  fost  and  far. 
That  earth  itself  seem'd  left  beliind. 
And  her  proud  fancy,  unconfined, 

Already  saw  Heaven's  gates  ajar  I 

Happy  eniliusiast!  still,  oh,  still, 
Spite  of  my  own  heart's  mortal  chill. 
Spite  of  that  double-fronted  sorrow, 

Which  looks  at  once  before  and  back. 
Beholds  the  yesterday,  the  morrow. 

And  sees  both  comfortless,  both  black — 
Spite  of  all  this,  I  could  have  still 
In  her  delight  forgot  all  ill ; 
Or,  if  paiu  would  not  bo  forgot, 
At  least  have  borne  and  murmur'd  not. 
When  thoughts  of  an  offended  heaven, 

«jf  sinfuliicHs,  which  I — ev'n  I, 
While  down  its  steep  moat  headlong  driven— 
Well  knew  could  never  be  forgiven, 

Came  o'er  me  with  an  agony 
Beyond  all  reach  of  mortal  woe — 
A  torture  kept  for  those  who  know. 
Know  every  thing,  and — worst  of  all — 
Know  and  love  Virtue  while  tliey  fall ! 
Bven  then,  her  presence  had  the  power 

To  soothe,  to  warm — nay,  even  to  bless — 
If  ever  bliss  could  graft  its  flower 
On  stem  so  full  of  bitterness — 
Rven  then  her  glorious  smile  to  mo 

Brought  warmth  and  radiance,  if  not  balm 
l.lkc  moonlight  o'er  a  troubled  sea. 
Brightening  the  storm  it  cannot  calm. 


Wl,  l<ii),  when  that  dishejirtening  fear, 

'Vhich  all  who  love,  beneath  yon  sky, 
Keel,  when  they  gaze  on  wliM  is  dear — 

The  dreadful  Ihoughf,  that  it  must  die! 
Tlial  dcnolaling  thought,  which  comcH 
Into  men's  happiest  hours  and  homes; 
WhoHO  melancholy  boding  flings 
Oenlh'.i  sh.idow  o'er  the  brightest  things, 
iSirklluH  th(!  infant's  bloom,  and  Hpre.ids 
Th"  ({iiivo  l>cneath  voung  lovers'  licnds! 


This  fear,  so  sad  to  all — to  me 

Jlost  full  of  sadness,  from  th-s  thought 
That  I  must  still  live  on,"  when  she 
Would,  like  the  snow  that  on  the  sea 

Fell  yesterday,  in  vain  be  souj;kt ; 
That  heaven  to  me  this  final  seal 

Of  all  earth's  sorrow  would  deny, 
And  I  eternally  must  feel 

The  death-pang,  without  power  to  die  1 
Ev'n  this,  her  fond  endearments — fond 
As  ever  chcrish'd  the  sweet  bond 
'Twixt  heart  and  heart — could  chrjm  away, 
Before  her  look  no  clouds  would  s'ay. 
Or,  if  they  did,  their  gloom  war  gope, 
Tlieir  darkness  put  a  glory  on  ! 
But  'tis  not,  "tis  not  for  the  wrong. 
The  guilty,  to  be  happy  long; 
And  she,  too,  now,  had  sunk  within 
The  sliadow  of  her  tsmpter's  sin. 
Too  deep  for  ev'n  Omnipotence 
To  snatcli  the  fated  victhn  thence ! 

Listen,  and,  if  a  tear  there  be 
Left  in  your  hearts,  weep  it  for  me. 

'Twas  on  the  evening  of  a  day. 
Which  we  in  love  had  dreamt  away ; 
In  that  same  garden,  wlu're — the  pride 
Of  seraph  s])lendor  laid  aside. 
And  tliose  wings  fnrl'd,  wliose  open  light 
For  mortal  gaze  wore  else  too  bright — 
I  first  had  stood  before  her  sight. 
And  found  myself — oh,  ecstasy. 

Which  even  in  pain  I  ne'er  forgot — 
Worsliipp'd  as  only  God  should  be, 

And  loved  as  never  man  was  yet ! 
In  that  same  garden  were  we  now, 

Thoughtfully  side  by  side  reclining, 
Ilor  eyes  turn'd  iipward,  and  her  brow 

With  its  own  silent  fandcs  shimng. 

It  was  an  evening  bright  and  still 

As  ever  blush'd  on  wave  or  bower. 
Smiling  from  heaven,  as  if  n.aught  ill 

Could  hapjien  in  so  sweet  an  hour. 
Yet,  I  remember,  both  grc>v  sad 

In  looking  at  that  light — even  she, 
Of  heart  ho  fresh,  and  brow  so  glad. 

Felt  the  still  hour's  solemnity. 
And  tliouglit  she  .saw,  in  that  repose, 

Tiie  dealli-honr  not  alone  of  light. 
But  of  this  whole  fair  worhl — llie  eloao 

Of  all  things  beautiful  and  bright — 
The  last,  grand  sunset,  in  whoso  ray 
Nature  herself  died  calm  away! 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


17 


At  length,  as  Uiough  some  livelier  thought 
Had  suddenly  ho:  fancy  caught, 
She  turn'd  upon  me  her  dark  eyes, 

Dilated  into  that  full  shape 
They  took  in  joy,  reproach,  surprise. 

As  'twere  to  let  more  soul  escape. 
And,  playfully  as  on  my  head 
Iler  wliite  hand  rested,  smiled  and  said : — 

'  1  had,  last  night,  a  dream  of  thee, 
'  Resembling  those  oivme  ones,  given, 

'  Like  preludes  to  sweet  minstrelsy, 

'  Before  tliou  cam'st,  thyself  from  heaven. 

'  The  same  rich  wreatli  was  on  thy  brow, 

'  Dazzling  as  if  of  starlight  made ; 
'  And  these  wings,  lying  darkly  now, 

'  Lilie  meteors  round  thee  flash'd  and  play'd. 

'  Tliou  stood'st  all  bright,  as  in  those  di-e.ams, 

'  As  if  just  wafted  from  above ; 
'  Mingling  earth's  warmth  mth  heaven's  beams, 

'  A  creature  to  adore  and  love. 

'  Sudden  I  felt  thee  draw  me  near 

'  To  thy  pure  Iieart,  where,  fondly  placed, 
I  seem'd  within  the  atmosphere 
'  Of  that  exlialiiig  light  embraced ; 

'  And  felt,  methought,  th'  ethereal  flamo 
'  Pass  from  thy  purer  soul  to  mine ; 

'  Till — oh,  too  blissful — I  became, 
'  liike  tliee,  all  spirit,  all  divine ! 

'  Say,  why  did  dream  so  bless'd  come  o'er  me, 

'  If,  now  I  wake,  'tis  f;idod,  gone  ? 
'  When  will  my  Cherub  shine  before  me 

'  Thus  ratliant,  as  in  heaven  he  shone  ? 

'  When  shall  I,  waking,  be  allow'd 
'  To  gaze  upon  those  perfect  charms, 

'And  clasp  thee  once,  without  a  cloud, 
'  A  cliill  of  earth,  within  these  arms  ? 

'  Oh  what  a  pride  to  say,  this,  this 

'  Is  my  own  Angel — all  divine, 
'  And  pure,  and  dazzling  as  he  is, 

'  And  fresh  from  heaven — he's  mine,  he's  mine ! 

'  Think'st  thou,  were  Lilis  iii  tliy  plac*, 

'  A  creature  of  yon  lofty  skies, 
'  She  would  have  hid  one  single  grace, 

'  Qui!  glory  from  her  lover's  eyes  1 

•  No,  no — then,  if  thou  lov'st  like  me, 
'Shiiio  out,  young  Spirit,  in  the  blaze 


'Of  thy  most  proud  divinity, 

'  Nor  think  thou'lt  wound  this  mortal  gazo. 

'  Too  long  and  oft  I've  look'd  upon 

'  Those  ardent  eves,  intense  ev'n  thus — 

'Too  near  the  stars  tlicmselvcs  have  gone, 
'  To  fo:u-  ausrlit  grand  or  luminous. 


'  Then  doubt  me  not — oli,  who  can  say 
'  But  that  this  dream  may  yet  come  true, 

'  And  my  bless'd  spirit  drink  thy  ray, 
'  Till  it  becomes  all  heavenly  too  ? 

'  Let  me  this  once  but  feel  the  flame 
'  Of  those  spread  wings,  the  very  pride 

'  Will  change  my  nature,  and  this  frame 
'  By  the  mere  touch  be  deified !' 

Thus  spoke  the  maid,  as  one,  not  used 
To  be  by  earth  or  heaven  refused — 
As  one,  who  knew  her  influence  o'er 

All  creatures,  whatsoe'er  they  were, 
And,  though  to  heaven  she  could  not  soar, 

At  least  would  bring  down  heaven  to  her. 
Little  did  she,  alas,  or  1 — 

Ev'n  1,  whose  soul,  but  half-way  yet 
Immerged  in  sin's  obscurity 
Was  as  the  earth  whereon  we  lie, 

O'er  half  whose  disk  the  sun  is  set — 
Little  did  we  foresee  the  fate, 

The  dreadful — how  can  it  be  told  ? 
Such  p.ain,  sucli  anguish  to  relate 

Is  o'er  again  to  feel,  behold ! 
But,  charged  as  'tis,  my  heart  must  spe.ik 
Its  sorrow  out,  or  it  will  break  ! 

Some  dark  misgi\-ings  had,  1  own, 

Pass'd  for  a  moment  through  my  breast- 
Fears  of  some  d.inger,  vague,  unknown, 
To  one,  oi'  both — something  unbless'd 
To  h.appen  from  tliis  proud  request. 
But  soon  these  boding  fancies  fled; 
Nor  saw  I  aught  that  could  forbid 
My  full  revealment,  save  the  dread 
Of  that  first  dazzle,  when,  unhid, 
Such  light  should  burst  upon  a  lid 
Ne'er  tried  in  heaven ; — and  even  this  glare 
She  might,  by  love's  own  nursing  care, 
Be,  like  young  eagles,  taught  to  bear. 
For  well  I  knew,  the  lustre  shed 
From  Cherub  wings,  when  proudliest  spread, 
Was,  in  its  nature,  lambent,  pure. 

And  iimocent  as  is  the  light 
The  glow-worm  Iiangs  out  to  allure 
Her  mate  to  lier  green  bower  :u  ni^ht 


18 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Oft  had  I,  in  tlie  mid-air,  swept 

Through  clouds  in  wliich  the  lightning  slept, 

As  in  its  lair,  ready  to  spring, 

Yet  waked  it  not— though  from  m)'  wing 

A  thousand  sparks  fell  glittering ! 

Oft  too  when  round  me  from  above 

Tne  fea,ther"d  snow,  in  all  its  whiteness. 
Fell  like  the  moultings  of  heaven's  Dove,"* — 

So  harmless,  though  so  full  of  brightness. 
Was  my  brow's  wTealli,  that  it  would  shake 
From  off  its  flowers  each  downy  flake 
As  delicate,  unmelted,  fair. 
And  cool  as  tliey  liad  lighted  there. 

Nay,  ev'n  with  Lilis — had  I  not 

Around  her  sleep  all  radiant  beam'd, 
Hung  o'er  her  slumbers,  nor  forgot 

To  kiss  her  eyelids,  as  she  dream'd  ? 
And  yet,  at  morn,  from  that  repose. 

Had  she  not  waked,  unscathed  and  bright. 
As  doth  tlie  pure,  unconscious  rose. 

Though  by  the  fire-fly  kiss'd  all  night  ?     . 

Thus  having — as,  alas,  deceived 
By  my  sin's  blindness,  I  believed — 
No  cause  for  dread,  and  those  dark  eyes 

Now  fix'd  upon  me,  eagerly 
As  though  til'  unlocking  of  tlie  skies 

Then  waited  but  a  sign  from  mc — 
How  could  I  pause  ?  how  ev'n  let  fall 

A  word,  a  whisper  that  could  stir 
In  her  proud  heart  a  doubt,  that  all 

I  brought  from  heaven  belonged  to  her. 

Slow  from  her  side  I  rose,  while  she 

Arose,  too,  mutely,  tremblingly. 

But  not  with  fear — all  hope,  and  pride. 

She  waited  for  the  awful  boon, 
Ijke  priestesses,  at  eventide, 

Watching  the  rise  of  the  full  moon, 
Whose  light,  when  once  its  orb  hath  shone, 
'Twill  madden  them  to  look  upon! 

Of  all  my  glories,  lliu  bright  crown, 
\Vhicli,  when  I  last  from  heaven  came  down. 
Was  left  behind  me,  in  yon  star 
Tlijit  HJiine'i  from  out  those  clomls  afar, — 
Wliere,  relic  wul,  'lis  tre.isurcd  yet. 
The  downfallen  anjjel'H  eoroncl  I — 
'      f>f  all  my  gloricH,  this  alone 

Wmt  wanting: — but  Ih'  illuniincd  brow, 
Tlie  (luii-liriglil  locks,  the  eyes  Ihnt  now 
Had  Iovo'm  »pcll  nddnl  In  their  own, 
And  pour'd  a  llirlit  till  then  iinknou-n; — 
Tir  unfolded  win({ii,  Ihnt,  in  their  play, 


Shed  sparkles  bright  as  Alla's  throne ; 

All  I  could  bring  nf  heaven's  array, 
Of  that  rich  panoply  of  ch.irms 

A  Cherub  moves  in,  on  the  day 
Of  his  best  pomp,  I  now  put  on ; 
And,  proud  that  in  her  eyes  I  shone 

Thus  glorious,  glided  to  her  arms; 
\\niich  still  (though,  .at  a  siglit  so  splendid. 

Her  dazzled  brow  had,  instantly, 
Sunk  on  her  breast)  were  wide  extended 

To  clasp  the  form  she  durst  not  see !"' 
Great  Heaven  !  how  could  thy  vengeance  light 
So  bitterly  on  one  so  bright  ? 
How  could  the  hand,  that  gave  such  charms, 
Blast  them  again,  in  love's  own  arms  1 

Scarce  li-ad  I  touch'd  her  shrinking  frame 

When — oh  most  horrible ! — I  felt 
Thiit  every  spark  of  that  pure  flame — 

Pure,  while  among  the  stars  I  dwelt — 
Was  now,  by  my  transgression,  turn'd 
Into  gross,  earthly  fire,  whieli  hurn'd, 
Burn'd  all  it  touch'd,  as  fast  as  eye 

Could  follow  the  fierce,  ravening  flashes ; 
Till  there— oh  God,  I  still  ask  why 
Such  doom  was  hers? — I  saw  her  lie 

Bl.ackeniug  ^\ithiii  my  .arms  to  ashes ! 
That  brow,  a  glory  but  to  see — 

Those  lips,  wliose  touch  was  wliaf  the  first 
Fresh  cup  of  immortality 

Is  to  a  new-made  angel's  thirst ! 
Those  clasping  arms,  within  whoso  round — 
My  heart's  horizon — the  whole  bound 
Of  its  hope,  prospect,  heaven  was  found  I 
Wliicli,  even  in  this  dread  moment,  fond 

As  when  they  first  were  round  ir.e  cast, 
Loosed  not  hi  death  the  fatal  bond. 

But,  burning,  held  me  to  the  last ! 
All,  all,  that,  but  that  morn,  had  scem'd 
As  if  Love's  self  there  breathed  and  beaiu'd. 
Now,  parch'd  and  black,  before  me  lay. 
Withering  in  agony  away  : 
And  mine,  oh  misery !  niiue  the  flame, 
From  which  this  desolation  came; — 
I,  the  cursed  s])irit,  whose  caress 
Had  blasted  all  lliat  loveline.is! 

'Twas  niaildeniiig  I — but  now  hear  even  worse- 
Had  doati,,  dcalh  only,  been  the  curse 
I  brought  upon  her — had  the  doom 
But  ended  here,  when  her  young  bloom 
Ijiy  in  the  dust — and  did  the  spirit 
No  part  of  that  fell  curse  inherit, 
'Twere  not  ho  dreadful — but,  come  near — 
Too  HJiocking  'lis  for  earth  to  hear — 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


19 


Just  when  her  eyes,  in  fading,  took 
Their  last,  keen,  agonized  farewell, 

And  look'd  in  mine  with — oh,  that  look ! 
Great  vengeful  Power,  whate'er  the  liel) 

Thou  mayst  to  human  souls  assign. 

The  memory  of  that  look  is  mmo  ! — 

In  her  last  struggle,  on  my  brow 

Her  ashy  lips  a  kiss  impress'd, 
So  withering  ! — I  feel  it  now — 

'Twas  fii'e — but  fire,  ev'n  more  unbless'd 
Than  was  my  own,  and  like  that  flame. 
The  angels  shudder  but  to  name. 
Hell's  everlasting  element! 

Deep,  deep  it  pierced  into  my  brain, 
Madd'ning  and  torturing  as  it  went ; 

And  here — mark  here,  the  brand,  the  stain 
It  left  upon  my  front — burnt  in 
By  that  last  kiss  of  love  and  sin — 
A  brand,  which  all  the  pomp  and  pride 
Of  a  fallen  Spirit  cannot  hide ! 

But  is  it  thus,  dread  Providence — 

Can  it,  indeed,  be  thus,  that  she, 
Who,  (but  for  one  proud,  fond  offence,) 

Had  honor'd  heaven  itself,  should  be 
Now  doom'd — I  cannot  speak  it — no, 
Merciful  Alla  !  His  not  so — 
Never  could  lips  divine  have  said 
The  fiat  of  a  fate  so  dread. 
And  yet,  that  look — so  deeply  fraught 

With  more  than  anguish,  with  despair — 
That  new,  fierce  fire,  resembling  naught 

In  heaven  or  earth — this  scorch  I  bear  ! — 

Oh — for  the  first  time  that  these  knees 

Have  bent  before  thee  since  my  fall. 
Great  Power,  if  ever  thy  decrees 

Thou  couldst  for  prayer  like  mine  recall, 
Pardon  that  spirit,  and  on  me. 

On  me,  who  taught  her  pride  fo  err, 
Shed  out  each  drop  of  agony 

Thy  burning  vial  keeps  for  her  ! 
See,  too,  where  low  beside  me  kneel 

Two  other  outcasts,  who,  though  gone 
And  lost  themselves,  yet  dare  to  feel 

And  pray  for  that  poor  mortal  one. 
Alas,  too  well,  too  well  they  know 
The  pain,  the  penitence,  the  woe 
That  Passion  brings  upon  the  best. 
The  wisest,  and  the  loveliest. — 
Oh,  who  is  to  be  saved,  Lf  such 

Bright,  erring  souls  are  not  forgiven ; 
So  loath  tliey  wander,  and  so  much 

Tlioir  very  wand'rings  lean  towards  heaven  ! 


Again,  I  cry,  Just  Power,  transfer 
That  creature's  sufferings  all  to  me — 
Mine,  mine  the  guilt,  the  torment  lie, 

To  save  one  minute's  pain  to  her. 
Let  mine  last  all  eternity  !" 

He  paused,  and  to  tlie  earth  bent  down 

His  throbbing  head ;  Afhile  they,  who  ivM 
That  agony  as  'twere  their  own. 

Those  angel  youths,  beside  him  knell, 
And,  m  the  night's  still  silence  there, 
Wlnle  mournfully  each  wand'ring  air 
Play'd  in  tliose  plumes,  that  never  more 
To  their  lost  home  in  heaven  must  soar, 
Breathed  inwardly  the  voiceless  pi'ayer, 
Unheard  by  all  but  Mercy's  car — 
And  which  if  Jlercy  did  not  hear. 
Oh,  God  would  not  be  what  tliis  bright 

And  glorious  universe  of  His, 
This  world  of  beauty,  goodness,  light, 

And  endless  love,  proclaims  He  is  ! 

Not  long  they  knelt,  when,  from  a  wood 
That  crown'd  that  airy  solitude, 
They  heard  a  low,  uncertain  sound, 
As  from  a  lute,  that  just  had  found 
Some  happy  tlieme,  and  murmur'd  round 
The  new-born  fancy,  with  fond  tone. 
Scarce  thinking  aught  so  sweet  Its  own  1 
Till  soon  a  voice,  that  match'd  as  well 

That  gentle  instrument,  as  suits 
The  sea-air  to  an  ocean-shell, 

(So  kin  its  spirit  to  the  lute's,) 
Tremblingly  follow'd  the  soft  strain. 
Interpreting  its  joy,  its  pain. 

And  lending  the  light  wings  of  words 
To  many  a  thought,  that  else  Ijad  lain 

Unfledged  and  mute  among  the  chords. 

All  started  at  the  sound — but  chief 

The  third  young  Angel,  in  whose  face, 
Though  faded  lilce  the  others,  giief 

Had  left  a  gentler,  holier  trace  ; 
As  if,  even  yet,  through  pain  and  ill, 
Hope  had  not  fled  him — as  if  still 
Her  precious  pearl,  in  sorrow's  cup, 

Unmelted  at  the  bottom  l.iy. 
To  shine  again,  when,  all  drunk  up. 

The  bitterness  should  pass  away. 
Chiefly  did  he,  though  in  his  eyes 
There  shone  more  pleasure  than  surprise, 
Turn  to  the  wood,  from  whence  that  sound 

Of  solitary  sweetness  broke , 
Then,  listening,  look  delighted  round 

To  his  bright  peers,  whiii  ['....^  .i  spoke 


20 


MOOEE'S  AVOEKS. 


"  Come,  pray  with  me,  my  sernpli  love, 

"  My  angel-lord,  come  pray  w-ith  me  ; 
« In  vain  to-night  my  lip  hath  strove 
"  To  send  one  holy  prayer  above — 
"  The  knee  may  bend,  the  lip  may  move, 

"  But  pray  I  cannot,  without  thee ! 
"  fve  fed  the  altar  in  my  bower 

"  With  droppings  from  the  incense  tree ; 
"  I've  shelter'd  it  from  wind  and  shower, 
••  But  dim  it  bums  the  livelong  hour, 
"  As  if,  like  me,  it  had  no  power 

"  Of  life  or  lustre,  without  thee  ! 

"  A  boat  at  midnight  sent  alone 
"  To  drift  upon  the  moonless  sea, 

"  A  lute,  wliose  leading  chord  is  gone, 

"  A  wounded  bird,  that  lialh  but  one 

"  Imperfect  wing  to  soar  upon, 

"  Are  like  what  I  am,  without  tliee  ! 

"  Then  ne'er,  my  spirit-love,  divide, 

"  In  life  or  death,  thyself  from  me ; 
"  But  when  again,  in  sunny  pride, 
"Thou  walk'st  througii  Eden,  let  me  gUd«, 
"A  prostrate  shadow,  by  thy  side — 
"  Oh  happier  thus  than  without  thee  !" 

The  son"  had  ceased,  when,  from  the  wood 

Which,  sweeping  down  that  airy  height, 
Reacli'd  the  lone  spot  whereon  they  stood — 

There  suddenly  shone  out  a  liglit 
From  a  clear  lamp,  which,  as  it  blazed. 
Across  tlio  brow  of  one,  who  raised 
Its  flame  aloft,  (as  if  to  throw 
The  light  upon  that  group  below,) 
Display'd  two  eyes,  sparkling  between 
The  dusky  leaves,  such  as  arc  seen 
By  fancy  only,  in  those  faces, 

That  haunt  a  poet's  walk  at  even, 
Looking  from  out  their  leafy  places 

Upon  Ills  dreams  of  love  and  heaven, , 
Twius  but  a  mDinent — the  blush,  brought 
O'er  all  her  features  at  the  thought 

Of  being  seen  thus,  late,  alone, 
By  any  but  the  eyes  she  sougirt. 

Had  scarcely  for  an  instant  shone 

Through  the  dark  leaves,  when  she  was  gone- 
Gone,  like  a  meteor  that  o'erhead 
8udd'-nly  shines,  and,  ere  we've  said, 
"  Beliold,  how  beaiiliful !" — "lis  fled. 

Vel,  ere  she  wrnt,  lh<?  words,  "  I  come, 
"  I  come,  my  Nama,"  reiich'd  her  ear, 
In  that  kind  voice,  farailinr,  dear. 


^\^lieh  tells  of  confidence,  of  hoine, — 

Of  habit,  that  hath  drawn  hearts  near. 
Till  they  grow  ojk, — of  ftiitii  sincere, 
And  all  that  Love  most  loves  to  hear ; 
A  music,  breathing  of  the  past. 

The  present,  and  tlie  time  to  be, 
Wliere  Hope  and  Jlcmory,  to  the  last, 

Lengthen  out  life's  true  haimony ! 
Nor  long  did  he,  whom  call  so  kind 
Summon'd  away,  remain  behind ; 
Nor  did  there  need  much  time  to  tell 

^\^lat  they — alas,  more  fall'n  than  he 
From  happiness  and  heaven — knew  well, 

Ilis  gentler  love's  short  history  ! 

Thus  did  it  run — not  as  he  told 

The  tale  himself,  but  as  'tis  graved 
Upon  the  tablets  that,  of  old. 

By  Setu""  were  from  the  deluge  saved. 
All  written  over  with  sublime 

And  sadd'ning  legends  of  th'  uubless'd, 
But  glorious  Spirits  of  tliat  time, 

And  this  young  Angel's  'mong  the  resU 


THIRD  ANGEL'S  STORY. 

Amo.no  the  Spirits,  of  puic  llame, 
That  in  th'  eternal  heavens  abide — 

Circles  of  light,  tliat  from  the  same 
Unclouded  centre  sweeping  wide, 
Carry  its  beams  on  every  side — 

Like  spheres  of  air  that  waft  around 

The  undulations  of  rich  sound, 

Till  the  far-cu-cling  radiance  bo 

Diffused  into  infinity ! 

First  and  immediate  near  the  Throne 

Of  Ali.a,"  as  if  most  his  own, 

'i'lie  Serajihs  stand^" — this  burning  sign 

Traced  on  their  banner,  "  Love  divine  I" 

Their  raidt,  tlieir  honors,  far  abo\e 

Ev'n  those  to  high-brow'd  Cherubs  given, 

Though  knowing  all ; — so  much  doth  love 
Transcend  all  Knowhdgo,  ev'n  in  heaven  I 

'Mong  these  was  /.AKArii  once — .uui  nc  ne 

Fi'er  felt  afl'ection's  holy  lire, 
Or  yeuru'd  towards  th'  Klernal  One, 

With  half  such  longing,  deej)  dcsiio. 
Lovo  was  to  his  iinpiwsiou'd  soul 

Not,  an  with  otliers,  a  mere  p.art 
Of  its  exislenee,  but  the  whole — 

The  very  life  brealli  of  hiM  In-art! 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


21 


Oft,  vvlien  from  Alla's  lifted  brow 

Far  ofT,  beyond  the  ocean's  brim — 

A  lustre  came,  too  brijjlit  to  bear, 

There,  wliere  the  rich  casca/i?  of  day 

And  all  the  seraph  ranks  would  bow. 

Had  o'er  th'  horizon's  golden  rim, 

To  shade  their  dazzled  sight,  nor  dare 

Into  Elysium  roU'd  away ! 

To  look  upon  th'  effulgence  there — 

Of  God  she  sung,  .and  of  the  mild 

Tliis  Spirit's  eyes  would  court  the  blaze, 

Attendant  Jfcrcy,  tli.at  beside 

(Such  pride  he  in  adoring  took,) 

His  .awful  throne  for  ever  smiled. 

And  rather  lose,  in  that  one  gaze, 

Ready,  with  her  white  hand,  to  guide 

'        The  power  of  looking,  than  not  look ! 

Ills  bolts  of  vengeance  to  their  prey — 

Then,  too,  when  angel  voices  sung 

That  she  might  quench  them  on  the  way  I 

The  mercy  of  their  God,  and  strung 

Of  Peace — of  that  Atoning  Love, 

Their  liarps  to  hail,  with  welcome  sweet. 

Upon  whose  star,  shining  above 

That  moment,  watch'd  for  by  all  eyes. 

This  twilight  world  of  hope  and  fear. 

When  some  repentant  sinner's  feet 

The  weeping  eyes  of  Faith  are  fix'd 

First  tqucli'd  the  thresliold  of  the  skies. 

So  fond,  that  with  her  every  tear 

Oh  then  how  clearly  did  the  voice 

The  light  of  that  love-star  is  mix'd ! — • 

Of  Zakaph  above  all  rejoice ! 

All  this  she  sung,  and  such  a  soul 

Love  was  in  ev'ry  buyoant  tone — 

Of  piety  was  in  that  song. 

Such  love,  as  only  could  belong 

Th.at  the  charm'd  Angel,  as  it  stole 

To  the  blest  angels,  and  alone 

Tenderly  to  his  ear,  along 

Could,  ev'n  from  angels,  bring  such  song ! 

Tliose  lulling  w.aters  where  he  Lay, 

Watching  the  d.aylight's  dying  r.ay, 

Alas,  that  it  should  e'er  have  been 
•  In  heav'n  as  'tis  too  often  here, 
Wiere  nothing  fond  or  bright  is  seen, 
But  it  hath  pain  and  peril  near ; — 

Thought  'twas  a  voice  from  out  the  wave, 
An  echo,  th.at  some  se.a-nymph  g.ave 
To  Eden's  distant  harmony. 
Heard  faint  and  sweet  beneath  the  sea ! 

Where  right  and  wrong  so  close  resemble, 
That  what  we  take  for  virtue's  thrill 

Quickly,  however,  to  its  source, 

Is  often  the  first  downward  tremble 

Tracing  that  music's  melting  course, 

Of  the  heart's  balance  unto  ill ; 
Wliere  Love  hath  not  a  shrine  so  pure. 

So  lioly,  but  the  serpent.  Sin, 
In  momenta,  ev'n  the  most  secure. 

Beneath  his  altar  may  glide  in .' 

He  saw,  upon  the  golden  s.and 
Of  the  se.T^shore,  a  maiden  stand. 
Before  whose  feet  th'  expiring  waves 

Flung  their  last  offering  with  a  sigh — 
As,  in  the  East,  exhausted  sl.aves 

Lay  down  the  far-brought  gift,  and  die  — 

And,  while  her  lute  hung  by  lier,  hush'd. 

So  was  it  with  that  Angel — such 

As  if  unequal  to  the  tide 

The  charm,  that  sloped  his  fall  along, 

Of  song,  that  from  her  lips  still  gush'd. 

f.-om  good  to  ill,  from  loving  much. 

She  raised,  like  one  beatified. 

Too  easy  lapse,  to  loving  wrong. — 

Those  eyes,  whose  light  seem'd  rather  givea 

Ev'n  so  that  amorous  Spirit,  bound 

To  be  adored  than  to  a  Aore — 

By  be.auty's  spell,  where'er  'twas  found, 

Such  eyes,  as  m.ay  h.ave  look'd /;-o?n  hea\en, 

From  the  bright  things  above  the  moon 

But  ne'er  were  r.ajsed  to  it  before] 

Down  to  eartii's  beaming  eyes  descendedj 

Till  love  for  the  Creator  soon 

Oh  Love,  Religion,  Music'" — all 

In  passion  for  the  creature  ended. 

Tluat's  left  of  Eden  upon  e.arth — 

The  only  blessings,  since  the  fall 

'Twas  first  at  twilight,  on  the  shore 

Of  our  weak  souls,  that  still  recall 

Of  the  smooth  sea,  he  lieard  the  lute 

A  tr.ace  of  then'  high,  glorious  birth — 

And  voice  of  her  he  loved  steal  o'er 

How  kindred  are  the  dre.ams  you  bring! 

The  silver  w.aters,  that  lay  mute. 

How  Love,  though  unto  earth  so  prone. 

As  loath,  by  even  a  breath,  to  stay 

Delights  to  t.ake  religion's  wing. 

The  pilgrin.age  of  th,at  sweet  Lay, 

When  time  or  gi-ief  hath  stain'd  his  owu 

Wliose  echoes  still  went  on  and  on. 

How  near  to  Love's  beguiling  brink, 

Till  lost  among  tlie  light  tli.it  shone 

Too  oft,  entranced  Religion  lies! 

22 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


\V\'.i\a  Music,  Music  is  tlie  link 

They  both  still  hold  by  to  the  skies, 
The  language  of  their  native  spliere, 
Which  they  had  else  forgotten  here. 

How  then  could  Zaraph  fail  to  feel 
That  moment's  witcheries  ? — one,  so  fair, 

Breatliing  out  music,  that  might  steal 
Heaven  from  itself,  and  rapt  in  prayer 
Th.it  seraphs  might  be  proud  to  share 

(Dh,  he  did  feel  it,  all  too  well— 

With  warmth,  that  far  too  dearly  cost — 

Nor  knew  he,  wlien  at  last  he  fell. 

To  wliich  attraction,  to  wliich  spell. 

Love,  Music,  or  Devotion,  most 

His  soul  in  tliat  sneet  hour  w.is  lost. 

Sweet  was  the  liour,  though  dearly  won. 

And  pure,  as  aught  of  earth  could  be. 
For  then  first  did  the  glorious  sun 

Before  religion's  .iltar  see 
Two  hearts  in  wedlock's  golden  tie 
Self-pledged,  in  love  to  live  and  die. 
Blest  union !  by  tliat  Angel  wove, 

And  worthy  from  such  h.ands  to  come; 
Safe,  sole  asylum,  in  whicli  Love, 
Wlien  fall'n  or  exiled  from  above. 

In  this  dark  world  can  find  a  home. 

And,  though  the  Spirit  had  trausgrcss'd, 
H.id,  from  his  station  'mong  the  bless'd 
Won  down  by  woman's  smile,  allow'd 

Terrestrial  passion  to  breathe  o'er 
The  mirror  of  his  heart,  and  cloud 

God's  image,  there  so  bright  before — 
Vet  never  did  th.at  Power  look  down 

On  error  with  a  brow  s^o  mild  ; 
Never  did  Justice  we.ar  a  frown, 

Through  whic!"  so  gently  Jlercy  smiled. 
For  liumble  was  the.,  '^ve — with  awe 

And  trembling  like  sonr.  '-"asuic  kept. 
That  was  jiot  theirs  by  holy  la\» 
Whose  beauty  with  remorse  they  san 

And  o'er  whose  preciousnesa  tliey  wept. 
Hiiinilily,  that  low,  sweet  root. 
From  which  all  heavenly  virtues  shoot. 
Was  in  the  hcart,s  of  both — but  most 

In  Nama's  lienrt,  by  wliora  nloiie 
Thone  clmrms  for  which  n  heaven  was  lost, 

.Sccni'd  all  unvalued  and  unknown  ; 
And  when  lier  Brraph's  eyes  she  caught, 

Ard  hid  hem  glowinjf  on  his  bre.isl, 
Bien  blliH  was  humbled  by  the  thought — 

"  Whiil  iliiim  have  I    o  bo  ho  blesx'd  ?" 


Still  less  could  maid,  so  meek,  have  nursed 
Desire  of  knowledge — that  vain  tldrst, 
With  which  the  sex  h.ath  all  been  cursed. 
From  luckless  Eve  to  her,  who  near 
The  Tabernacle  stole  to  hear 
Tlie  secrets  of  the  angels :'"  no — 

To  love  as  her  own  Seraph  loved. 
With  Faith,  the  same  through  bliss  and  woo- 

Faith,  tliat,  were  even  its  light  removed. 
Could,  like  tlie  dial,  fix'd  remain. 
And  wait  till  it  shone  out  ag.iin; 
With  Patience  that,  though  often  bow'd 

By  tlie  rude  storm,  c.nn  rise  anew ; 
And  Hope  that,  even  from  Evil's  cloud, 

Sees  sunny  Good  half  breaking  through ! 
Tills  deep,  relying  Love,  worth  more 
In  heaven  than  all  a  Cherub's  lore — 
Tills  Faitli,  more  sure  than  aught  beside, 
Was  tlie  sole  joy,  ambition,  pride 
Of  her  fond  heart — tli'  unreasoning  .scope 

Of  all  its  views,  above,  below — 
So  true  she  felt  it  that  to  hope, 

To  Irust,  is  happier  than  to  kni)W. 

And  thus  in  humbleness  they  trod, 
Ab.asird,  but  pure  before  their  God  ; 
Nor  e'er  did  earth  behold  a  sight 

So  meekly  beautiful  as  tliey. 
When,  with  the  alt;ii's  holy  light 

Full  on  their  brows,  they  knelt  to  pray, 
Hand  within  hand,  and  side  by  side, 
Two  links  of  love,  awhile  untied 
From  llic  great  eliain  above,  but  fast 
Holding  together  to  the  last! — 
Two  fallen  Splendors,"  from  that  tree. 
Which  buds  with  such  eternally,''^ 
Shaken  to  earth,  yet  keeping  all 
Their  light  .and  freshness  in  the  fall. 
Their  only  puiiishnieni,  (as  wrong. 

However  swecl,  must  bear  ils  brand,) 
Their  only  doom  was  this — that,  long 

As  the  green  earth  and  ocean  stand. 
They  both  shall  wander  here — the  same, 
Throughout  nil  time,  in  heart  and  frame — 
Still  looking  to  that  goal  sublime. 

Whose  light  remote,  but  sut?,  they  sec; 
Pilgrims  of  Love,  whose  way  is  Time, 

Whose  home  is  in  Eternity! 
Subject,  the  while,  to  all  the  strife 
True  Love  encounters  in  this  life — 
The  wishes,  hopes,  he  breathes  in  vain; 

The  chill,  that  turns  his  warmest  sighu 

To  earthly  va]>or,  ere  they  rise; 
The  doubt  he  feeds  on,  and  tlie  pain 

That  in  his  very  HweetiiesH  liw»: — 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


23 


Still  worse,  tli'  illusions  that  betray 

Wander  for  ever  through  those  skies 

His  footsteps  to  tlieir  shining  brink ; 

Of  radiance,  where  Love  never  dies  1 

That  tempt  him,  on  bis  desert  way 

Through  the  bleak  world,  to  bend  and  drink. 

In  what  lone  region  of  the  earth 

Where  nothing  meets  his  lips,  alas, — 

These  Pilgrims  now  may  roam  or  d^'ell, 

But  he  again  must  sighing  pass 

God  and  the  Angels,  who  look  forth 

On  to  that  far-ctT  home  of  peace. 

To  watch  their  steps,  alone  can  tell. 

In  wliic'li  alone  his  thirst  will  cease. 

But  should  we,  in  our  wanderings, 

• 

Meet  a  young  p.air,  whose  beauty  wants 

All  this  they  bear,  but,  not  the  less, 

But  the  adornment  of  bright  wings. 

Have  moments  rich  in  happiness — 

To  look  like  heaven's  inhabitants — 

Blest  meetings,  .after  m.any  a  d.ay 

Wlio  shine  where'er  they  tre.ad,  and  yet 

Of  widowliood  pass'd  far  away, 

Are  humble  in  their  eartlily  lot. 

When  the  loved  face  ag.ain  is  seen 

As  is  the  w.ayside  violet. 

Close,  close,  with  not  a  tear  between — 

That  shines  unseen,  and  were  it  not 

Conlidings  frank,  without  control. 

For  its  sweet  breath  would  be  forgot — 

Pour'd  mutually  from  soul  to  soul ; 

Whose  hearts,  in  every  thought,  are  one. 

As  free  from  any  fear  or  doubt 

Wliose  voices  utter  the  same  wills — 

As  is  th.at  light  from  chill  or  st.ain, 

Answering,  as  Echo  doth  some  tone 

The  sun  into  the  st.ars  sheds  out. 

Of  fairy  music  'mong  the  hills. 

To  be  by  them  shed  b.ick  .again  ! — 

So  like  itself,  we  seek  in  vain 

That  h.appy  minglement  of  he.arts, 

\Vluch  is  the  echo,  which  the  strain — 

Where,  changed  as  chymic  compounds  .are, 

Whose  piety  is  love,  whose  love. 

Ecoch  with  its  own  existence  parts. 

Though  close  as  'twere  their  souls'  embrace, 

To  find  a  new  one,  happier  far! 

If  not  of  earth,  but  from  .above — 

Like  two  fair  mirrors,  face  to  face. 

Sucli  .are  their  joys — and,  crowning  all, 

Whose  liglit,  from  one  to  th'  other  thrown, 

Th.at  blessed  hope  of  the  bright  hour, 

Is  heaven's  reflection,  not  then-  o\vn — 

When,  h.appy  and  no  more  to  fall. 

Should  we  e'er  meet  with  aught  so  pure, 

Their  spirits  shall,  with  freshen'd  power. 

So  perfect  here,  we  m.ay  be  sure 

Rise  up  rewarded  for  their  trust 

'Tis  Zaraph  and  his  bride  we  see ; 

In  Him,  from  whom  all  goodness  springs. 

And  call  young  lovers  round,  to  view 

And,  shaking  off  earth's  soiling  dust 

The  pilgrim  pau-  as  they  pursue 

From  tlieir  emancipated  wings. 

Thoir  pathw.ay  tow.ards  eternity. 

24 


MOOKE'S  WORKS. 


NOTES. 


(1)  See  note  IL 

(2)  Hyde,  de  Relig.  Vet.  Persarum,  p.  272, 

C3)  The  account  which  Macrobius  (in  Somm.  Scipionis,  cap. 
12^  gives  of  Ihe  downward  journey  of  the  S».ul,  through  that 
(fate  of  the  zodiac  which  opens  into  the  lower  spheres,  is  a 
curious  specimen  of  the  wild  fancies  which  pasaed  for  philos- 
ophy in  ancient  times. 

In  the  swtem  of  Manes,  the  luminous  or  spiritual  principle 
owes  its  corruption  not  to  any  evil  leudeacy  of  its  own,  but  to 
a  violent  inroad  of  the  spirits  of  darkness,  who,  finding  them- 
selves in  the  neighborhood  of  this  pure  light,  imd  becoming 
passionately  enamored  of  its  beauty,  break  the  boundai-ies 
between  them,  and  take  forcible  possession  of  it.— See  a 
Treatise  "  De  la  Religion  des  Perses,"  by  the  Abb6  Foucher, 
M^moires  de  la  Acod^mie,  torn.  xxxi.  p.  456. 

(4)  "We  adorned  the  lower  henrsu  with  lights,  and  placed 
therein  a  guard  of  angol8.''~A'oran,  chap.  xli. 

(5)  See  DUIerbelot,  passim. 

(6)  Tlie  Mahometans  believe,  says  D'Herbelot,  that  In  that 
early  period  of  the  world,  "les  hommes  u'curent  qu'une 
Beulo  religion,  ct  furent  souvent  visilt-a  des  Anges,  qui  leur 
donnaicut  la  main." 

(7)  "  To  which  will  be  joined  the  sound  of  the  bells  banging 
on  the  trees,  wliich  will  be  put  In  motion  by  the  wind  pro- 
cecilini;;  from  the  Throne,  so  often  as  the  IJlessud  wish  for 
CDUsic." — fc'ee  Hale's  A'ornH,  Prelim.  Dissert. 

(8)  The  ancient  Persians  supposed  that  this  Thrtuic  was 
placed  in  the  Sun.  and  that  through  the  stars  were  distributed 
ibe  vaiious  cloiuies  of  Angels  that  encircled  it. 

The  Itasilidiana  supposed  that  there  were  throe  hundred 
and  slxly-flve  orders  of  angeU,  "dont  la  pt'rftxtiun  alhiit  en 
ducroiHsiint,  A  mcsuro  qifil*  s'elolgnaient  de  la  premiere 
claaikj  d'cj'prils  places  dans  le  premier  ciel." — See  Dupuis^ 
Orij^.  ilta  CulteSf  tom.  il.  p.  112. 

(D)  It  appears  that,  In  most  languages,  the  term  employed 
for  an  angfl  mean!*  alito  a  messenger.  I'iri^chteh,  the  Persian 
word  fur  ant{el,  is  derived  (says  D'llerbelot)  from  the  verb 
FlriHChlin,  tu  nmd.  The  Hebrew  term,  loo,  Melak,  has  the 
j«inu  ■iguincallfm. 

(10>  The  name  given  by  the  Mahometans  to  the  infernal  n- 
kIoiii,  over  which,  they  Hay,  the  angel  Tabhek  prenides. 

Ily  the  Reven  gates  of  hell,  nu-iiliuned  In  the  Koran,  the 
oomrni;ntatoni  understand  seven  dlfTerenl  d(t])iirtments  or 
nrdH,  in  which  seven  different  sorts  of  sinners  are  to  bo 
puitlshi-d.  TIh>  flrnl,  called  (iehennem,  is  for  sinful  Mussid- 
mftni ;  tlir  nccond,  Ladha,  for  (.'hrihllan  oircndfrit;  tho  third, 
llfilliiutiA,  Is  ni>polnlrd  for  Jews;  and  Ihu  foiirlh  and  linii, 
rAlled  Hiiir  and  Hacar,  are  dfrxtliicd  to  rt^ci'lvn  llm  Hnt>ii'ans 
srid  thi'  worshippers  of  fire  ;  In  the  sixth,  named  (trhim,  those 
|itu(nnii  and  Idolaters  who  admit  n  pliirnllly  of  K"ds  are  placed  ; 
whllo  liiii»  (hii  nbys*  of  thu  st^'venth,  called  Derk  Asfal,  or  llio 
lhn<|H^l,  Ihu  h}pocrltlcnl  canters  of  a//  rullglons  are  thrown. 

(\\)  \  haw  aln-Aily  mentioned  that  ninno  of  Ihn  clrcnmntances 
ftf  Uii«  Mtort  n<ri<  nri)(jfosi|y]  to  mo  by  Iho  cBLilem  legend  of 


the  two  angels,  Hai-ul  and  Marut,  as  given  by  Jlarili,  who 
says  that  the  author  of  the  Taalim  founds  upon  it  the  Ma- 
hometan prohibition  of  wine.  (The  Babaidanush  tells  the 
fable  difftrently.)  I  have  since  found  that  Mariti's  version  of 
the  tale  (which  differs  also  from  that  of  Dr.  Prideaux,  in  hia 
Life  of  Mahomet)  is  taken  fiom  the  French  Fn cyclop t die, 
in  which  work,  under  the  head  "  Arot  et  Marot,''  the  readoi 
will  Ihid  it. 

(12)  Tlie  Kerui;'im,  as  the  Mussulmans  call  them,  arc  ollen 
joined  indiscriminately  with  the  Asrafil  or  Seraphim,  under 
one  common  name  of  Azazil,  by  which  all  spirits  who  ap- 
proach near  the  throne  of  Alia  are  designated. 

(13)  "  Cost  un  fait  indubitable  quo  la  plupart  des  anciens 
philosophes,  soit  Chaldi^ens,  soit  Grecs,  nous  ont  donnd  les 
nstres  comme  animus,  ct  ont  soutenu  que  los  astres,  qui  nous 
eclairciit,  n'ttaicnt  que  ou  les  chai's,  ou  mfeme  les  uavires,  des 
Intelligences  qui  les  couduisaieut.  Pour  les  Chars^  cela  Be 
lit  parlout;  on  n'a  qu'ouvrir  Pline,  St.  Clement,"  &c.,  &c.— 
Memoire  Historigtie,  sur  U  Sabiismc,  par  M.  Fol-rmont. 

A  belief  that  the  stars  are  cither  spirits  or  the  vehicles  of 
spirits,  was  common  to  all  the  religions  and  heresies  of  the 
Fast.  Kirchcr  has  given  the  names  and  sli'lions  of  the  se^eu 
archangels,  who  were  by  the  Cabala  of  the  Jews  dictribuled 
through  the  planets. 

(14)  According  to  the  cosmogony  of  tlio  ancient  Peisinns, 
Ihere  were  four  stars  set  as  sentinels  in  the  four  quarters  of 
the  heavens,  to  watch  over  the  other  fi.xed  stars,  and  supers 
intend  the  planets  in  their  course.  Tlie  names  of  these  fcur 
sentinel  stars  are,  according  to  the  Boundesh,  Taschter,  for  the 
east;  Patevis,  fur  the  west;  \'enand,  for  the  south;  and 
Ilaflorang,  for  the  north. 

(iri)  Chavah,  or,  as  il  is  in  Anibic.  llavali,  (the  name  by 
which  Adaui  called  the  woman  after  their  tranwression,) 
means  "  Life." 

(10)  Called  by  the  Mussulmans  Al  Araf— a  sort  of  wall  or 
partition  which,  according  to  the  7th  chapter  of  the  Koran, 
separates  hell  from  paradise,  and  where  they,  who  have  not 
merits  siil116ienl  tu  i  ain  them  immediate  admittance  into 
heaven  arc  supposed  lo  stantl  for  a  certain  period,  alternately 
tantalized  aiul  tormented  by  the  sights  that  are  on  either  side 
proHcnli'd  (i>  them. 

Manes,  who  burrowed  in  many  inslimcos  from  the  Ptatonists, 
placed  his  jiurgaturies,  or  places  of  purillctitiun,  in  the  Sun 
and  Moon.^Beautobre,  Itv.  HI.,  cliap.  6. 

(17)  *Klneh]ues  gnomes  destronx  do  devenir  inimortola, 
avalent  voulu  gagner  les  bonnes  gri^ces  du  nos  lUles,  et  letK 
ovnlenl  ajiporti^  des  plerreries  doiit  ils  sont  gardiens  naturols 
ct  ces  nult'urs  ont  cru,  H'appuyant  sur  le  li\re  d'lCnueh  ma}- 
enteiidu,  que  cN^taleut  des  piV-ges  (pie  les  angua  amouroiuc," 
&c.,  &.C. —  Comte  lie  Gaba/it, 

As  Ihe  fiction  of  the  loves  of  nngels  with  women  gnvo  birlh 
to  the  fanciful  worltl  of  sylphs  and  gnomes,  so  wo  owe  lo  It 
also  Iho  Invention  of  those  beauliftd  d'enll  and  Perls,  which 
embelltHh  so  tniich  tho  mythology  of  the  Fast;  for  In  the 
fabulous  lUslorirs  of  Catitumorath,  of  Tluimuralh,  &c.,  these 
spiritual  creatures  are  always  ropreHentcd  u  tho  desccntl- 
ants  of  Heth,  and  called  Iho  Iliud  Alglnn,  or  children  ol 
Gluim. 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


25 


(18)  I  am  uware  thiit  thia  happy  sftying  of  Lord  Albcinarlc'a 
loses  much  of  ita  grace  and  pliiyfulneas,  by  being  put  into  tho 
nioirth  of  JUiy  bul  a  hiuuan  loveiv 

(I'J)  According  to  VVhitehural's  theory,  the  mention  ol"  ri.in- 
bow3  by  an  antediluvian  angel  is  in  anaclironisra ;  us  he  says, 
'^Tliere  was  no  rain  before  the  flood,  and  consequently  no 
rainbow,  which  nccouuta  for  the  novelty  of  this  sight  after  the 
Deluge." 

(20)  For  tho  tcnns  of  this  compact,  of  which  the  angels  were 
supposed  to  be  witnesses,  see  the  chapter  of  the  Koran  en- 
titled Al  Araf,  and  the  article  "Adam"  in  D'llerbelot, 

(21)  In  acknowledging  the  authority  of  the  great  Prophets 
who  had  preceded  him,  Mahomet  represented  his  own  mis- 
sion as  tho  final  "  Sea/,"  or  consummation  of  them  all. 

(2-2)  The  Zodiacal  Light. 

0^)  PococUe,  however,  gives  it  as  the  opinion  of  the  Ma- 
hometan doctors,  that  all  souls,  not  only  of  men  and  of  animals, 
living  either  on  land  or  in  the  sea,  but  of  the  angels  also,  must 
necessarily  taste  of  death. 

(2A)  The  Dove,  or  pigeon  which  attended  Mahomet  as  hia 
Familiar,  and  was  frequently  seen  to  whisper  ia  his  ear,  was, 
if  I  recollect  right,  one  or  that  select  ninnber  of  animala 
(including  also  the  ant  of  Solomon,  the  dog  of  the  Seven 
Sleepers,  &c.)  which  were  thought  by  the  Prophet  worthy  of 
a'lmission  into  Paradise. 

"The  Moslems  have  a  tradition  that  Mahomet  was  saved 
(wh^.n  he  hid  himself  in  a  cave  in  Mount  Shur)  by  his  pursuers 
finding  the  mouth  of  the  cave  covered  by  a  spider's  web,  and 
a  nest  built  by  two  pigeons  at  the  entrance,  with  two  eggs 
unbroken  in  it,  which  made  them  think  no  one  could  have 
enteifd  it.  In  consequence  of  this,  they  say,  Mahomet  en- 
toiiKid  his  followers  to  look  upon  pigeons  as  sacred,  and  never 
to  kill  a  spider," — Modem  Universal  History.,  vol.  i. 

(25)  "  :\loharamcd,  (says  Sale,)  though  a  prophet,  was  not 
able  to  bear  the  sight  of  Gabriel,  when  he  appeared  in  his 
proper  form,  much  less  would  others  be  able  to  support  it." 

(26)  Seth  ia  a  favorite  personage  among  the  Orientals,  and 
acts  a  conspicuous  part  in  many  of  their  most  extravagant 
romances.  The  SjTians  pretended  to  have  a  Testament  of  this 
Patriarch  in  their  possession,  in  which  was  explained  the 
whole  theology  of  angels,  their  different  orders,  &.C.,  &c.  The 
Ciu"ds,  too,  (as  Hyde  mentions  in  his  Appendix,)  have  a  book, 
which  contains  all  the  rites  of  their  religion,  and  which  they 
call  Sohuph  Shcit,  or  the  Book  of  Seth. 

In  the  same  manner  that  Seth  and  Cham  are  supposed  to 
have  preserved  Ihese  memorials  of  antediluvian  knowledge, 


Xixuthrua  is  said  in  Chaldican  fable  to  have  dc])osited  in 
Siparia,  the  city  of  tho  Sun,  those  raonutnents  of  science 
which  ho  had  saved  out  of  the  waters  of  a  duluge.— See 
Jablonski's  learned  remarks  upon  these  columns  or  tablets  of 
Seth,  which  ho  supposes  to  be  tho  same  with  the  pillars  of 
Mercury,  or  the  Egyptian  IhoiXi.—Panikcun.  K^yfiU  lib.  t., 
cap.  5. 

(i.7;  The  Mussulmans,  says  D'Herbelot,  apply  tho  general 
name,  Mocarreboun,  to  all  those  Spirits  "(pii  ap[>rochent  lo 
plus  pres  le  Trone."    Of  this  number  are  Mikail  and  Gebrail 

(28)  The  Seraphim,  or  Spirits  of  Divine  Love. 

There  appears  to  be,  among  writers  on  the  East,  as  well  an 
among  the  Orientals  themselves,  considerable  indecision  with 
regard  to  the  respective  claims  of  Seraphim  and  Cherubim  to 
the  highest  rank  in  tho  celestial  hierarchy.  The  derivation 
which  Hyde  assigns  to  the  word  Cherub  seems  to  determine 
the  precedence  in  favor  of  that  order  of  spirits: — "Clierubim, 
I.  c.  Propinqui  Angeli,  qui  sc.  Deo  proprius  quam  alii 
accedunt;  nam  Charab  est  i.  q,  Karab^  appropinquare."  (P. 
263.)  Al  Beidawi,  too,  one  of  the  commentators  of  the  Koran, 
on  that  passage,  "the  angels,  who  bear  the  tin-one,  and  those 
who  siand  about  it,"  (chap,  xl.)  says,  "These  are  the  Cherubim, 
the  highest  order  of  angels."  On  the  other  hand,  we  have 
seen,  in  a  preceding  note,  that  the  Syrians  place  the  sphere  in 
which  the  Seraphs  dwell  at  the  very  summit  of  all  the  celes- 
tial systems;  and  even,  among  Mahometans,  the  words  Azazil 
and  Mocarreboun  (which  mean  the  spirits  that  stand  nearest 
to  the  throne  of  Alia)  are  indiscriminately  applied  to  both 
Seraphim  and  Cherubim. 

(29>  "  Les  Egyptiens  disent  que  la  Musique  est  S<rur  de  ta 
Religion,'''' — Voyages  de  Pj/thagore,  lom.  i.,  p.  422. 

(30)  Sara. 

(31)  An  allusion  to  the  Sephiiotlis  or  Splendors  of  the  Jexv- 
isli  Cabala,  represented  as  a  tree,  of  which  God  is  tho  crowD 
or  summit. 

The  Sephiroths  are  the  higher  orders  of  emsnative  beings 
in  the  strange  and  incomprehensible  system  of  the  Jewisfc 
Cabala.  They  are  called  by  various  names,  Pity,  Beauty,  &c., 
&c. ;  and  their  influences  ai'e  supposed  to  act  through  certain 
canals,  which  communicate  with  each  other. 

(32)  The  reader  may  judge  of  the  rationality  of  this  Jewish 
system  by  the  following  explanation  of  part  of  the  machinery: 
— "Les  canaux  qui  sortent  de  la  Misi^ricordo  et  de  la  Force, 
et  qui  vont  aboutir  a  la  Beautt^,  sout  charges  d'lm  grand 
nonibre  d'Anges.  II  y  en  a  trente-cinq  sur  le  canal  de  la 
MisGricorde,  qui  recompensent  et  qui  com-onneut  la  vertu 
dea  Saints,"  &c.,  &c. — For  a  concise  account  of  the  Cabalistic 
Doctrines,  see  Enfield's  very  useful  Compendium  of  Philoeophs . 


IRISH    MELODIES. 


EDITOR'S  REMARKS. 


There  is  no  instance,  in  the  history  of  Song, 
wliero  a  few  unpretending-,  beautiful  poems  have 
BO  deeply  graven  themselves  on  the  liearts  of  liis 
countrymen  as  Moore's  Irish  Melodies.  Leigh 
Hunt  has  observed,  that  there  are  few  men,  who 
can  hear,  unmoved,  those  simple,  yet  touching 
verses.  Every  one  !ias  had  some  dear  friend, 
now  lost  for  ever,  who  once  sung  some  of  those 
pathetic  strains,  which  are  truly  tlie  Household 
Music  of  the  Heart.  This  will,  of  course,  appeal 
to  every  one  who  reads  these  remarks :  for,  among 
Uie  list  of  those  hallowed  by  the  grave,  he  will 
Burely  find  some  whose  voice  has  often  trembled 
into  tears  as  it  sang  the  old  familiar  tunes.    Moore 


resembles  so  truly  one  of  the  old  Troubadours, 

that  it  is  difficult  to  consider  liim  otherwise  tlmn 
with  a  richly  carved  and  gilt  guitar,  singing  Iiis 
amorous  lays  in  Beauty's  bower.  Tlie  exquisite 
fiiiisli  of  his  verse,  the  glittering  imagery  and 
splendors  of  his  scenery,  tlirow  over  liis  themes  a 
tint  of  oriental  magnificence  eminently  in  Iveeping 
witli  liis  subject.  In  the  present  household  songs, 
however,  he  changes  his  hand,  and  checks  his  pride, 
and  comes  home  to  the  fu'esides  of  all.  Like  a 
wandering  minstrel,  lie  strays  from  Hindustan  to 
western  climes,  and  finds  an  echo  in  tlic  licart  of 
every  listener. 


MOORE'S  PREFACE. 


Though  an  edition  of  tlie  Poetry  of  tlio  Irish 
Melodies,  scpamtc  from  the  Music,  has  long  been 
called  for,  yet,  having,  for  m.iny  re;i8ons,  a  ntrong 
objection  to  this  sort^of  divorce,  I  should  with 
difficulty  have  consented  to  a  disunion  of  the  wordu 
from  the  nirs,  had  it  depended  solely  upon  mo  to 
keep  them  quietly  and  indissolubly  together.  Uut, 
bcxideH  the  various  sliapcs  in  which  these,  «.<<  well 
Bjt  my  olIuT  lyrical  writings,  have  been  ]mblishcd 
Uiroii({hout  America,  they  arc  included,  of  course, 


in  all  the  editions  of  my  works  jirinted  <m  tlio 
Continent,  and  iiavc  also  ajipoarod,  in  a  \iilnine 
full  of  lypogr.ipliical  errors,  in  Dublin.  I  have 
therefore  readily  acceded  to  the  wish  expressed  by 
the  Proprietor  of  the  Iri.sh  Melodies,  for  a  revised 
and  complete  edition  of  the  poetry  of  the  Work, 
though  well  aware  that  my  verses  must  lose  oven 
more  than  the  "  animx  dimijinin,"  in  being  detached 
from  the  heaiitil'ul  airs  to  vliieli  it  was  their  good 
fortune  to  be  associated. 


IKISH  MELODIES. 


27 


IRISH    MELODIES. 


GO  WHERE  TtLORY  WAITS  THEE. 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee, 
But,  while  fame  elates  thee, 

Oh  !  still  remember  me. 
When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest. 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 
Other  arms  may  press  thee, 
Dearer  friends  caress  thee, 
All  the  joys  that  bless  thee. 

Sweeter  far  may  be  ; 
But  when  friends  are  nearest, 
And  when  joys  are  dearest, 

Oh !  then  remember  me ! 

When,  at  eve,  thou  rovest 
By  the  star  thou  loveat, 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 
Think,  when  home  returning, 
Bright  we've  seen  it  burning, 

Oh !  thus  remember  me. 
Oft  as  summer  closes, 
Wlien  thine  eye  reposes 
On  its  luig'ring  roses. 

Once  so  loved  by  thee, 
Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 
Her  who  made  tliee  love  them. 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 

VVlien,  around  thee  dying. 
Autumn  leaves  are  lying, 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 
And,  at  night,  when  gazing 
On  the  gay  hearth  blazing. 

Oh !  still  remember  me. 
Then  should  music,  stealing 
All  the  soul  of  feeling. 
To  thy  heart  appealing, 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee  ; 
Then  let  memory  bring  thee 
Strains  I  used  to  sing  thee, — 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 


WAR    SONG. 

REMEMBER   THE   GLORIES   OF   BRIEN   TUP 
BRAVK' 

Remember  the  glories  of  Brien  the  brave, 

Tho'  the  days  of  the  hero  are  o'er ; 
Tho'  lost  to  Mononia,"  and  cold  in  the  grave, 

He  returns  to  Kinkora'  no  more. 
That  star  of  the  field,  which  so  often  hath  pour'd 

Its  beam  on  the  battle,  is  set; 
But  enough  of  its  glory  remains  on  each  sword, 

To  light  us  to  victory  yet. 

Mononia !  when  Nature  embellish'd  the  tint 

Of  thy  fields,  and  thy  mountains  so  fair. 
Did  she  ever  intend  that  a  tjTant  should  print 

The  footstep  of  slavery  there  ? 
No !  Freedom,  whose  smile  we  shall  never  resign. 

Go,  tell  our  invaders,  the  Danes, 
That  'tis  sweeter  to  bleed  for  an  age  at  thy  shrinej 

Than  to  sleep  but  a  moment  in  chains. 

Forget  not  our  wounded  companions,  who  stood' 

In  the  day  of  distress  by  our  side ; 
Wliile  the  moss  of  the  valley  grew  red  with  thei/ 
blood, 

They  stur'd  not,  but  conquer'd  and  died. 
That  sun  which  now  blesses  our  arms  with  his  light 

Saw  them  fall  upon  Ossory's  plain; — 
Oh  !  let  him  not  blush,  when  he  leaves  us  to-night 

To  find  th.at  tliey  fell  there  in  vain. 


ERIN  1  THE  TEAR  AOT)  THE  SMILE  IN  THLNS 
EYES. 

Erin,  the  tear  and  the  smile  in  tliine  eyes, 
Blend  like  the  rainbow  that  hangs  in  thy  skies 
Shining  through  sorrow's  stream, 
Saddening  tlirough  pleasure's  beam, 
Thy  suns  with  doubtful  gleam. 
Weep  while  they  rise. 


MOOEE'S  WOKKS. 


Erin,  tliy  sUent  tear  never  sliall  cease, 
Erin,  tliy  languid  smile  ne'er  shall  increase, 

Till,  like  the  rainbow's  light. 

Thy  various  tints  unite. 

And  form  in  heaven's  sight. 
One  arch  of  peace ! 


OH!   BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAUR 

Oh  !  breathe  not  his  name,  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade. 
Where  cold  and  unhonor'd  liis  relics  are  laid : 
Sad,  silent,  and  d;irk,  be  the  tears  that  we  shed. 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er  his 
head. 

But  the  night-dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence  it 

weeps. 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  wl;cre  he 

sleeps; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  thougli  in  secret  it  rolls. 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls. 


WHEN  HE,  WHO  ADORES  THEE. 

Wur.s  he,  who  adores  thee,  has  left  but  the  name 

Of  liis  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind. 
Oh !  sjiy  wilt  tliou  weep,  when  they  darken  the  f:uno 

Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resign'd? 
Ves,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn. 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree ; 
For  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I  have  been  hut  too  faithful  to  thee. 

With  tlicc  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love  ; 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  tliinc  ; 
In  my  liust  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above. 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine. 
Oh '.  bloHl  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  sec ; 
But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give 

Ih  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee. 


TIIE  IlAUr  THAT  ONCE  TUUOUGH  TARA'S 
HALLS, 

I'liF.  Iinrji  Hint  once  through  Tara's  halls, 

The  Boul  of  muMic  shed. 
Now  ImngH  nH  mute  on  Tarn's  w.iUh, 

An  if  Hint  Houl  were  lied. — 


So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days. 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts,  that  once  beat  liigh  for  prniae, 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  moi-e. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells  ; 
The  chord  alone,  that  breaks  at  night, 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes. 

The  only  throb  she  gives. 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks. 

To  show  Ih.at  still  she  lives. 


FLY  NOT  YET. 

Fly  not  yet,  'tis  just  the  hour, 
Wlien  pleasure,  lilvC  the  midnight  flower 
Tliat  scorns  tlic  eye  of  vulgar  light. 
Begins  to  bloom  for  sons  of  night, 

And  maids  who  love  the  moon. 
'Twas  but  to  bless  these  hours  of  shade 
Tliat  beauty  and  the  moon  were  made ; 
'Tis  then  their  soft  attractions  glowing 
Set  the  tides  and  goblets  flowing. 

Oh!  stay,— Oh!  st.ay,— 
Joy  so  seldom  weaves  a  chain 
Like  this  to-night,  that  oh  !  'tis  pain 

To  break  its  links  so  soon. 

Fly  not,  yet,  the  fount  that  phiy'd 

In  times  of  old  through  Ammon's  shade,' 

Though  iey  cold  by  d.ay  it  ran. 

Yet  still,  like  souls  of  mirth,  began 

To  burn  when  niglit  was  near. 
And  tlms,  should  woman's  heart  and  looks 
At  noon  be  cold  as  winter  brooks. 
Nor  kindle  till  the  night,  returning. 
Brings  their  genial  hour  for  burning. 

Oh!  stay,— Oh!  stay,— 
When  dill  morning  ever  break, 
And  find  such  beanung  eyes  awake 

As  those  that  sparkle  hero? 


OUI  THINK  NOT  MY  SPIRITS  ARE  AhVfAia 
AS  LIGHT. 

On  !  think  not  my  spirits  are  always  as  light, 

And  as  free  from  a  l)aiig  as  they  seem   to  you 
now ; 

Nor  expect  that  the  heorl-bi'aming  Buiile  of  l«-ni^{lit 
Will  return  with  to-morrow  to  brighleri  my  brow 


lEISH  MELODIES. 


29 


No : — life  is  a  waste  of  wearisome  houri-, 

W\iicli  aeldom  the  rose  of  enjoyment  adorns; 
And  tlie  heart  tliat  is  soonest  awalie  to  the  flowers 

I?  alu-ays  tlie  first  to  be  touch'd  by  the  thorns. 
But  send  round  the  bowl,  and  be  happy  awhile — 

May  we  never  meet  worse,  in  our  pilgrimage  here, 
Than  tlie  tear  that  enjoyment  may  gild  with  a  smile, 

And  the  smile  that  compassion  can  turn  to  a  tear. 

The   thread  of  our  life  would  be  dark,  Heaven 
knows! 
If  it  were  not  with  friendship  and  love  inter- 
twined ; 
And  I  care  not  how  soon  I  may  sink  to  repose, 
Wlien  these  blessings  shall  cease  to  be  dear  to 
my  mind. 
But  they  who  have  loved  the  fondest,  the  purest. 

Too  often  have  wept  o'er  the  dream  they  believed ; 
Ani  the  heart  that  has  slumber'd  in   friendsliip 
securest. 
Is  happy  indeed  if  'twas  never  deceived. 
But  send  round  the  bowl ;  while  a  relic  of  truth 
Is   in  man  or  in  woman,  tliis  prayer  shall  be 
mine, —    . 
That  the  sunshine  of  love  may  illumine  our  youth 
And  the  moonlight  of  friendship  console  our 
decline. 


THO"  THE  LAST  GLIMPSE  OF  ERIN  WITH 
SORROW  I  SEE. 

Tuo'  the  last  glimpse  of  Erin  with  sorrow  I  see. 
Yet  wherever  thou  art  shall  seem  Erin  to  me ; 
In  e.xile  thy  bosom  shall  still  be  ray  home, 
And  tliine  eyes  make  my  climate  wherever  we  roam. 

To  the  gloom  of  some  desert  or  cold  rocky  shore. 
Where  the  eye  of  the  stranger  can  haunt  us  no 

more, 
I  will  fly  with  my  Coulin,  and  think  the  rough  wind 
Less  rude  tlian  the  foes  we  leave  frowning  behind. 

And  I'll   gaze   on  thy   gold   hau-  as   gr.oceful  it 

wreaths, 
And  Iiang  o'er  thy  soft  harp,  as  wildly  it  breathes ; 
Nor  dread  that  the  cold-hearted  Saxon  will  tear 
One  chord  from  that  harp,  or  one  lock  from  tliat 

hau-." 


RICH    AND    RARE    WERE    THE    GEMS  SHE 
WORE.' 

Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  slie  wore. 

And  a  bright  gold  ring  on  her  wand  she  bore ; 

But  oh !  her  beauty  was  far  beyond 

Her  sparkling  gems,  or  snow-white  wand. 


"  Lady !  dost  thou  not  fear  to  stray, 

"So  lone  and  lovely  through  this  bleak  way? 

"  Are  Erin's  sons  so  good  or  so  cold, 

"  As  not  to  be  tempted  by  woman  or  gold  V 

"  Sir  Knight !  I  feel  not  the  least  alarm, 

"  No  son  of  Erin  will  ofl'or  me  harm : — 

"  For  though  tliey  love  woman  and  golden  store, 

"  Sir  Knight !  they  love  honor  and  virtue  more!" 

On  she  went,  and  her  maiden  smile 
In  safety  lighted  her  round  the  Green  Isle ; 
And  bless'd  for  ever  is  she  who  relied 
Upon  Erin's  honor  and  Erin's  pride. 


AS  A  BEAM  O'ER  THE  FACE  OF  THE 
WATERS  MAY  GLOW. 

As  a  beam  o'er  the  f;ice  of  the  v/aters  may  glow 
Wliile  the  tide  runs  in  darkness  and  coldness  below 
So  the  cheek  may  be  tinged  with  a  warm  sunny 

smile. 
Though  the  cold  heart  to  ruin  runs  darkly  the  while 

One  ftita!  remembrance,  one  sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes, 
To  which  life  nothing  darker  or  briglitor  can  bring 
For  wliich  joy  has  no  balm  and  affliction  no  sting — 

Oh !  this  thought  in  the  midst  of  enjoyment  will  stay, 
Like  a  dead,  leafless  branch  in  the  summer's  bright 

ray; 
The  beams  of  the  warm  sun  play  round  it  in  vain. 
It  may  smile  in  liis  light,  but  it  blooms  not  again. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS* 

There  isnot  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  that  vale  in  wliose   bosom  the   bright  waters 

meet;' 
Oh  !  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my 

heart. 

Yet  it  uyas  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Hi'.r  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green ; 
'Twas  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill. 
Oh !  no, — it  was  sometliing  more  exquisite  stUl. 

'Twas  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  wer<; 

near, 
Wlio  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  n  ore 

dear, 


so 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  im- 
prove, 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca !  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love  best, 

Wliere  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  tins  cold  world 

should  cease, 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace. 


now  DEAR  TO  ME  THE  HOUR. 

How  dear  to  me  the  hour  when  daylight  dies, 
And  sunbeams  melt  along  the  silent  sea; 

For  then  sweet  dreams  of  other  days  arise, 
And  memory  breathes  her  vesper  sigli  to  thee. 

And,  as  I  watch  the  line  of  light,  that  plays 

Along  the  smooth  wave  tow'rd  the  burning  west, 

I  long  to  tread  tliat  golden  path  of  rays. 

And  tliink  'twould  lead  to  .some  bright  isle  of  rest. 


TAKE  BACK  THE  VIRGIN   PAGR 

WEriTEN  ox  EETUBMNO  A  BLANE  BOOK. 

T.\KE  back  tlie  virgin  page, 

Wliite  and  unwritten  still ; 
Some  hand,  more  calm  and  sage, 

Tlie  leaf  must  fill. 
Thoughts  come,  .is  pure  as  light. 

Pure  as  even  you  requu'o  ; 
JJut,  oh !  each  word  I  write 

Love  turns  to  fire. 

Vet  let  me  keep  the  book : 

Oft  shall  my  heart  renew, 
^Vllcn  on  its  Ic.ives  I  look. 

Dear  thoughts  of  you. 
Like  you,  'lis  fair  and  bright ; 

Like  you,  too  bright  and  fair 
To  let  wild  passion  write 

One  wrong  wihIi  there. 

Hajily,  wheti  from  those  eyes 

Far,  fur  awiiy  I  roam. 
Should  calmer  thonghtH  arise 

Tow'rd.s  you  and  homo ; 
Fancy  may  trace  Homo  line. 

Worthy  tlioHO  ryc»  to  meet, 
TliouglitH  that  not  bum,  but  Bliinc, 

Pnre,  calm,  and  HWceL 


And  as,  o'er  ocean  far. 

Seamen  their  records  keep, 
Led  by  some  hidden  star 

Through  the  cold  deep ; 
So  may  the  words  I  write 

Tell  tlu-o'  what  storms  I  stray- 
Yoxi  still  the  unseen  light. 

Guiding  my  w.ay. 


THE  LEGACY. 

When  in  death  I  sh.all  calmly  recline, 

O  bear  my  heart  to  my  mistress  dear , 
Tell  her  it  lived  upon  smiles  and  wine 

Of  the  brightest  hue,  while  it  linger'd  lure 
Bid  her  not  shed  one  tear  of  sorrow 

To  sully  a  heart  so  brilliant  and  light ; 
But  balmy  drops  of  red  grape  borrow. 

To  bathe  the  relic  from  mom  till  night. 

Wlien  the  light  of  my  song  is  o'er, 

Then  take  my  harp  to  your  ancient  hal. ; 
Il.ang  it  up  at  that  friendly  door, 

Wliere  weary  travellers  love  to  call.'" 
Then  if  some  bard,  who  roams  forsaken, 

Revive  its  soft  note  in  passing  along. 
Oil !  let  one  thought  of  its  master  waken 

Vour  warmest  smile  for  the  child  of  song. 

Keep  this  cup,  which  is  now  o'erflowing, 

To  grace  your  revel,  wlicn  I'm  at  rest; 
Never,  oh!  never  its  b;ilm  bestowing 

On  lips  tliat  beauty  hath  seldom  bless'd. 
Cut  when  some  warm  devoted  lover 

To  her  ho  adores  shall  bathe  its  brim. 
Then,  then  my  .spirit  around  shall  hover, 

And  hallow  eacli  drop  that  foams  for  him. 


HOW  OFT  HAS  THE  BENSIIEE  CRIED. 

How  oft  h.'is  the  Bcnshee  cried, 
IIow  ofl,  has  death  untied 
Bright  links  that  Olory  wove, 
Sweet  hoMils  enlwineil  by  Love! 
Peace  to  each  manly  soul  that  sleepeth  • 
Rest  lo  each  failhfiil  eye  that  wecpoth; 
Long  may  the  fair  and  bravo 
Sigh  o'er  the  hero's  {.Tavo. 


lEISH  MELODIES. 


31 


We're  fall'n  upon  gloomy  days! 
Star  after  star  decays, 
Every  bright  name,  that  shed 
Light  o'er  the  hind,  is  fled. 
Da,-k  falls  the  tear  of  him  who  mourneth 
I-Ost  joy,  or  hope  that  ne'er  returneth; 
But  brightly  flews  the  tear, 
Wept  o'er  a  liero's  bier. 

Quench'd  are  our  beacon  lights — 
Thou,  of  the  Hundred  Fights! 
Tliou,  on  whose  burning  tongue 
Truth,  pe.ace,  .and  freedom  hung ! 
Both  mute,— but  long  as  valor  shincth. 
Or  mercy's  soul  at  war  rcpineth, 
So  long  shall  Erin's  pride 
Tell  how  tlvy  lived  and  died. 


WE  MAY  ROAM  'iHiXODGH  THIS  WORLD. 

We  m.ay  roam  tlirough  vLi,  ,vorId,  like  a  child  .at  a 
feast. 
Who  but  sips  of  a  sweet.,  !.ad  tlien  flies  to  the 
rest; 
And,  when  pleasure  begins  to  gi  ow  dull  in  the  east, 
We  may  order  our  wings,  and  be  off  to  the  west ; 
But  if  hearts  that  feel,  and  eyes  that  smile. 

Are  the  dearest  gifts  that  hea\en  supplies. 
We  never  need  leave  our  own  gieen  isle. 

For  sensitive  he.arts,  and  for  sun-bright  eyes. 
Then  remember,  wherever  your  goblet  is  crown'd, 
Thro'  this  world,  whether  eastward  or  westward 
you  roam. 
When  a  cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  wom.an  goes  round. 
Oh  I  remember  the  smile  wliich  adorns  her  at 
home. 

In  England,  the  garden  of  Beauty  is  kept 

By  a  dragon  of  prudery  placed  mthin  call; 
But  so  oft  this  unamiable  dragon  has  slept, 

That  the  garden's  but  carelessly  w.atch'd  after  all. 
Oil!  they  want  the  wild  sweet-briery  fence. 

Which  round  the  flowers  of  Erin  dwells  ■ 
.Vliich  warns  the  touch,  while  winning  the  sense. 

Nor  charms  us  least  when  it  most  repels. 
Then  remember,  wherever  your  goblet  is  crown'd, 

TIn-o'  this  world,  whether  eastward  or  westward 
you  roam, 
AHienacupto  the  smile  of  dear  wom.an  goes  round. 

Oh  !  remember  the  smile  that  .adorns  her  at  home. 

In  Fr.ancc,  when  tlie  he-art  of  a  woman  sets  sail, 
On  the  oce.an  of  wedlock  its  fortune  to  try. 


Love  seldom  goes  far  in  a  vessel  so  frail. 

But  just  ])ilots  her  oil",  and  then  bids  her  good-by 
Wliile  the  daughtei's  of  Erin  keep  the  boy, 

Ever  smiling  beside  his  faitliful  oar, 
Through  billows  of  woe,  and  beams  of  joy, 

The  same  as  lie  look'd  when  he  left  the  shore. 
Then  remember,  wlicrever  your  go'olot  is  crown'd, 

Thro'  this  world,  whether  eastward  or  westward 
you  roam. 
When  a  cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman  goes  round, 

Oh !  remember  tlie  smile  that  adorns  her  .at  homn 


EVELEEN'S  BOWER. 

Oh  !_  weep  for  the  hour. 

When  to  Eveleen's  bower 
The  Lord  of  the  Valley  with  false  vows  came; 

The  moon  hid  her  liglit 

From  tlie  lieavens  tliat  niglit. 
And  wept  behind  her  clouds  o'er  the  maiden's  ^ame. 

The  clouds  p.ass'd  soon 

From  the  chaste  cold  moon, 
And  heaven  smiled  again  with  her  vestal  flamo ; 

But  none  will  see  the  day, 

When  the  clouds  sh.all  pass  away, 
Wliich  that  dark  hour  left  upon  Eveleen's  fame. 

The  white  snow  lay 

On  the  narrow  p.ath-way, 
\Vlien  the  Lord  of  the  Valley  cross'd  over  the  moor ; 

And  many  a  deep  print 

On  the  white  snow's  tint 
Show'd  the  track  of  his  footstep  to  Eveleen's  door. 

The  next  sun's  ray 

Soon  melted  away 
Every  trace  on  the  path  where  the  false  Lord  canio ; 

But  there's  a  light  above 

Wliich  alone  can  remove 
That  stain  upon  the  snow  of  fan-  Eveleen's  fame. 


LET  ERIN  REMEMBER  THE  DAYS  OF  OLD 

Let  Erin  remember  the  d.ays  of  old, 

Ere  her  faithless  sons  betray'd  her ; 
When  M.alaclii  wore  the  collar  of  gold," 

^Vllich  he  won  from  her  proud  invader, 
When  her  kings,  with  stand.ard  of  green  unfurl'd. 

Led  the  Red-Branch  Knights  to  danger ;" — 
Ere  the  emerald  gem  of  the  western  world 

Was  set  in  the  crown  of  a  stranger. 


32 


.MOORE'S  WORKS. 


')n  l^ugh  Neagh's  bank,  as  the  fisherman  strays, 

When  the  clear  cold  eve's  declining, 
He  sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days 

In  the  wave  beneatji  him  shining; 
Thus  shall  memory  often,  in  dreams  sublime. 

Catch  a  glimpse  of  the  days  that  are  over ; 
Thus,  sighing,  look  thi'ough  the  waves  of  time 

For  the  long-faded  glories  they  covc'r." 


THE  SONG  OF  FIOITJfUALA." 

Silent,  oh  Moyle,  be  the  roar  of  tliy  water. 

Break  not,  ve  breezes,  your  chain  of  repose, 
Wliilc,  murmuring  mournfully,  Lir's  lonely  daugh- 
ter 

Tells  to  the  night-star  her  tale  of  woes. 
VVlien  shall  the  swan,  her  death-note  singing. 

Sleep  with  wings  in  darkness  furl'd  1 
Wien  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bell  ringing, 

CaB  my  spirit  from  this  stormy  world  1 

Sadly,  oh  Moyle,  to  thy  winter-wave  weeping. 

Fate  bids  mo  languisli  long  ages  away ; 
Vet  «till  in  her  darkness  doth  Erin  lie  sleeping. 

Still  doth  the  pure  light  its  dawning  delay. 
When  will  that  d.ay-star,  mildly  springing, 

W'lirm  our  isle  with  pctice  and  love? 
When  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bell  ringing. 

Call  my  spirit  to  the  fields  above  ? 


COMF^  SE.VD  UOUND  TUE  WINE. 

Come,  send  round  the  wine,  and  leave  points  of  be- 
lief 
To  simpleton  sages,  and  rea.soning  fools  ; 
This  moment's  a  (lower  too  fair  and  brief, 

To  be  withcr'd  and  sl.ain'd  by  tliu  dust  of  the 
schools. 
Vc'ir  glass  may  be  purple,  and  mine  may  be  bl\ic, 
But  while  llicy  are  fill'd  from  the  same  brighl 
bowl, 
The  fool  who  would  (juarrcl  for  dilVerence  of  hue, 
DcHcn'fiH  not  the  comfort  they  shed  o'er  the  soul. 

Shnll  I  Pitk  the  brave  Holdicr,  who  fights  by  my  side 

In  th-!  cause  of  mankind,  if  our  creeds  agree? 
Klidll  I  irive  up  Ihr  friend  I  have  valued  and  tried, 

If  he  kneel  not  before  the  Mme  idlar  with  me? 
From  the  heretic  i;irl  nf  my  soul  should  I  Hy, 

To  neck  Bomcwhcrc  else  a  more  orthodox  kiss  ? 
No  •  tieriiji  the  hearts,  and  the  aws  that  try 

Truth,  valrir.  or  love,  by  a  ntandnrd  like  thin! 


SUBLDIE  WAS  THE  WARNING. 

Sublime  was  the  warning  that  Liberty  spoke. 
And  grand  was  the  moment  when  Spaniards  awoke 

Into  life  and  revenge  from  tlie  conqueror's  chain. 
Oh,  Liberty  !  let  not  this  spirit  liave  rest. 
Till  it  move,  like  a  breeze,  o'er  the  waves  of  tho 

west — 
Give  the  light  of  your  look  to  each  sorrowing  spot, 
Nor,  oh,  be  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  forgot 

While  you  add  to  your  garland  the  Olive  of 
Spain ! 

If  the  fame  of  our  fathers,  bequeath'd  with  their 

rights. 
Give  to  country  its  charm,  and  to  home  its  delights. 

If  deceit  be  a  wound,  and  suspicion  a  stain. 
Then,  ye  men  of  IberLa,  our  cause  is  the  s.ame ! 
And  oh !  may  his  tomb  want  a  tear  and  a  name. 
Who  would  ask  for  a  nobler,  a  holier  death. 
Than  to  turn  his  last  sigh  into  victory's  breath. 

For  the  Slianu-ocU  of  Erin  and  Olive  of  Sp:un  I 

Ye  Blakes  and  O'Donnels,  whose  fathers  resign'd 
The  green  hills  of  their  youth,  among  strangers  to 

find 
That  repose  which,  at  home,  they  had  sigli'd  for 

in  vain. 
Join,  join  in  our  hope  that  the  llame,  wliieh  you 

light, 
Jlay  be  felt  yet  in  Erin,  as  calm,  and  as  briglit. 
And  forgive  even  Albion  while  blushing  she  draws, 
Like  a  truant,  her  sword,  in  the  long-slighted  cause 
Of  the  Sliamrock  of  Erin  and  Olive  of  Spain  ! 

God  prosper  the  cause  ! — oli,  it  cannot  but  thrive. 
While  the  pulse  of  one  patriot  heart  is  alive. 

Its  devotion  to  feel,  and  its  rights  to  maintain  ; 
Then,  how  sainted  by  sorrow,  its  martyrs  will  die! 
The  finger  of  glory  shall  point  where  they  lie ; 
While,  far  from  the  footstep  of  coward  or  slave. 
The  young  spirit  of  Freedom  shall   shelter  their 
grave 

Beneath  Shannocks  of  I'rin  and  Oiivc-;  of  Spam  I 


BELIEVE  ME,  IF  ALL  THOSE  ENPEAUINO 
VOUNU  CHARMS. 

Bf.likve  me,  if  all  those  endearing  jonnf  charms, 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day. 
Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  (leet  in  ni,-  .irni^s 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away, 


IlilSH  MELODIES. 


S3 


Thou  wmil  Jst  still  be  .idored,  as  this  moment  thou  art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  lade  as  it  will, 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  arc  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be  known, 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear ; 
No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets. 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close. 
As  the  sun-flower  turns  on  her  god,  when  he  sets. 

The  same  look  which  she  turn'd  when  he  rose. 


ERDT,  OH  ERDf. 

Like  the  bright  lamp,  that  shone  in  Kildare's  holy 
fane,'* 

And  burn'd  thro'  long  ages  of  darkness  and  storm, 
Is  the  heart  that  sorrows  have  frown'd  on  in  vain, 

Whose  spu'it  outlives  them,  unfading  and  warm. 
Erin,  oh  Erin,  thus  bright  thro'  the  tears 
Of  a  long  night  of  bondage,  tliy  spirit  appears. 

The  nations  have  fallen,  and  thou  still  art  young, 
Thy  sun  is  but  rising,  when  others  are  set; 

And  tho'  slavery's  cloud  o'er  tliy  morning  hath  hung, 
The  full  noon  of  freedom  shall  beam  round  thee  yet 

Erin,  oh  Erin,  tho'  long  in  the  shade. 

Thy  star  shall  sliine  out  when  the  proudest  shall  t;ide. 

ITuchiird  by  the  rain,  and  unwaked  by  the  wind. 
The  lily  lies  sleeping  thro'  winter's  cold  hour, 

Till  Spring's  light  touch  her  fetters  unbind. 

And  daylight  and  liberty  bless  the  young  flower.'" 

Thus  Erin,  oh  Erin,  thy  winter  is  past. 

And  tlie  hope  that  lived  thro'  it  shall  blossom  at  last. 


DRINK  TO  HER. 

Ukink  tc  her,  who  long 

Hath  'vaked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl,  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 
Oh  I  woman's  heart  was  made 

For  minstrel  hands  alone  ; 
By  other  fingers  play'd, 

It  yields  not  half  the  tone. 
Then  here's  to  her,  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl,  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  coild  never  buy. 


At  Beauty's  door  of  glass. 

When  Wealth  and  Wit  once  stood. 
They  ask'd  her,  "  which  might  pass  *" 

She  answer'd,  "  he,  who  could." 
With  golden  key  Wealth  thought 

To  pa,ss — but  'twould  not  do  : 
While  Wit  a  diamond  brought. 

Which  cut  his  bright  way  through. 
So  here's  to  her,  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
Tlie  girl,  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 

The  love  that  seeks  a  home 

Where  wealth  or  grandeur  sliines. 
Is  like  the  gloomy  gnome. 

That  dwells  in  dark  gold  mines. 
But  oh  !  the  poet's  love 

Can  boast  a  brighter  sphere  ; 
Its  native  home's  above, 

Tho'  woman  keeps  it  here. 
Then  drink  to  her,  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl,  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 


OH!  BLAME  NOT  THE  BARD." 

Oh  !  blame  not  the  bard,  if  he  fly  to  the  bowers, 

Wliere  Pleasure  lies,  carelessly  smiling  at  Fame  j 
He  was  born  for  much  more,  and  in  happier  hours 
His  soul  might  have  burn'd  with  a  holier  flame. 
The   string,  that   now   languislies   loose  o'er  the 
lyre. 
Might  have  bent  a  proud  bow  to  the  warrior's 
dart ;" 
And  the  lip,  which  now  breathes  but  the  song  ol 
desire. 
Might  have  pour'd  the  full  tide  of  ap.ati-iot's  heart. 

But  alas  for  his  country  I — her  pride  is  gone  bv, 
And  that  spirit  is  broken,  which  never  would 
bend; 
O'er  the  ruin  her  children  in  secret  must  sigh. 

For  'tis  treason  to  love  her,  and  death  to  defend 
Unprized  are  her  sons,  till  they've  learn'd  to  betrav; 
Undistinguish'd  they  live,  if  they  shame  not  theii 
sires ; 
And  the  torch,  that  would  light  them  thro'  dignity's, 
way. 
Must  be  ciught  from  tlic  pile,  where  t'  cir  country 
expire!. 


34 


MOOJ-iE'S  WORKS. 


rheu  blame  not  the  bard,  if  in  pleasui-e's   soft 
dream, 
He  should  try  to  forget  wliat  he  never  can  heal : 
Oh !  give  but  a  hope — let  a  vista  but  gleam 
Through  the  gloom  of  liis  country,  and  mark  liow 
he'll  feel  I 
That  instant,  his  heart  at  her  shrine  would  lay  down 

Every  passion  it  nursed,  every  bliss  it  adored ; 
While  tlie  m\Ttle,  now  idly  entwined  with  his  crown, 
I  jke  the  wreath  of  Harraodius,  should  cover  his 
sword." 

But  tho'  glory  be  gone,  and  tho'  hope  fade  away. 

Thy  name,  loved  Erin,  shall  live  in  his  songs ; 
Not  ev'n  in  the  hour,  when  his  licart  is  most  gay. 

Will  he  lose  the  remembrance  of  tliee  and  thy 
wrongs. 
The  stranger  shall  hear  thy  lament  on  his  plains; 

The  sigh  of  thy  harp  shaH  be  sent  o'er  the  deep. 
Till  thy  masters  themselves,  as  they  rivet  thy  chains. 

Shall  pause  at  the  song  of  their  captive,  and  weep. 


WHILE  GAZING  ON  THE  MOON'S  LIGHT. 

While  gazing  on  the  moon's  light, 

A  moment  from  her  smile  I  turn'd, 
To  look  at  orbs,  that,  more  bright, 
In  lone  and  diijtant  glory  burn'd. 
](ut  too  far 
Each  proud  star. 
For  me  to  feel  its  warming  flame ; 
Muuh  more  dear 
That  mild  sphere. 
Which  near  our  planet  smiling  came ;'° — 
Thus,  Mary,  be  but  thou  my  own ; 

Wliile  brighter  eyes  unheeded  play, 
I'll  love  those  moonlight  looks  alone. 
That  bless  my  home  and  guide  my  w.-;y. 

'.Tie  day  li.iJ  sunk  in  dim  showers. 

Hut  midnight  now,  with  lustre  meet, 
'lllumhied  all  the  pale  flowers, 

Like  hope  upon  a  mourner's  cheek. 
I  said  (while 
The  moon's  snillc 
I'Iny'd  o'er  n  stream,  in  dimpling  bliss,) 
"  The  moon  looks 
"  On  many  brookn, 
"Tlic  brook  can  see  no  moon  but  this;"" 
And  Ihim,  I  thought,  our  forliincH  run, 

I'or  many  a  lover  lookn  to  thee, 
Willie  oh  !  1  feel  there  Is  but  nnr, 
()ir  M.'i'v  ill  till)  world  for  me. 


ILL  OMENS. 

When  daylight  was  yet  sleeping  under  the  billow 

And  stars  in  the  heavens  still  lingering  shone, 
Young  Kitty,  all  blushing,  rose  up  from  her  pillow 

The  last  time  she  e'er  was  to  press  it  alone. 
For  the  youtli  whom  she  treasured  her  heart  and 
her  soul  in. 
Had  promised  to  link  the  last  tie  before  noon ; 
And,  when  once  the  young  heart  of  a  maiden  is 
stolen. 
The  maiden  herself  will  steal  after  it  soon. 

As  she  look'd  in  tlie  glass,  wIiilIi  a  woman  ne'er 
misses, 

Nor  ever  wants  time  for  a  .sly  glance  or  t.vo, 
A  butterfly ,°'  fresh  from  the  night-flowtr's  kii  ses, 

Y\&\v  over  the  mirror,  and  .shaded  her  \iew. 
Enraged  with  the  insect  for  liiding  her  grai-es, 

She  brusli'd  him — lie  fell,  alas!  never  to  rise: 
"  Ah !  such,"  said  the  girl,  "  is  the  pride  of  our  fact3, 

"For  which  the  soul's  innocence  too  often  dies." 

NVliilo  she  stole  thro'  the  garden,  where  heart's-ease 
was  growing. 
She  cuU'd  some,  and  kiss'd  off  its  mght-fall'M  dew . 
And  a   rose,  farther  on,  look'd  so  templing  and 
glowing. 
That,  spite  of  her  haste,  she  must  gather  it  too . 
But  while  o'er  the  roses  too  carelessly  leanins, 
Iler  zone  flew  in  two,  and  the  heart's-ease  was 
lo.st: 
"Ah!  this  means,"  s.aid  the  girl,  (and  she  sigh'd  at 
its  meaning,) 
"  That  love  is  scarce  worth  the  repose  it  will  coat !" 


BEFOKE  THE  BATTLE. 

Bv  the  hope  within  us  springing, 

Herald  of  to-morrow's  strife; 
By  tlr.t  niin  whose  light  is  bringing 

Chains  or  freedom,  death  or  life — 
Oil !  remember  life  can  ijc 
No  cliafm  fur  liim,  who  lives  not  free' 

I,ik(!  the  d;iy-star  in  tlie  wave, 

Sinks  a  hero  in  liis  grave, 
Midst  the  dew-fall  of  a  nation's  tears. 

Happy  is  ho  o'er  whoso  decline 

The  smiles  of  lionii^  may  soiilhiiig  shine, 
And  liglit  him  down  the  steep  of  years: — 

But  oh,  how  ble.Ms'd  they  sink  to  rest, 

Who  close  their  eyu  '>n  Vi'i'M  v'-  l'rnji>U. 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


35 


O'er  his  wakh-firo's  fading  embers 
Now  tlie  ibeinan's  eheek  turns  wliite, 

Wlien  liis  heart  that  field  rcmerabors, 
Wlierc  we  tamed  his  tyrant  miglit. 

Never  h^t  him  hind  again 

A  chain,  like  tllat^ve  broke  from  then. 
Hark  !  the  horn  of  combat  calls — 
Ere  the  go.den  evening  falls, 

May  we  pledge  that  horn  in  triumph  round !"' 
Many  a  heart  that  now  beats  high. 
In  slumber  cold  at  night  shall  lie, 

Nor  waken  even  at  victory's  sound : — 
But  oh,  how  bless'd  that  hero's  sleep. 
O'er  whom  a  wond'ring  world  shall  weep ! 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

V»GiiT  closed  around  the  conqueror's  way, 

And  lightnings  show'd  the  distant  hill, 
Wliere  those  who  lost  that  dreadful  day. 

Stood  few  and  faint,  but  fearless  still. 
The  soldier's  hope,  the  patriot's  zeal. 

For  ever  dimm'd,  for  ever  cross'd — 
Oh !  who  shall  say  what  heroes  feel, 

\Vlien  all  but  iile  and  honor's  lost? 

Tlie  last  sad  hour  of  freedom's  dream. 

And  valor's  task,  moved  slowly  by, 
Wliile  mute  they  watch'd,  till  morning's  beam 

Should  rise  and  give  them  light  to  die. 
There's  yet  a  world,  where  souls  are  free, 

Where  tyrants  taint  not  nature's  bliss ; — 
If  dealli  tliat  world's  briglit  opening  be, 

Oh!  who  would  live  a  slave  in  this? 


'TIS  SWEET  TO  THINK. 

Tis  sweet  to  think,  that,  where'er  we  rove. 

We  are  sure  to  find  sometliing  blissful  and  dear. 
And  that,  when  we're  fiir  from  the  lips  we  love. 

We've  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near."' 
The  he-irt,  like  a  tendrU.  accustntn'd  tn  Rlino-. 

Lot  it  grow  where  it  will,  cannot  liounsh  alone. 
But  will  lean  to  the  nearest  and  loveliest  thing. 

It  can  twine  witli  itself,  and  make  closely  its  own. 
Tlien  oh !  wlmt  pleasure,  where'er  we  rove, 

To  be  sure  to  find  something,  still,  that  is  dear. 
And  lo  know,  when  far  from  the  lips  we  love. 

We've  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near. 


'Twere  a  shame,  when  flowers  around  us  rise, 

To  make  liglit  of  tlic  rest,  if  the  rose  isn't  there ; 
And  the  world's  so  rich  in  resplendent  eyes, 

'Twere  a  pity  to  limit  one's  love  to  a  pair. 
Love's  wing  and  the  peacock's  are  nearly  alike, 

They  are  both  of  them  bright,  but  Ihey're  change- 
able too, 
And,  wherever  a  now  beam  of  beauty  can  strike, 

It  will  tincture  Love's  plume  with  a  different  hue. 
Then  oh !  what  pleasure,  where'er  we  rove. 

To  be  sure  to  find  something,  still,  that  is  dear, 
And  to  know,  when  far  from  the  lips  we  love, 

We've  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near. 


THE  IRISH  PEASANT  TO  HIS  MISTRESS."' 

Through  grief  and  through  danger  tliy  smile  hath 

cheer'd  my  way. 
Till  hope  seem"d  to  bud  from  each  thorn  that  round 

me  lay ; 
The  darker  our  fortune,  the  brighter  our  pure  love 

burn'd. 
Till  shame  into  glory,  till  fear  into  zeal  was  turn'd  ; 
Yes,  slave  as  I  was,  in  thy  arms  my  spirit  felt  free, 
And  bless'd  even  the  sorrows  that  made  me  more 

dear  to  thee. 

Thy  rival  was  honor'd,  while  thou   vvert  wrong'd 

and  scorn'd, 
Tliy  crown  was  of  briers,  while  gold  her  brows 

adorn'd ; 
She  woo'd  rae  to  temples,  while  thou  lay'st  hid  in 

caves. 
Her  friends  were  all  masters,  while  thine,  alas  !  were 

slaves  ; 
Yet  cold  in  the  earth,  at  thy  feet,  I  would  rather 

be. 
Than  wed  what  I  loved  not,  or  turn  one  thought 

from  thee. 

They  slander  thee  sorely,  who  say  thy  vows  are 

frail— 
Hadst  thou  been  a  false  one,  thy  cheek  Iiad  look'd 

less  pale. 
They  say,  too,  so  long  tliou  hast  worn  those  linger- 

uig  chains. 
That  deep  in  thy  heart  they  have  printed  tlieir  ser- 
vile stains — 
Oh  ;  foul  is  the  slander,— no  chain  could  that  soul 

subdue- 
Where  shineth  thi/  spirit,  there  liberty  sliineth  too  I* 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


ON  MUSIC. 

Whe.i  tluo'  life  unbless'd  we  rove. 

Losing  all  that  made  life  dear. 
Should  some  notes  we  used  to  love, 

In  days  of  boyhood,  meet  our  ear, 
Oh  !  how  welcome  breathes  the  strain  ! 

Wakening  thoughts  that  long  have  slept ; 
Kindling  former  smiles  again 

In  fitded  eyes  that  long  have  wept. 

Like  the  gale,  that  sighs  along 

Beds  of  oriental  flowers, 
Is  the  grateful  breath  of  song. 

That  once  was  heard  in  happier  hours ; 
Fill'd  with  balm,  the  gale  sigiis  on, 

Though  the  flowers  have  sunk  in  death ; 
So,  when  pleasure's  dream  is  gone, 

It.s  memory  lives  in  JIusic's  breath. 

Music,  oh  how  faint,  how  weak. 

Language  fades  before  thy  spell ! 
VVliy  should  Feeling  ever  spe;ik, 

When  tliou  canst  breathe  her  soul  so  well  ? 
Friendship's  balmy  words  may  feign. 

Love's  are  ev'n  more  false  than  they  ; 
Oh !  'tis  only  music's  strain 

C-ixn  sweetly  soothe  and  not  betray. 


IT  IS  NOT  TUE  TEAR  AT  THIS  MOMENT 
SHED." 

It  is  not  the  tear  at  this  raonicnl  shed, 

When  tlie  cold  turf  has  just  been  laid  o'er  him, 
That  can  tell  how  beloved  was  the  friend  that's  fled, 

Or  how  deep  in  our  hearts  we  deplore  him. 
'Ti.H  tlie  tear,  thro'  many  a  long  day  wept, 

'Tis  life's  whole  path  o'ershaded  ; 
Tis  the  one  rcnicnibrance,  fondly  kept, 

When  all  lighter  griefn  have  faded. 

ThuH  his  memor)',  like  some  holy  light, 

Kept  alive  in  our  hearts,  will  improve  them, 
For  worth  shall  look  fairer,  and  truth  more  bright, 

When  we  think  how  he  lived  but  to  love  them. 
.^^(l.  nn  fn-ilicr  flowers  the  Hod  perfuino 

WImtci  buried  wiints  are  lying, 
So  onr  I  eJirtM  nliall  borrow  n  (twcct'ning  bloom 

From  the  image  he  left  there  in  dying ! 


THE  ORIGISr  OF  THE  HARP. 

'Tis  believed  that  tliis  Harp,  which  I  walie  tut  -.v  fo: 

tliee, 
Was  a  Syren  of  old,  wlio  sui'.g  under  the  sea ; 
And  who  often,  at  eve,  thro'  the  bright  waters  roved, 
To  meet,  on  the  green  shore,  a  youth  wliom  she 

loved. 

But  she  loved  him  in  vain,  for  he  left  her  to  weep, 
And  in  tears,  all  the  night,  her  gold  tresses  to  steep ; 
Till  heav'n  look'd  with  pity  on  true  love  so  warm, 
And  changed  to  tliis  soft  Harp  the  sea-maiden's  form. 

Still  her  bosom  rose  fair — still  her  cheeks  smiled  the 

same — 
Wiiile  her  sea-beauties  gracefully  forni'd  the  liglit 

frame ; 
And  her  hair,  as,  let  loose,  o'er  her  white  arm  it  full. 
Was  changed  to  bright  chords  utt'ruig  melody's  spell. 

Hence  it  came,  that  this  soft  Harp  so  long  bath  been 

known 
To  mingle  love's  language  with  sorrow's  sad  tone 
Till  Ihou  didst  divide  them,  and  teach  the  fond  lay 
To  speak  love  when  I'm  near  thee,  and  grief  wh;n 

away. 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

Oh  .  the  days  arc  gone,  when  Beauty  bright 

Sly  heart's  chain  wove  ; 
Wlien  my  dream  of  life,  from  nioni  till  night, 
Was  love,  still  love. 
New  hope  may  bloom, 
And  days  may  come, 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam. 
But  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life, 

As  love's  young  dream  : 
No,  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream. 

Though  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar, 

When  wild  youth's  i)ast  ; 
Though  ho  win  the  vvite,  who  IVown'd  b-;fo:o 
To  Miiile  iit  last ; 
He'll  never  meet 
A  joy  so  sweet, 
In  all  his  noon  of  fame, 
As  when  first  he  Ming  to  woman's  car 

His  Houl-fell  flame. 
And  at  every  close,  she  bluMliM  to  heiu 
The  one  loved  niiino. 


(y/j. 


7)2^. 


z:o   THERE  S  2I0T3ItT&  HA: 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


37 


No, — that  hallow'd  form  is  ne'er  forgot 

Wliich  first  love  traced ; 
Stir,  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 
On  memory's  waste. 
'Twas  odor  fled 
As  soon  as  shed  ; 
'Twas  morning's  winged  dream  ; 
'Twas  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream  ; 
Oh  !  'twas  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 
On  life's  dull  stream. 


THE  PRINCE'S  DAY." 

Tho'  dark  are  our  sorrows,  to-day  we'll  forget  them, 
And  smile  through  our  tears,  like  a  sunbeam  in 
showers : 
There  never  were  hearts,  if  our  rulers  would  let 
them. 
More  form'd  to  be  grateful  and  bless'd  than  ours. 
But  just  when  the  cliain 
Has  ceased  to  pain. 
And  hope  has  enwreath'd  it  round  with  fiowers, 
There  comes  a  new  link 
Our  spirits  to  sink — 
Oh  !  tJie  joy  that  wo  taste,  like  the  light  of  the  poles. 

Is  a  flash  amid  darkness,  too  brilliant  to  stay ; 
But,  though  'twere  the  last  little  spark  in  our  souls. 
We  must  light  it  up  now,  on  our  Prince's  Day. 

Contempt  on  the  minion,  who  calls  you  disloyal ! 
Tho'  fierce  to  your  foe,  to  your  friends  you  are 
true ; 
And  the  tribute  most  high  to  a  head  that  is  royal, 
Is  love  from  a  heart  that  loves  liberty  too. 
Wliile  cowards,  who  blight 
Your  fome,  your  right, 
Would  shrink  from  the  blaze  of  tho  battle  array, 
The  Standard  of  Green 
In  front  would  be  seen, — 
Oh,  my  life  on  your  faith !  were  you  summon'd 
this  minute, 
You'd  cast  every  bitter  remembrance  away, 
And  show  wliat  the  arm  of  old  Erin  has  in  it. 
When  roused  by  the  foe,  on  her  Prince's  Day. 

He  loves  the  Green  Isle,  and  his  love  is  recorded 

In  hearts  which  have  sufl'er'd  too  much  to  forget ; 
And   hope   shall  be  crown'd,  and  attachment  re- 
warded, 
And  Erin's  gay  jubilee  shine  out  yet. 
Tlie  gem  may  be  broke 
By  m.any  a  stroke. 


But  nothing  can  cloud  its  native  ray ; 
Each  fragment  will  cast 
A  light  to  the  last, — 
And  thus,  Erin,  my  country,  tho'  broken  thou  art. 
There's  a  lustre  witliin  thee,  that  ne'er  will  decay 
A  spirit,  whicli  beams  through  each  suH'cring  part 
And  now  smiles  at  all  [tiin  on  the  Prince's  D.ij 


WEEP  ON,  WEEP  ON. 

Weep  on,  weep  on,  your  hour  is  past; 

Your  dreams  of  pride  are  o'er ; 
The  fatal  chain  is  round  you  east, 

And  you  are  men  no  more. 
In  vain  tlie  hero's  heart  hath  bled ; 

The  sage's  tongue  hath  warn'd  in  vain ; 
Oh,  Freedom !  once  thy  flame  hath  fled, 

It  never  lights  again. 

Weep  on — perliaps  in  after  days, 

They'll  learn  to  love  your  name ; 
When  many  a  deed  may  wake  in  praise 

That  long  hath  slept  in  blame. 
And  when  they  tread  the  ruin'd  Lsle, 

Where  rest,  at  length,  the  lord  and  slave, 
They'll  wond'ring  ask,  how  hands  so  vile 

Could  conquer  liearts  so  brave  ? 

"  'Twas  fate,"  they'll  say,  "  a  wayward  fate 

"  Your  web  of  discord  wove ; 
"And  while  your  tyrants  join'd  in  hate, 

"  You  never  join'd  in  love. 
"  But  hearts  fell  off,  that  ought  to  twine, 

"  And  man  profaned  what  God  had  given ; 
"  Till  some  were  heard  to  curse  the  shrine, 

"  Wliere  others  knelt  to  heaven  1" 


LESBIA  HATH  A  BEAMING  EYK 

Lesbia  hath  a  beaming  eye. 

But  no  one  knows  for  whom  it  beametli 
Right  and  left  its  arrows  fly. 

But  what  they  aim  at  no  one  drearaetlu 
Sweeter  'tis  to  gaze  upon 

My  Nora's  lid  that  seldom  rises ; 
Few  its  looks,  but  every  one. 
Like  unexpected  light,  surprises ! 

Oh,  my  Nora  Creina,  dear. 
My  gentle,  bashful  Nora  Creina, 
Beauty  lies 
In  many  eyes, 
But  love  in  yours,  my  Nora  'Treini 


S8 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Lesbia  vrears  a  robe  of  gold, 

But  all  so  close  the  nvmph  hath  laced  it. 
Not  a  charm  of  beauty's  mould 

Presumes  to  stay  where  nature  placed  it. 
Oh !  my  Nora's  gomi  for  me. 

That  floats  as  wild  as  mountain  breezes, 
I>ea\iiig  every  beauty  free 
To  sink  or  swell  as  Heaven  pleases. 

Yes,  my  Nora  Crema,  dear. 

My  simple,  graceful  Nora  Creina, 

Nature's  dress 

Is  loveliness — 

The  diess  you  wear,  my  Nora  Creina. 

Lesbia  hath  a  wit  refined. 

But,  when  its  points  are  gleaming  round  us. 
Who  can  tell  if  they're  design'd 

To  d.-izzle  merely,  or  to  wound  us? 
Pillow'd  on  my  Nora's  heart. 

In  sjifer  slumber  Love  reposes — 

Bed  of  peace !  whose  roughest  part 

Is  but  tlie  crumpling  of  the  roses. 

Oh  I  my  Nora  Creina,  dear, 
5Iy  mild,  my  artless  Nora  Creina ! 
Wit,  though  bright, 
I  lath  no  such  light. 
As  warms  your  eyes,  my  Nora  Creina. 


1  SAW  THY  FORM  IX  YOUTHFUL  PULME. 

I  SAW  thy  form  in  youthful  prime, 

Nor  thought  that  pale  decay 
Would  steal  before  the  steps  of  Time, 

And  Wiuste  its  bloom  away,  JIary ! 
Vet  still  thy  features  wore  that  light. 

Which  fleets  not  with  the  breath  ; 
And  life  ne'er  look'd  more  truly  bright 

Than  in  thy  smile  of  deatli,  Mary ! 

As  streams  that  run  o'er  golden  mines, 

Yet  humbly,  cilmly  glide, 
Nor  seem  to  know  the  wealth  that  shines 

Within  their  gentle  tide,  Mary  ! 
Ho  vi'il'd  beneath  the  simplest  guise. 

Thy  radiant  genius  shone, 
And  that,  which  charm 'd  all  other  eyes, 

Sccm'd  worthless  in  thy  own,  Mary ! 

(f  nouIh  could  always  dwell  above, 
Tlinu  ne'er  hadst  left  that  i.pliere ; 

(If  could  we  keep  the  souls  wc  love, 
Wc  ne'er  lind  lost  liiee  here,  Mary! 


Though  many  a  gifted  mind  we  meet, 
Though  i;ih-est  forms  we  see. 

To  live  with  them  is  far  less  sweet, 
Thiin  to  remember  thee,  Mary  !'* 


BY  THAT  LAKE,  WHOSE   GLOOMY  SHOUE." 

Br  tliat  Lake,  whose  gloomy  shore 
Sky-lark  never  warbles  o'er," 
Where  the  cliff  hangs  high  and  steep 
Young  Saint  Kevin  stole  to  sleep. 
"  Here,  .at  least,"  he  cilmly  said, 
"  Woman  ne'er  shall  find  my  bed." 
Ah !  the  good  Saint  little  knew 
What  that  wily  sex  can  do. 

'Twas  from  Katlileen's  eyes  ho  flew,-- 
Eyes  of  most  unholy  blue ! 
She  had  loved  him  well  and  long, 
Wish'd  him  hers,  nor  thought  it  wrong 
Wheresoe'er  the  Saint  would  fly. 
Still  he  heard  her  light  foot  nigh ; 
East  or  west,  where'er  he  turn'd. 
Still  her  eyes  before  liim  burn'd. 

On  the  bold  clilT's  bosom  cast, 
Tranquil  now  he  sleeps  at  last ; 
Dreams  of  heav'n,  nor  thinks  that  o'er 
Woman's  smile  can  haunt  him  there. 
But  nor  cartli  nor  heaven  is  free 
From  her  power,  if  fond  she  be . 
Even  now,  while  calm  he  sleeps, 
Kathleen  o'er  him  leans  and  weeps, 

Fearless  she  had  track'd  his  feet 
To  this  rocky,  wild  retreat; 
And  when  morning  met  his  view. 
Her  mild  gl.-.nccs  met  it  too. 
Ah,  your  Saints  have  cruel  hearts! 
Sternly  from  his  bed  ho  starts, 
And  with  rule  roi)ulsive  shock. 
Hurls  her  from  the  beetling  rock. 

(ilcndalough,  thy  gloomy  wave 
Soon  was  gentle  Kathleen's  grave  ! 
Soon  the  Saint,  (yet  ah!  too  lat<>,) 
Felt  her  love,  and  mourn'd  her  fate. 
When  he  said,  "  Heaven  rest  her  soul  •* 
Round  the  Lake  light  mu.sic  stole; 
And  lier  ghost  was  seen  to  glidfc, 
Smiling  o'er  the  fal:il  tide. 


lEISH  MELODIES. 


39 


SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND." 

She  is  far  from  tlio  land  where  licr  young  hero 
sleeps, 

And  lovers  are  round  lier,  sighing  : 
But  coldly  siie  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains, 
Every  note  wliieh  he  loved  awaking; — 

All!  little  they  think  who  delight  in  her  strains. 
How  the  heart  of  the  Jlinstrel  is  breaking. 

He  hiid  lived  for  his  love,  for  his  country  he  died. 
They  wei'e  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him  ; 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 

Oh !  m.ike  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbe.ams  rest. 
When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow ; 

They'll  shhie  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the 
West, 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow. 


NAY,  TELL  ME  NOT,  DEAR. 

Nay,  tel.  me  not,  dear,  that  the  goblet  drowns 

One  charm  of  feeling,  one  fond  regret ; 
Believe  me,  a  few  of  thy  angry  fro\vns 
Are  all  I've  sunk  in  its  bright  wave  yet. 
Ne'er  hath  a  beam 
Been  lost  in  the  stre.im 
That  ever  was  shed  from  thy  form  or  soul ; 
The  spell  of  those  eyes, 
The  balm  of  thy  sighs. 
Still  float  on  the  surface,  and  hallow  my  bowl. 
Then  fancy  not,  dearest,  that  wine  can  steal 
One  blissful  dream  of  the  heart  from  me; 
Like  founts  tluat  awaken  the  pilgrim's  zeal, 
Tlie  bowl  but  brightens  my  love  for  thee. 

They  tell  us  that  Love  in  his  fairy  bower 

Had  two  blush  roses,  of  birth  divine ; 
He  sprinkled  the  one  with  a  rainbow's  shower, 
But  bathed  the  other  with  mantling  wine. 

Soon  did  the  buds 

That  drank  of  the  floods 
Distill'd  by  the  r.ainbow,  decline  and  fade  ; 

While  those  which  the  tide 

Of  ruby  had  dyed 
All  blush'd  into  beauty,  like  thee,  sweet  m.iid! 


Then  fancy  not,  dearest,  th;it  wuie  can  steal 
One  blissful  dream  of  the  heart  from  me: 

Like  founts,  that  awalien  the  pilgrim's  zeal. 
The  boul  but  brightens  my  love  for  thee. 


AVENGING  AND  BRIGHT. 

AvENGiKG  and  bright  fall  the  swift  sword  of  Eriii" 
On  him  who  the  brave  sons  of  Usna  betray'd ! — 

For  every  fond  eye  he  hath  w.aken'd  a  tear  in,. 
A  drop  from  his  he.art-wounds  shall  weep  o'er 
her  blade. 

By  the  red  cloud  that  hung   over   Conor's   dark 
dwelling," 
Wlien  Ulad's"  three  champions  lay  sleeping  in 
gore — 
By  the  billows  of  war,  which  so  often,  high  swelling, 
H.ave  wafted  these  heroes  to  victory's  shore — 

We  swear  to  revenge  them  ! — no  joy  shall  be  tasted 
The  harp  shall  be  silent,  the  maiden  unwed, 

Our  halls  shall  be  mute,  and  our  fields  shall  lie 
wasted, 
Till  vengeance  is  wre.ak'd  on  the  murderer's  head. 

Yes,  monarch !  tho'  sweet  are  our  home  recollec- 
tions. 
Though  sweet  .are  tlie  tears  that  from  tenderness 
fall; 
Though  sweet  are  our  friendships,  our  hopes,  our 
affections, 
Reven.n-e  on  a  tyrant  is  sweetest  of  all ! 


WHAT  THE  BEE  IS  TO  THE  FLOA^ERET. 

He. — What  the  bee  is  to  the  flow'ret, 
When  he  looks  for  honey-dew. 
Through  the  leaves  that  close  embowiirit, 
That,  my  love,  I'll  be  to  you. 

S/,e.— What  the  bank,  with  verdure  glowing, 
Is  to  waves  th.at  wander  near 
Wliisp'ring  kisses,  while  they're  going. 
That  I'll  be  to  you,  my  dear. 

She. — But  they  say,  the  bee's  a  rover. 

Who  will  fly,  when  sweets  are  gone ; 
And.  wiien  once  the  kiss  is  over. 
Faithless  brooks  will  wander  on. 


iO 


MOOEE'S  TTOKKb. 


He.- 


-Nav.  if  flowers  will  lose  their  looks, 
If  sunny  banks  xcill  wear  away, 
'Tis  but  right,  that  bees  and  brooks 
Should  sip  and  kiss  them  while  they  may. 


LOVE  AXD  THE  NOVICE. 

"  Here  we  dwell,  in  holiest  bowers, 

"  Where  ancrels  of  light  o'er  our  orisons  bend ; 
"  '\^^lere  sighs  of  devotion  and  breathings  of  flowcr.s 
'•  To  heaven  in  mingled  odor  ascend. 
"Do  not  disturb  our  calm,  oh  Love  ! 
"  So  like  is  tliy  form  to  the  cherubs  above, 
•  It  well  might  deceive  such  hearts  as  ours." 

Love  stood  near  the  NoWce  and  listen'd, 

And  Love  is  no  novice  in  taking  a  hint ; 
His  laughing  blue  eyes  soon  with  piety  glisten'd; 
His  rosy  wing  turn'd  to  heaven's  own  tint, 
"Who  would  have  thought,"  the  urchin  cries", 
"  That  Love  could  so  well,  so  gravely  disguise 
■  His  wandering  wings  and  wounding  eyes?" 

I.ovc  now  warms  thee,  waking  and  sleeping. 
Young  Novice,  to  him  all  lliy  orisons  rise, 
//■->  tinges  the  heavenly  fount  with  liis  weeping, 
Ue  brightens  the  censer's  flame  with  his  sighs. 
Love  is  the  Saint  enshrined  in  thy  breast. 
And  angels  themselves  would  admit  such  a 
guest, 
If  he  came  to  them  clothed  in  Piety's  vest. 


THIS  LIFE  IS  ALL  CIIECKER'O  WITH 
PLEASUUUS  AND  WOES. 

This  life  is  all  chcckcr'd  with  pleasures  and  woes. 

That  cli.'ise  one  another  like  waves  of  the  deep, — 
ICacli  brightly  or  darkly,  as  onv.-ard  it  (lows. 

Reflecting  our  eyes,  as  tlicy  Bparkle  or  weep. 
So  closely  our  whims  on  our  miseries  tread. 

That  the  laugh  is  awaked  ore  the  tear  cm  be 
dried ; 
And,  ns  fast  as  (he  rain-drop  of  I'ity  is  shed. 

The  gnose-plumage  of  Folly  can  turn  it  aside, 
riiit  pledge  me  the  cup — if  existence  would  cloy, 

Witli  heartH  ever  Imppy,  nnd  heads  over  wise, 
)le  oiirM  llip  light  Sorrow,  half-sister  to  Joy, 

And   the  light,  brilliant.  Folly  that  (liislios  and 
dk" 


Wlien  HyT"S  was  sent  witli  Iiis  urn  to  the  fount, 
Tlirough  fields  full  of  light,  and  with  heart  full 
of  play. 
Light  rambled  tlie  boy  oier  meadow  and  mount, 
And  neglected  his  task  for  the  flowers  on  the 
way." 
Thus  many,  like  me,  who  in  youth  should  have 
tasted 
The  fountain  that  runs  by  Pliilosopliy'.s  shrine, 
Their  time  with  the  flowers  on  the  margin  have 
wasted. 
And  left  their  light  urns  all  as  empty  as  mine. 
But  pledge  me  the  goblet ; — while  Idleness  weaves 
These  flow'rets  together,  sIiouM  Wisdom  but  see 
One  bright  drop  or  two  that  has  fall'n  on  the  leaves, 
From  her  fountain  divine,  'tis  surticient  for  mo. 


OH  THE  SILIMROCK. 

Through  Erin's  Isle, 

To  sport  awhile, 
As  Love  and  Valor  wa».der'd, 

With  Wit,  the  sprite, 

Wiiose  quiver  bright, 
A  thousand  arrows  squandei  1. 

Where'er  they  pass, 

A  triple  grass" 
Shoots  up,  with  dew-drops  streaming 

As  softly  green 

As  emeralds  seen 
Through  purest  crystal  gleaming. 
Oh  the  Shann-cick,  the  green,  immortal  Shamroi'li 

Chosen  leaf. 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock ! 

Says  V.alor,  "  Sec, 

"  Tlicy  spring  for  me, 
"Those  leafy  gems  of  morning !"- 

Says  Love,  "  No,  no, 

"  For  mc  they  grow, 
"  Jly  fragrant  ])ath  adorning." 

But  Wit  perceives 

The  triple  leaves. 
And  cries,  "Oh!  do  not  sever 

"  A  type,  tliat  blends 

"  Three  godlike  friends, 
"  Love,  Valor,  Wit,  for  ever!" 
Oh  (he  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  SImmrocic 

Cliosen  leaf 

Of  Hard  and  Clilef, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock! 


lEISn  MELODIES. 


41 


So  firmly  foml 

May  last  tlic  IjoiiJ 
Tliey  wove  that  morn  tojrctlier, 

And  ne'er  may  fall 

One  drop  of  gall 
On  Wit's  celestial  feather. 

May  Love,  as  twine 

Ilis  flowers  divine, 
Of  thorny  falseliood  weed  'em  ; 

Jlay  Valor  ne'er 

His  standard  rear 
Against  the  cause  of  Freedom  ! 
Oil  llie  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock ! 

Chosen  leaf 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock  ! 


AT  THE  MID  HOUR  OF  NIGHT. 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping, 
Ifiy 

To  tlio  lone  vale  we  loved,  when  life  shone  warm 
in  thine  eye ; 
And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  re- 
gions of  air. 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come 
to  me  there. 

And  tell  mc  our  love  is  rcmemher'd,  even  in  the 
sky. 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  'twa?  once  such  pleasure 

to  hear ! 
When  our  voices  commingling,  breathed,  like  one, 

on  the  ear ; 
And,  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad 

orison  rolls, 
I  think,  oh  my  love!   'tis   thy  voice  from   the 

Kingdom  of  Souls,'' 
F;ujitly  answering  still  the  notes  that  cnce  were  so 

dear. 


ONE  BUMPER  AT  PARTING. 

One  bumper  at  parting ! — though  m.any 

H.ive  circled  the  board  since  we  met. 
The  fullest,  the  saddest  of  any, 

Remains  to  be  crown'd  by  us  yet. 
The  sweetness  that  pleasure  hath  in  it. 

Is  always  so  slow  to  come  forth. 
That  seldom,  alas,  till  the  minute 

It  dies,  do  Wb  know  half  its  worth. 
6 


But  come, — may  our  life's  liappy  measure 
Be  all  of  such  moments  m,ade  up ; 

They're  born  on  tiie  bosom  of  Pleasure, 
They  die  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 

As  onward  we  journey,  how  pleasant 

To  pause  and  inhabit  awhile 
Those  few  sunny  spots,  like  the  present. 

That  'mid  the  dull  wilderness  smile  ! 
But  Time,  like  a  pitiless  master. 

Cries  "  Onward !"  and  spurs  the  gay  hour*- 
Ah,  never  doth  Time  travel  faster. 

Than  when  his  way  lies  among  flowers. 
But  come, — may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Be  .all  of  such  moments  made  up ; 
They're  born  on  the  bosom  of  Pleasure, 

They  die  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 

We  saw  how  the  sun  look'd  in  sinking, 

The  waters  beneath  him  how  bright; 
And  now,  let  our  farewell  of  drinking 

Resemble  th.at  forewell  of  light. 
You  saw  how  he  finish'd,  by  darting 

His  beam  o'er  a  deep  billow's  brim — 
So,  fill  up,  let's  shine  at  our  parting, 

In  full  liquid  glory,  like  him. 
And  oh !  may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Of  moments  like  this  be  made  up, 
'Twas  born  on  the  bosom  of  Pleasure, 

It  dies  'mid  the  tears  of  the  cup. 


'TIS  THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  fiided  and  gone ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred. 

No  rosebud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes. 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh. 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one  1 

To  pine  on  the  stem  ; 
Since  the  lovely  arc  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  tliem. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  loaves  o'er  the  bed. 
Where  tliy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  m.ay  I  follow, 
Wlien  frierHlshipB  decay, 


42 


MOOKE^S  WOEKS. 


And  from  Love's  sliiniiig  circle 
The  gems  drop  away. 

Wlien  true  liearts  lie  withered, 
And  fond  ones  are  fiowTi, 

Oh  I  who  would  inhabit 
This  bleak  world  alone  1 


TUE  YOUXG  MAY  MOON. 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love. 
The  glow-worm's  lamp  is  gleaming,  love, 

How  sweet  to  rove 

Through  Jlorna's  grove," 
When  the  drowsy  world  is  dreimiing,  love  ! 
Then  awake  I — the  heavens  look  bright,  my  dear, 
ris  never  too  late  for  delight,  my  dear. 

And  the  best  of  all  ways 

To  lengthen  our  d:iys, 
Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  deaj- ! 

Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love, 

Dut  the  Sage,  his  star-wateh  keeping,  love. 

Arid  I,  whose  star, 

More  glorious  far, 
Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping,  love. 
Then  awake  I — till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear, 
The  Sage's  glass  we'll  shun,  my  dear, 

Or,  in  watching  the  flight 

Of  bodies  of  light, 
lie  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my  dear. 


TIIK  MIKSTREL  EOT. 

The  Minstrel  Boy  to  the  war  is  gone. 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you'll  lind  him ; 
HLs  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on. 

And  his  wild  liarj)  swung  behind  him. — 
"  Land  of  song  I"  s;iid  the  warrior-bard, 

"  Though  ail  the  world  belniys  thee, 
"  Oik  sword,  at  le;wt,  thy  rigliU  shall  guard, 

"  Otk  faithful  harp  shall  pniiso  thee !" 

The  Minstrel  feli ! — but  the  foeman's  chain 

(,'oiiM  not  bring  liis  proud  soul  under; 
The  lifirp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again, 

Kiir  i'e  tore  il>t  chords  asinider; 
Anil  said,  "  N'n  ehiiini  Hliall  sully  llico, 

"  Thou  Hoiil  of  love  and  bravery  I 
"  Thy  HOMgs  were  ui;ule  for  the  pure  uuj  free, 

"They  iitiill  never  sound  in  slavery." 


THE  SONG  OF  OKUARK, 

rCINCE    OF    BEEFFNI.'" 

The  valley  lay  smiling  before  me, 

Where  lately  I  left  her  behind ; 
Yet  I  trembled,  and  something  hung  o'er  me 

That  sadden'd  the  joy  of  my  mind. 
I  look'd  for  the  lanjp  which,  she  told  me. 

Should  shine,  when  her  Pilgrim  return'd; 
But,  though  darkness  began  to  infold  me, 

No  lamp  from  tlie  battlements  burn'd! 

I  flew  to  her  chamber — 'twas  lonely. 

As  if  the  loved  tenant  lay  dead  ; — 
Ah,  would  it  were  death,  and  dealli  only ! 

But  no,  the  young  false  one  h.-id  lied. 
And  there  hung  the  lute  that  could  soften 

My  very  worst  pains  into  bliss ; 
While  the  hand,  that  had  waked  it  so  ofteiv. 

Now  throbb'd  to  a  proud  rival's  kiss. 

There  H'ffs  a  lime,  falsest  of  women, 

When  Breffiii's  good  swoi-d  would  have  sought 
That  man,  thro'  a  million  of  foemen. 

Who  dared  but  to  wrong  thee  in  thought ' 
While  now— oh  degenerate  daughter 

Of  Erin,  how  fall'n  is  thy  fame ! 
And  through  ages  of  bondage  and  slaughter, 

(Jur  country  shall  bleed  for  thy  shame. 

Already,  the  curse  is  upon  her, 

And  strangers  her  valleys  profane ; 
They  come  to  divide,  to  dishonor. 

And  tyrants  they  long  will  rcm.iin. 
But  onward  ! — the  green  banner  rearing. 

Go,  flesh  every  swonl  to  the  hilt, 
On  our  side  is  Virtue  and  Krin, 

On  llieirs  is  the  Sa.\on  and  guilt. 


Oil  I    HAD  WE  SOME  BRIGHT  LITTLE  ISLE 
OF  OUR  OWN. 

Oil!  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own. 
In  a  blue  suniiuer  ocean,  fir  olf  and  alone. 
Where  n  leaf  never  dies  in  the  still  blooming  )>ow 

ers, 
And  the  bee  banquct.i  on  through  a  whole  year  of 
flowers ; 

Where  the  sun  lovca  to  pauao 
With  so  fond  a  delay 


lEISH  MELODIES. 


45 


Tliat  the  niglit  only  draws 
A  tliin  veil  o'er  the  day ; 
Where  simply  to  feel  that  we  breathe,  that  we  live, 
[8  worth  tlie  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere  can  give. 

There,  with  souls  ever  ardent  and  pure  as  the  elirae, 
We  should  love,  as  they  loved  in  the  lirst  golden 

time ; 
The  glow  of  the  sunshine,  the  balm  of  the  air. 
Would  steal  to  our  hearts,  and  make  all  summer 
there. 

With  afTection  as  free 

From  decline  as  the  bowers, 
And,  with  hope,  like  the  bee. 
Living  always  on  flowers, 
Our  life  should  resemble  a  long  day  of  light. 
And  our  death  come  on,  holy  and  calm  as  the  night. 


FAREWEIL!— BUT  WUENEVER  YOU 
WELCOME  THE  HOUR. 

Farewell  ! — but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour, 
That  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirtli  in  your 

bower, 
rhcu  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcomed  it  too. 
And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with  you. 
His  griefs  may  return,  not  a  hope  may  remain 
Of  the  few  that  have  brighten'd  his  pathway  of  pain, 
But  he  ne'er  wiP.  forget  the  short ;  ision,  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him,  while  ling'ring  with 

you. 

And  still  on  that  evening,  when  pleasure  fills  up 
To  the  Mghest  top  sparkle  each  heart  and  each  cup, 
Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright, 
My  soul,  happy  friends,  shall  be  with  you  that  night; 
Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and  your  wiles, 
And  return    to   me,  beaming  all   o'er   with  your 

smiles — 
Too  bless"d,  if  it  tells  me  that,  'mid  the  gay  cheer, 
Some  kind  voice  had  murmur'd,  "  I  wish  he  were 

here !" 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Uright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot  destroy; 
Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care. 
And  bring  b.ack  the  features  that  joy  used  to  wear. 
Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  fiU'd ! 
Like  the  vase,  in  wliich  roses  have  once  been  dis- 

till'd— 
You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase,  if  you 

will. 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  han"-  round  it  still. 


OH  !  DOUBT  ME  NOT. 

Oh  !  doubt  me  not — llie  season 

Is  o'er,  when  Folly  made  me  rove, 
And  now  the  vestal,  Reason, 

Shall  watch  the  fire  awaked  by  Love. 
Although  this  heart  was  early  blown. 

And  fairest  hands  disturb'd  tlie  tree, 
They  only  shook  some  blossoms  down. 
Its  fruit  has  all  been  kept  for  thee. 
Then  doubt  me  not — the  season 

Is  o'er,  when  J'olly  made  me  rove, 
And  now  the  vestal,  Reason, 

Hhall  watcli  the  fire  awaked  by  Love. 

And  though  my  lute  no  longer 

Blay  sing  of  Passion's  ardent  spell, 
Yet,  trust  me,  all  the  stronger 
I  feel  the  bliss  I  do  not  tell. 
The  bee  through  many  a  garden  roves, 

And  hums  his  lay  of  courtship  o'er. 
But  when  he  finds  the  flower  he  loves. 
He  settles  there,  and  hums  no  more. 
Then  doubt  me  not — the  season 

Is  o'er,  when  Folly  kept  me  free, 
And  now  the  vestal.  Reason, 

Shall  guard  the  flame  awaked  by  thee. 


YOU  REMEMBER  ELLEN." 

You  remember  Ellen,  our  hamlet's  pride. 

How  meekly  she  bless'd  her  humble  lot. 
When  the  stranger,  William,  had  made  her  his  bride 

And  love  was  the  light  of  their  lowly  cot. 
Together  they  toil'd  through  winds  and  rain.s. 

Till  William,  at  length,  in  sadness  said, 
"We  must  seek  our  fortune  on  other  plains;"— 

Then,  sighing,  she  left  her  lowly  shed. 

They  roam'd  a  long  and  a  weary  way, 

Nor  much  was  the  m.aiden's  heart  at  ea.se, 
When  now,  at  close  of  one  stormy  d.ay, 

They  see  a  proud  castle  iimong  the  trees. 
"  To-night,"  said  the  youtli,  "  we'll  shelter  there 

"  The  wind  blows  cold,  the  hour  is  late  :" 
So  he  blew  the  horn  with  a  chieftain's  air, 

And  the  Porter  bow'd,  as  they  pass'd  the  gate. 

"  Now  welcome,  Lady,"  exclaim'd  the  youth, — 
'•  This  castle  is  thine,  and  these  dark  woods  all !" 

She  believed  him  crazed,  but  his  words  were  truth. 
For  Ellen  is  Lady  of  Rosna  Hall  1 


44 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS, 


And  dearly  the  Lord  of  Rosna  loves 

■\\"Tiat  William,  the  stranger,  wooM  and  wed; 

A  nd  the  light  of  bliss,  in  these  lordly  groves. 
Shines  pure  as  it  did  in  the  lowly  shed. 


TD  MOURN  THE  HOPES. 

Fd  mourn  the  hopes  that  leave  me. 

If  thy  smiles  had  left  me  too  ; 
I'd  weep  when  friends  deceive  me. 

If  thou  wert,  like  them,  untrue. 
But  wliile  I've  thee  before  me. 

With  heart  so  warm  and  eyes  so  bright, 
No  clouds  can  linger  o'er  me, 

That  smile  turns  them  all  to  light. 

'Tis  not  in  fate  to  harm  me, 

Wiile  fate  leaves  thy  love  to  me ; 
'Tis  not  in  joy  to  charm  me. 

Unless  joy  be  shared  with  thee. 
One  minute's  dream  about  thee 

Were  worth  a  long,  an  endless  year 
Of  waking  bliss  without  tlice. 

My  own  love,  my  only  dear ! 

And  though  the  hope  be  gone,  lovo. 

That  long  sparkled  o'er  our  way, 
Oh !  we  sliall  journey  on,  love. 

More  safely,  without  its  ray. 
Far  better  liglits  shall  win  ine 

Along  the  path  I've  yet  to  roam ; — 
The  mind  that  bums  within  mc. 

And  pure  smiles  from  thee  at  home. 

Tims  when  tlie  lamp  tliat  lighted 

The  traveller  at  f.rst  goes  out, 
He  feels  awhile  benighted. 

And  looks  round  in  fear  and  doubt. 
But  soon,  tlie  prospect  clearing. 

By  cloudless  starlight  on  he  treads, 
And  thinks  no  lamp  so  cheering, 

As  that  liglit  which  Ilp.ivcn  sheds. 


COMF,  O'ER  THE  SEA. 

CovF.  o'er  (lie  bcu, 

Maiili'n,  wilh  mf", 
Mino  tnrough  Kunsliinc,  Hlorni,  and  snow.<; 

ScAMonH  may  roll, 

But  tlio  true  soul 
nurnii  (ho  same,  where'er  it  goen. 


Let  fate  frown  on,  so  we  love  and  part  not ; 
'Tis  life  where  thou  art,  'tis  death  where  thouTt  not 
Then  come  o'er  the  se;i. 
Maiden,  with  me. 
Come  wherever  the  wild  \\-ind  blows ; 
Seasons  may  roll. 
But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same,  where'er  it  goes. 

Was  uot  the  sea 

IMade  for  the  Free, 
L.ind  for  courts  .and  chains  alono  ' 

Here  we  are  slaves. 

But,  on  the  waves. 
Love  and  Liberty's  all  our  own. 
No  eye  to  watch,  and  no  tongue  to  wound  us, 
All  earth  forgot,  and  all  heaven  around  ns — 

Then  come  o'er  the  se.i, 

Jl.aiden,  with  me, 
Mino  through  sunshine,  storm,  and  snows : 

Seasons  may  roll, 

But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same  where'er  it  goes. 


HAS  SORROW  THY  YOUNG  DAi'S  SHADKU 

Has  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded, 

As  clouds  o'er  tlio  morning  licet? 
Too  fast  have  those  young  days  faded, 

That,  ev'n  in  sorrow,  were  sweet ! 
Docs  Time  with  his  cold  wing  wither 

Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear? — 
Then,  child  of  misfortune,  come  hither, 

ril  wcoj)  with  tliec,  tear  for  tear. 

Has  love  to  that  soul,  so  tender, 

Been  like  our  L:igenian  mine," 
Where  sparkles  of  golden  splendor 

All  over  the  snrlace  shine  ? — 
But,  if  in  pursuit  wo  go  deeper. 

Allured  by  the  gleam  that  shone, 
Ah !  false  as  the  dream  of  the  sleeper, 

Like  Love,  the  bright  ore  is  gone. 

Has  Hope,  like  the  bird  in  the  story," 

That  llilted  from  tree  to  tree 
Wilh  llio  talisman's  glilt'rir)g  glory — 

Has  Hope  boon  that  bird  to  thee? 
On  branch  after  branch  alighting, 

The  gem  did  Hho  still  display. 
And,  when  nciircHi  and  most  inviling, 

Then  wnfl  the  fair  gem  nway' 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


40 


[f  thus  the  young  hours  have  fleeted, 

When  sorrow  itself  look'd  brifjlit; 
If  thus  the  fair  liope  Iiatli  elicited, 

That  led  thee  alon(^  so  li^Hit ; 
If  thus  the  cold  world  now  uither 

Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear : — 
Come,  child  of  misfortune,  come  hither, 

I'll  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear. 


NO,  NOT  MORE  'WTILCOME. 

No,  not  more  welcome  tlie  fairy  numbers 

Of  music  fall  on  the  sleeper's  ear. 
Whan  half-awaking  from  fearful  slumbers, 

He  thinks  the  full  quire  of  heaven  is  near, — 
Than  came  that  voice,  when,  all  forsaken. 

This  heart  long  had  sleeping  lain. 
Nor  thought  its  cold  pulse  would  ever  wakon 

To  such  benign,  blest  sounds  again. 

Sweet  voice  of  comfort!  'twas  like  the  stealing 

Of  summer  wind  thro'  some  -wreathed  shell — 
Each  secret  winding,  each  inmost  feeling 

Of  .ill  my  soul  echoed  to  its  spell. 
'Twas  v.'hisper'd  balm — 'tw.is  sunshine  spoken ! — 

I'd  live  years  of  grief  and  pain 
To  have  my  long  sleep  of  sorrow  broken 

Uv  such  benign,  blest  sounds  again. 


WHEN  FIRST  I  MET  THEE. 

When  first  I  met  thee,  warm  and  young. 

There  shone  such  truth  about  thee, 
And  on  thy  lip  such  promise  hung, 

I  did  not  dare  to  doubt  thee. 
I  s.aw  thee  change,  yet  still  relied. 
Still  clung  \\'ith  hope  the  fonder. 
And  thought,  though  false  to  all  beside. 
From  me  thou  eouldst  not  wander. 
But  go,  deceiver !  go. 

The  heart,  whose  hopes  could  m.ake  it 
Trust  one  so  false,  so  low. 
Deserves  that  thou  shouldst  break  it. 

When  every  tongue  thy  follies  named, 

I  fled  the  unwelcome  story ; 
Or  found,  in  even  the  faults  they  blamed, 

Some  gleams  of  future  glory, 
/still  w.as  true,  wlien  nearer  friends 

Conspired  to  wrong,  to  slight  thee; 


The  heart  that  now  thy  falsehood  rends 
Would  then  h.ave  bled  to  right  thee. 
But  go,  deceiver !  go, — 

Some  day,  perhaps,  thou'lt  waken 
From  pleasure's  dream,  to  know 
The  grief  of  hearts  forsaken. 

Even  now,  though  youth  its  bloom  has  she 

No  lights  of  age  adorn  thee: 
Tlie  few,  who  loved  thee  once,  have  fled, 

And  they,  who  flatter,  scorn  thee. 
Thy  midnight  cup  is  pledged  to  slaves, 

No  genial  ties  enwreath  it ; 
The  smiling  there,  like  light  on  graves. 
Has  ratik  cold  hearts  beneath  it. 
Go — go — though  worlds  were  thine, 

I  would  not  now  surrender 
One  t.iintlcss  tear  of  mine 
For  all  thy  guilty  splendor ! 

And  days  may  come,  thou  false  one !  yet 

When  even  those  ties  shall  sever; 
When  thou  -wilt  call,  with  vain  regret, 

On  her  thou'st  lost  for  ever; 
On  her  who,  in  thy  fortune's  fall. 

With  smiles  had  still  received  thee, 
And  gladly  died  to  prove  thee  all 
Her  fancy  first  believed  thee. 
Go — go — 'tis  vain  to  curse, 

'Tis  weakness  to  upbraid  thee ; 
H.ate  cannot  wLsh  thee  worse 

Than  guilt  and  shame  have  made  iha 


WHILE  HISTORY'S  MUSE. 

While  History's  Jluse  the  memorial  was  keeping 

Of  all  that  the  dark  hand  of  Destiny  weaves. 
Beside  her  the  Genius  of  Erin  stood  weeping, 

For  her's  was  the  story  that  blotted  the  leaves. 
But  oh !  how  the  tear  in  her  eyelids  grew  bright, 
Wlien,  after  whole  pages  of  sorrow  and  shame. 
She  saw  History  \vi-ite, 
With  a  pencil  of  light 
Tli.at  illumed  the  whole  volume,  her  Wellington's 
name. 

"  Hail,  Star  of  my  Isle  I"  said  the  Spirit,  all  spar- 
kling 
With  beams,  such  as  break  from  her  own  dewy 
skies — 
"  Through  ages  of  sorrow,  deserted  and  darklirg, 
"  I've  watch'd  for  some  glory  like  thine  to  arise. 


46 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


"  For,  though  Heroes  I've  number'd,  unbless'd  was 

their  lot, 
•  .Ajid  unhallow'd  they  sleep  in  the  crossways  of 
Fame ; — 

"  But  oh  !  there  is  not 
"  One  dishonoring'  blot 
"On  tiie  wTeath   that  encircles  my  Wellington's 
name. 

"  Yet  still  the  last  cro\vn  of  thy  toils  is  remaining, 
"The  grandest,  the  purest,  ev'n  thou  hast  yet 
known ; 
"Though  proud  was  thy  task,  other  nations  un- 
chaining, 
"  Far  prouder  to  heal  the  deep  wounds  of  thy 
own. 
'=  At  the  foot  of  that  throne  for  whose  weal  thou 

hast  stood, 
■'  jfo,  plead  for  the  land  that  first  cradled  thy  fame, 
"  And,  bright  o'er  the  flood 
"  Of  her  tears  and  her  blood, 
"I-f-l   the  rainbow  of  Hope  be  her  Wellington's 
name!" 


No,  vain,  alas !  th'  endeavor 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever; 

Poor  Wisdom's  chance 

Against  a  glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever. 


TETE  TIME  I'VK  LOST  IN  WOOING. 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing. 
In  watching  and  pursuing 

The  light,  that  lies 

In  woman's  eyes, 
lias  been  my  hcirl's  undoing. 
Though  Wisdom  oft  has  sought  mo, 
I  scorn'd  the  lore  she  brought  me, 

My  only  books 

Were  woman's  looks, 
,\nd  folly's  uU  they've  taught  me. 

Her  smile  when  Beauty  granted, 
I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted. 

Like  him  the  sprite," 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Ofl  meet  in  glen  that's  haunted. 
Like  him,  too.  Beauty  won  me. 
But  while  her  eyes  were  on  me, 

If  once  their  ray 

Was  turn'd  away, 
O  !  winds  could  not  oulrnn  me. 

And  arc  thoHC  follioH  goingi 
And  U  my  proud  heart  growing 

Tiifi  cold  or  wise 

Ki>r  lirill'mn'  eyes 
Again  to  not  it  Binwiiii'' 


WHERE  IS  THE  SLAVE. 

Oh,  Where's  the  slave  so  lowly. 
Condemned  to  chains  unholy. 

Who,  could  he  burst 

His  bonds  .at  first. 
Would  pine  beneath  them  slowly? 
What  sou!,  whose  wrongs  degrade  it, 
Would  wait  till  time  deeay'd  it, 

Wlien  thus  its  wing 
■  At  once  may  spring 
To  the  throne  of  Him  who  m.ide  it  ? 

Farewell,  Erin, — farewell,  .all. 
Who  live  to  weep  otir  fall ! 

Less  dear  the  laurel  growing. 
Alive,  untoueh'd  and  blowing. 

Than  that,  whose  braid 

Is  pluck'd  to  shade 
The  brows  with  victory  glowing. 
We  tread  the  land  that  bore  us. 
Her  green  flag  glitters  o'er  us. 

The  friends  we've  tried 

Ave  by  our  side, 
And  the  foe  we  hate  before  us. 

Farewell,  Erin, — farewell,  .all. 
Who  live  to  weep  our  fall ! 


COME.  REST  IN  THIS  BOSOM. 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer, 
Though  the  herd  h.avc  flown  from  thee,  thy  home 

is  still  here  ; 
HiTc  still  is  the  smile,  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 
And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last. 

Oh  I  what  was  love  made  fnr.  iflii  iwl  the  same 
Through  j^ynnd  through  li>rnieMt,  lludii^'h  gliir» 

and  shame? 
I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if  guilt's  In  lh.it  hi'nrt, 
I  but  know  that  1  love  llieo,  wh.itever  Ihou  art 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


47 


Thou  hast  call'd  mc  tliy  Angel  in  moments  of  bliss. 
And  thy  Angel  I'll  be,  'mid  the  liorrorH  of  this, — 
Through   the   furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps   to 

pursue. 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee, — or  perish  there 

too! 


'TIS  GONE,  AND  FOR  EVER. 

Tis  gone,  and  for  ever,  the  light  we  saw  breaking. 
Like  Heaven's  first  dawn  o'er  the  sleep  of  the 
dead — 
When  Man,  from  the  slumber  of  ages  awaking, 
Look'd  upward,  and  bless'd  the  pure  ray,  ere  it 
fleu. 
'Tis  gone,  and  the  gleams  it  has  left  of  its  burning 
But  deepen  the  long  night  of  bondage  and  mourning. 
That  dark  o'er  the  kingdoms  of  earth  in  returning, 
And  darkest  of  all,  hapless  Erin,  o'er  thee. 

For  higli  was  thy  hope,  when  those  glories  were 
darting 
Around  thee,  through  all  tlie  gross  clouds  of  the 
world ; 
When  Truth,  from  her  fetters  indignantly  starting, 
At  once,  like  a  Sun-burst,  her  banner  unfurl'd.'^ 
Oh !  never  shall  earth  see  a  moment  so  splendid ! 
Then,  then — had  one  Hymn  of  Deliverance  blended 
The  tongues  cf  all  nations — how  sweet  had  as- 
cended 
The  first  note  of  Liberty,  Erin,  from  thee ! 

But,  shame  on  those  tyrants,  who  envied  the  bless- 
ing! 

And  shame  on  the  light  race,  unworthy  its  good. 
Who,  at  Death's  reeking  altar,  like  furies,  caressing 

The  young  hope  of  Freedom,  baptized  it  in  blood. 
Then  vanish'd  for  ever  that  fair,  sunny  vision. 
Which,  spite  of  the  slavish,  the  cold  heart's  derision, 
Sh.iU  long  be  remember'd,  pure,  bright,  and  elysian 

As  first  it  arose,  my  lost  Erin,  on  thee. 


I  SAW  FROil  THE  BEACH. 

I  SAW  from   the  beach,  when  the   morning  was 
sinning, 
A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  glonously  on ; 
1  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  be.ach  was  declining, 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were 
gone. 


And  such  is  the  fate  of  our  life's  early  primise, 
So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  known; 

Each  wave,  that  we  danced  on  at  morning,  ebba 
from  us, 
And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  bleak  shore  alone. 

Ne'er  tell  me  of  glories,  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night;— 
Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  of 
Morning, 
Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  Evening's 
best  light. 

Oh,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment's  retum- 

inff. 
Wlien  passion  first  waked  a  new  life  through  his 
fr.ame, 
And  his  soul,  like  the  wood,  that  grows  precious  11 
burning, 
Gave  out  .all  its  sweets  to  love's  exquisite  flame. 


FILL  THE  BUMPER  FAIR. 

Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 
Wit's  electric  fl.ame 

Ne'er  so  swiftly  passes, 
As  when  through  the  frame 

It  shoots  from  brimming  glass**. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 

Sages  can,  they  say. 

Grasp  the  lightning's  pinions, 
And  bring  down  its  r.ay 

From  the  starr'd  dominions:— 
So  we,  Sages,  sit, 

And,  'mid  bumpers  bright'ning, 
From  the  Heaven  of  Wit 

Dr.aw  down  all  its  ligh.tning. 

Wouldst  thou  know  what  first 

Made  our  souls  inlierit 
This  ennobling  tliirst 

For  wine's  celestial  spirit  ? 
It  chanced  upon  th.at  day. 

When,  as  bards  inform  us, 
Prometheus  stole  away 

The  li^^ng  fires  that  warm  as: 


i-i 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


The  careless  Youth,  when  up 

To  Glory's  fount  .ispirin^. 
Took  nor  urn  nor  cup 

To  hide  the  pilfer'd  fire  in. — 
But  oh  lu3  jo_v,  when,  round 

The  halls  of  Heaven  spying, 
Among  the  stars  he  found 

A  bowl  of  Bacchus  lying ! 

Some  drops  were  in  that  bowl. 

Remains  of  last  night's  pleasure, 
With  which  tlie  Sparks  of  Soul 

5IL\'d  their  burning  treasure 
Hence  the  goblet's  sliower 

Hath  such  spells  to  wm  us; 
Hence  its  mighty  power 

O'er  that  flame  within  us. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 


DEAR  HARP  OF  MT  COUNTRY. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country!  in  darkness  I  found 
thee, 
The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee 
long," 
When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp,  I  unbound 
tlieo. 
And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and 
song! 
The  warm  lay  of  love  and  the  light  note  of  glad- 
ness 
Have  wiikcn'd  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thrill ; 
But,  80  oft  hast  thou  echo'd  the  deep  sigh  of  sad- 
ness, 
That  ev'n  in  thy  niirlli  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country  I   farewell  to  thy  num- 
bers. 
This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  wo  shall 
twine ! 
Go,  sleep  with  the  sunshine  of  Fame  on  thy  slum- 
bers. 
Till  touch'd  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than 
mine ; 
ir  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover, 

Have  throbb'd  at  our  lay,  'tis  thy  glory  alone  ; 
1  was  but  as  the  wind,  passing  heedlessly  over, 
And  0.'!  the  wild  sweetness  I  wukcd  was  tliy  own. 


MY  GENTLE  HARP. 

My  gentle  Harp,  once  more  I  waken 

The  sweetness  of  thy  slumb'ring  stnun ; 
In  tears  our  last  farewell  w.as  tiiken, 

And  now  in  tears  we  meet  again. 
No  light  of  joy  hath  o'er  thee  broken. 

But,  like  tliose  Harps  whose  heav'nly  skill 
Of  slavery,  dark  as  tliine,  hath  spoken, 

Thou  hang'st  upon  tlie  willows  still. 

And  yet,  since  last  thy  chord  resounded, 

An  hour  of  jieaee  and  triumph  came. 
And  many  an  ardent  bosom  bounded 

With  hopes — that  now  .are  turn'd  to  sham«. 
Yet  even  then,  while  Pe.aco  was  singing 

Her  halcyon  song  o'er  hand  and  sea. 
Though  joy  and  hope  to  others  bringing, 

Slie  only  brought  new  tears  to  thee. 

Then,  who  can  .ask  for  notes  of  pleasure, 

Jfy  drooping  Harp,  from  chords  like  thine? 
Alas,  tlie  lark's  gay  moniing  measure 

As  ill  would  suit  the  swan's  decline  ! 
Or  how  shall  I,  who  love,  who  bless  thee. 

Invoke  thy  breath  for  Freedom's  strains, 
When  ev'n  the  wreatlis  in  which  I  dress  thee. 

Arc  sadly  mixed — lialf  llow'rs,  half  ch.oina  ' 

But  come — if  yet  thy  frame  can  borrow 

One  breath  of  joy,  oh,  breathe  for  me, 
And  show  the  world,  in  chains  and  sorrow, 

How  sweet  thy  music  still  can  be  ; 
How  gayly,  ev'n  mid  gloom  surrounding, 

Thou  yet  canst  wake  at  pleasure's  thrill — 
Like  Memnon's  broken  image  sounding, 

'Slid  desolation  tuneful  still !" 


IN  THE  MORNING  OF  LIFE. 

In  the  morning  of  life,  when  its  cares  arc  unknown. 

And  its  ])lcasurcs  in  all  their  new  lustre  begin. 
When  we  live  in  a  bright-beaming  world  of  our 
own, 
And   the    light   that   surrounds  us  is  all   froffi 
williin  ; 
O  'tis  not,  believe  me,  in  that  happy  time 

We  Clin  love,  as  in  hours  of  less  transport  wc 
may ; — 
Of  onr  hMiiles,  of  our  hopes,  'tis  the  g.ay  sunny 
prime. 
But  alTectiou  Is  truest  when  these  fade  away. 


IKISII  AlillLODIES. 


19 


When  wo  see  the  first  glory  of  youth  pass  us  by, 

Like  a  le;if  on  the  stream  that  will  never  return ; 
Wlien  our  cup,  which  liaf.  sparkled  with  pleasure 
80  high, 

First  tastes  of  the  other,  the  dark-flowing  urn; 
Then,  then  is  the  time  when  affection  holds  sway 

With  a  depth  and  a  tenderness  joy  never  knew; 
Love,  nursed  among  pleasures,  is  faitliless  as  they, 

But  the  Love  born  of  Sorrow,  like  Sorrow,  is 
true. 

In  climes  full  of  sunshine,  tliough  splendid   the 
flowers, 
Their  sighs   have   no   freshness,  their  odor  no 
worth ; 
'Tis  the  cloud  and  tlie  mist  of  our  own  Isle  of 
sliowers, 
That  call  the  rich  spirit  of  fragrancy  forth. 
So  it  is  not  mid  splendor,  prosperity,  mirth. 

That  the  depth  of  Love's  generous  spirit  appears; 
To  the  sunshine  of  smiles  it  may  first  owe  its  birth, 
But  the  soul  of  its  sweetness  is  drawn  out  by 
tears. 


Aa  SLOW  OUR  SHIP. 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving. 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  look'd  back 

To  that  dear  Isle  'twas  leaving. 
So  loath  we  part  from  all  we  love. 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us ; 
So  turn  our  hearts  as  on  we  rove, 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us. 

When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanish'd  ye^irs 

We  talk,  with  joyous  seeming, — 
With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears. 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming ; 
While  mem'ry  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us. 
Oh,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us. 

And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle,  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flow'ry,  wild,  and  sweet. 

And  naught  but  love  is  wanting ; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss, 

If  Heav'n  had  but  assign'd  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this. 

With  some  we've  left  behind  U8 ! 


As  trav'lers  oft  look  back  at  eve. 

When  eastward  darkly  going. 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  tliem  glowing, — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consign'd  us, 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 


WHEN  COLD  IN  THE  EARTH. 

When  cold  in  the  earth  lies  the  friend  thou  nuA 
loved, 
Be  his  f;iults  and  his  follies  forgot  by  thoc  men- 
Or,  if  from  their  slumber  the  veil  'oe  removed. 

Weep  o'er  them  in  silence,  and  close  it  agai'j. 
And  oh !  if  'tis  pain  to  remember  how  far 
From  the  pathways  of  light  he  w.as  tempted  to 
roam, 
Be  it  bliss  to  remember  that  thou  wert  the  star 
That  arose  on  his  darkness,  and    guided   him 
home. 

From  thee  and  thy  innocent  beauty  first  came 
The  revealings,  that  taugiit  him  true  love  to 
adore, 
To  feel  the  bright  presence,  and  turn  him  with 
shame 
From  the  idols  he  blindly  had  knelt  to  before. 
O'er  the  waves  of  a  life,  long  benighted  and  wild, 
Thou  cam'st,  like  a  soft  golden  calm  o'er  the 
sea; 
And  if  happiness  purely  and  glowingly  smiled 
On  his  ev"ning  horizon,  the  light  was  from  thee. 

And  though,  sometimes,  the  shades  of  past  folly 
might  rise. 
And  though  falsehood  again  would  allure  liim  tc 
stray, 
He  but  turn'd  to  the  glory  that  dwelt  in  those 
eyes. 
And  the  folly,  the  falsehood,  soon  vanish'd  away 
As  the  Priests  of  the  Sun,  when  their  altar  grew 
dim. 
At  the  day-beam  alone  could  its  lustre  repair. 
So,  if  virtue  a  moment  grew  languid  in  him, 
He  but  flew  to  that  smile,  ard  rekindled  it  thew 


50 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS 


KElIEilBER  THEK 

RiMEMBEr.  thee?  yes,  while  there's  life  in  this  lieart. 
It  shall  never  forget  tliee,  all  lorn  as  thou  art ; 
More  dear  in  thy   sorrow,  thy  gloom,   and   thy 

showers. 
Than  the  rest  of  the  world  in  their  sunniest  hours. 

Wert  thou  all  that  I  wish  thee,  great,  glorious,  and 

free. 
First  flower  of  the  earth,  and  first  gem  of  the  sea, 
I  might  h:ul  thee  \nth  prouder,  with  happier  brow. 
But  oh !  could  I  love  thee  more  deeply  than  now? 

No.  tliy  chains  as  they  rankle,  tliy  blood  as  it  runs, 
Kut  make  thee  more  painfully  dear  to  thy  sons — 
Whose  hearts,  like  the  yonng  of  the  desert-bird's 

nest, 
Dhak  love  in  each  life-drop  tliat  flows  from  thy 

breast. 


WREATH  THE  BOWL. 

Wreath  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

Tho  brightest  Wit  can  find  us; 
We'll  t;ike  a  flight 
Tow'rds  heaven  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 
Should  Love  amid 
The  wreaths  be  hid. 

That  Joy  th'  enchanter,  bruigs  u», 
No  danger  fear, 
Wliilc  wine  is  near. 

We'll  drown  him  if  he  stings  us. 
Then,  wreath  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

I'lie  briglitcst  Wit  can  find  us, 
We'll  take  a  flight 
Tow'rds  heaven  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  uh. 

'Twa»  ncctnr  fed 

Of  old,  'tis  said, 
'Vheir  Junos,  Joves,  Apolloa; 

And  man  may  brew 

I  lis  nectar  too, 
Tlic  rich  recelpt'«  as  follows; 

Take  wine  like  this. 

}a'1  looks  of  l)lis« 
Arcund  it  well  be  blciidod. 


Then  bring  Wil's  beam 
To  warm  the  stream, 

And  there's  your  nectar,  'splendid  t 
So  wreath  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us; 
We'll  take  a  flight 
Tow'rds  heaven  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 

Say,  why  did  Time, 

Kis  ghiss  sublime, 
Fill  up  with  sands  unsightly. 

When  wine,  he  knew, 

Runs  brisker  through 
And  sparkles  far  more  brightly  ? 

Oh,  lend  it  us. 

And,  smiling  thus, 
Tiie  glass  in  two  we'll  sever, 

JIake  pleasure  glide 

In  double  tide. 
And  fill  both  ends  for  ever! 

Then  wreath  the  bowl 

With  flowers  of  aoul. 
The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 

We'll  t.ake  a  flight 

Tow'rds  heaven  to-night. 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 


WHENE'ER  I  SEE  THOSE  SMILING  ET  ES 

Wiif.ne'kk  I  sec  those  smiling  eyes. 

So  fail  of  hope,  and  joy,  and  light. 
As  if  no  cloud  could  ever  rise. 

To  dim  a  Iicav'n  so  purely  briglit- 
I  sigh  to  tliink  how  soon  that  brow 

In  grief  may  lose  its  every  ray. 
And  that  light  heart,  so  joyous  now, 

Almost  forget  it  onoo  was  gay. 

For  lime  will  come  wilh  all  ils  blighls, 

The  ruin'd  hope,  the  fiiend  unkind. 
And  love,  that  Ic.ives,  where'er  it  lights, 

A  cliiU'd  or  burning  heart  behind: — 
While  yonlli,  (hat  now  like  snow  appears, 

I)re  Kullicil  by  llio  dark'ning  rain, 
When  once  'lis  lonch'il  by  sorrow's  tc.ini 

Can  never  sliino  so  bright  asjain. 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


IF  THOU'LT  BE  MINE. 

In  some,  as  in  a  mirror, 

Love  seems  porlray'd,  Love  seems  portray'd, 

Ik  thou'lt  be  mine,  llic  troasiires  of  air, 

I3ut  shun  tlie  llatt'ring  error, 

Of  eai-tii,  and  sea,  sliall  lie  at  thy  feet ; 

'Tis  but  his  shade,  'tis  but  his  shade. 

Wliatever  in  Fancy's  eye  looks  fair. 

Himself  has  fix'd  his  dwelling 

Or  in  Hope's  sweet  music  sounds  most  sweet, 

In  eyes  we  know,  in  eyes  we  know. 

Shall  be  ours — if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  love! 

And  lips — but  this  is  telling — 

So  Iiere  they  go !  so  here  they  go ! 

Briglit  flowers  shall  bloom  wherever  we  rove, 

Fill  up,  fill  up — where'er,  boy. 

A  voice  divine  shall  talk  in  each  stream; 

Our  choice  may  fall,  our  choice  may  fall, 

The  stars  shall  look  like  worlds  of  love. 

We're  sure  to  find  Love  there,  boy, 

And  this  earth  be  all  one  beautiful  dream 

So  drink  tliem  all  I  so  drink  tliem  all ! 

In  our  eyes — if  lliou  \vilt  be  mine,  love ! 

And  thoughts,  whose  source  is  hidden  and  hiu;h, 

Like  streams,  that  come  from  heaven-ward  hills. 

FORGET  NOT  THE  FIELD. 

Shall  keep  our  hearts,  like  meads,  that  lie 

To  be  bathed  by  those  eternal  rills. 

FoKGET  not  the  field  where  tliey  perish'd. 

Ever  green — if  thou  wilt  bo  mine,  love ! 

The  truest,  the  last  of  the  br.ave. 

All  gone — and  the  bright  hope  we  chcrisli'd 

All  this  and  more  the  Spirit  of  Love 

Gone  with  them,  and  queneh'd  in  their  grave 

Can  breathe  o'er  them,  who  feel  his  spells; 

That  lieaven,  which  forms  his  home  above. 

Oh !  could  we  from  death  but  recover 

lie  can  make  on  earth,  wlierever  he  dwells. 

Tliose  hearts  as  tliey  bounded  before. 

As  thou'lt  own — if  tliou  wilt  be  mine,  love! 

In  the  face  of  higli  heav'n  to  fight  over 

That  combat  for  freedom  once  more ; — 

Could  the  chain  for  an  instant  be  riven 

Which  Tyranny  flung  round  us  then, 

TO  LADIES'  EYES. 

No,  'tis  not  in  Man,  nor  in  Heaven, 

To  Ladies'  eyes  around,  boy. 

To  let  Tyranny  bind  it  again ! 

We  can't  refuse,  we  can't  refuse. 

Though  bright  eyes  so  abound,  boy, 

But  'tis  past — and,  tlio'  blazon'd  in  story 

'Tis  hard  to  choose,  'tis  hard  to  choose. 

The  name  of  our  Victor  may  be. 

Vor  tliick  as  stars  that  ligbten 

Accursed  is  the  march  of  that  glory 

Yon  airy  bow'rs,  yon  airy  bow'rs. 

Which  treads  o'er  the  liearts  of  the  free. 

The  countless  eyes  th.at  brighten 

This  eartli  of  ours,  tliis  earth  of  ours. 

Far  dearer  the  grave  or  tlic  prison. 

But  fill  the  cup — -where'er,  boy. 

Illumed  by  one  jiatriot  name. 

Our  choice  m.ay  fiiU,  our  choice  may  fall, 

Than  the  trophies  of  .all,  who  have  risen 

We're  sure  to  thid  Love  there,  boy. 

On  Liberty's  ruins  to  fame. 

So  drink  fliem  all !  so  drink  tlicm  all ! 

Some  looks  there  are  so  holy, 

They  seem  but  giv'n,  they  seem  but  giv'n, 

THEY  MAY  RAIL  AT  THIS  LIFE. 

As  shining  beacons,  solely, 

To  light  to  heav'n,  to  light  to  heav'n. 

They  may  rail  at  tins  life — from  t!ie  hour  I  began  it, 

While  some — oh !  ne'er  believe  them — 

I  found  it  a  life  full  of  kindness  and  bliss ; 

With  tempting  ray,  with  tempting  ray, 

And,  until  they  can  show  me  some  happier  plane!. 

Would  lead  us  (God  forgive  them!) 

jMore  social  and  bright,  I'll  content  me  with  thi'j. 

The  other  way,  tl  e  other  way. 

As  long  as  tlie  world  has  such  lips  and  such  eyes, 

But  till  the  cup — \\nere'er,  boy, 

As  before  me  this  moment  enraptured  I  see, 

Our  choice  may  fall,  our  choice  may  fall. 

They  may  say  what  they  will  of  their  orl  s  in  the 

We're  sure  to  find  Love  tlun'e,  boy. 

skies, 

Si)  drink  them  all !  so  drink  tliem  .ill! 

Bnt  this  earth  is  the  jilarrt  for  you,  love  and  me 

52 


MOOEE'S  AYOEKS. 


In  Mercurv's  star,  where  eacli  moment  can  bring 
them 
New  sunsliine  and  wit  from  the  fount;iin  on  liigh, 
rUoujjli  the  nymplis  may  have  li— lior  poets  to  sing 
"them," 
They've  none,  even  there,  more  enamor'd  than  I. 
And,  as  long  as  tliis  harp  can  be  walcen'd  to  love, 

And  that  eye  its  divine  inspiration  shall  be, 
They  may  talk  as  tliey  will  of  their  Edens  above, 
But  this  earth  is  the  planet  for  you,  love,  and 
me. 

In  that  star  of  the  west,  by  whose  shadowy  splendor. 
At  twilight  so  often  we've  roam'd  through  the 
dew, 
There  are  maidens,  perhaps,  who  liave  bosoms  as 
tender. 
And  look,  in  their  twiliglits,  as  lovely  as  you.''^ 
But  tho'  they  were  even  more  bright  than  the  queen 

Of  that  isle  they  inhabit  in  heaven's  blue  sea, 
As  I  never  those  fair  young  celestials  have  seen, 
Wliy — this  earth  is  the  jilanet  for  you,  love,  and 
me. 

As  for  those  chilly  orbs  on  the  verge  of  creation, 

^Vllere  sunshine  and  smiles  must  be  etiually  rare, 
Did  they  want  a  supply  of  cold   hearts  for  tliat 
station, 
Ileai-'n  knows  we  have  pbnty  on  eartli  we  could 
spare. 
Oh !    tliink  what   a  world  we   should   have  of  it 
here, 
If  the  haters  of  pc.ico,  of  affection,  and  glee. 
Were  to  fiy  uj)  to  Saturn's  comfortless  sphere. 
And  Ic.ivc  earth  to  such  spirits  as  you,  love,  and 
ine. 


OH  FOR  THE  SWOIIDS  OV  I'OIiMKU  TIMKl 

On  for  the  .swords  of  former  lime  I 

Oil  fur  the  men  who  liore  ihctii, 
When  ariiiM  fi>r  Ki'.'ht,  they  stood  sublime. 

And  tyranls  crnuch'd  before  thein  : 
When  free  yet,  ere  courts  began 

With  honnra  to  enslave  liim, 
The  best  honors  worn  by  Man 

Were  tlioMc  whlcli  VirUic  gave  him. 
Oh  f'lr  the  swords,  &i:.,  f:e. 

(Hi  for  llip  Kings  who  nourishM  llicn! 
Oil  for  Ihc  pomp  that  crowii'd  lliein, 
When  lieariA  i  .id  hnridx  of  freeborn  iiicti 
VVurc  nil  liic  rnmparls  round  Iheiii. 


When,  s.ife  Duilt  on  bosoms  true, 

The  throne  was  but  the  centre, 
Round  wliioh  Love  a  circle  drew. 

That  Treason  durst  not  enter. 
Oil  for  tlie  Kings  who  tlourish'd  then  ! 

Oh  for  tlie  pomp  lli.at  crown'd  them, 
When  hearts  and  hands  of  freeborn  men 

Were  all  the  ramparts  round  them  '. 


ST.  SKS'AXUS  AND  THE  LADT. 

ST.  SENASUS.'" 

"  Oh  I  liaste  and  leave  this  sacred  isle, 
"  Unlioly  bark,  ere  morning  smile  ; 
"  For  on  thy  deck,  tIio\igh  dark  it  be-, 

"  A  female  form  I  see  ; 
"  And  I  have  sworn  this  sainted  sod 
"  Shall  ne'er  by  woman's  feet  be  trod." 


"  Oil !  Father,  send  not  lienco  my  bark, 
"  Tlirongli  wintry  winds  and  billows  dark. 
"  I  come  witli  humble  heart  to  share 

"  Thy  morn  and  evening  prayef ; 
"  Nor  mine  the  feet,  oh  I  holy  Sa  nt, 
"  The  brightness  of  thy  sod  to  t:  int." 

The  Lady's  prayer  Senanus  spur.i'd  ; 
The  winds  blew  fresh,  the  bark  return'd ; 
But  legends  hint,  that  had  the  m.-iid 

Till  morning's  light  dehiy'd  ; 
And  giv'n  the  saint  one  rosy  smile, 
She  ne'er  had  left  his  lonely  i.sle. 


NE'ER  ASK  THE  HOUR. 

Nf.'ek  ask  the  hour — .vh.it  is  it  to  us 

How  Time  deals  out  his  treasures? 
The  golden  nionient.s  lent  us  thus, 

Are  not  his  coin,  but  Pleasure's. 
If  counting  lliem  o'er  cjiuld  add  to  their  Idiusi* 

I'd  number  c.'ich  glorious  second  : 
But  moments  of  joy  are,  like  Lesbla's  kisses. 

Too  quick  and  sweet  to  bo  rcckon'^l 
Then  (ill  Ihc  cii]i — what  is  it  lo  us 

How  'J'iine  his  circle  mcawires? 
The  fairy  hours  wc  call  up  iliun, 

Obev  no  wand,  but  I'leasMni'' 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


53 


Young  Joy  ne'er  thought  of  counthig  hours, 

Till  Care,  one  summer's  morning, 
Set  up,  among  his  smiling  flowers, 

A  dial,  by  way  of  warning. 
But  Joy  loved  better  to  gaze  on  the  sun. 

As  long  as  its  light  was  glowing, 
Than  to  waleh  with  old  Care  how  the  sli.'.dow  stole 
on, 

And  liow  fast  tliat  light  was  going. 
So  fill  the  cuj) — -what  is  it  to  us 

How  Time  Iiis  circle  measures  ? 
The  fairy  hours  we  call  up  thus, 

Obey  no  w.and,  but  Pleasure's. 


SAIL  ON,  SAIL  ON. 

Kail  on,  sail  on,  thou  fearless  bark — 

Wherever  blows  the  welcome  wind. 
It  cannot  lead  to  scenes  more  dark. 

More  sad  tlian  those  we  leave  bcliiud. 
Each  wave  tliat  passes  seems  to  say, 

"  Though  death  beneath  our  smile  may  be, 
"  Less  cold  we  are,  less  false  than  they, 

"  Whose  smiling  wreck'd  thy  hopes  and  Ihee." 

Sail  on,  sail  on, — through  endless  sp.ice — 

Througli  calm — through  tempest — stop  no  more ; 
The  stormiest  sea's  a  resting-place 

To  him  wlio  leaves  such  hearts  on  shore. 
Or — if  some  desert  land  we  meet. 

Where  never  yet  false-hearted  men 
Profaned  a  world,  that  else  were  sweet, — 

Then  rest  thee,  bark,  but  not  till  then. 


THE  PARALLEL. 

Yes,  sad  one  of  Sion,"  if  closely  resembling, 
In  shame  and  in  sorrow,  thy  v>ifher'd-up  heart — 

If  drinking  deep,  deep,  of  the  same  "  cup  of  trem- 
bling," 
(^uld  make  us  thy  children,  our  parent  tliou  art. 

I  jke  thee  doth  our  nation  lie  conquer'd  and  broken, 

And   fall'n   from   her   head   is   the   once   royal 

crov.'n ; 

In  her  streets,  in  her  Iialls,  Desolation  lialli  spoken, 

And  "  wliilc  it  is  day  yet,  her  sun  hath  gone 

down."" 


Like  thine  doth  her  e.xile,  'mid  dreams  of  returni?ig, 
Die  far  from  the  home  it  were  life  to  behold ; 

Like  tliine  do  her  sons,  in  the  day  of  tlieir  mourning ; 
Remember  tlie  bright  tilings  tliat  bless'd  them  of 
old. 

Ah,  well  may  we  call  her,  lilce  tlicc,  "the  I''or.saken,' " 

Her   boldest    are   vatiquisli'il,    her   proudest   are 

slaves ; 

And  the  liiups  of  her  minstrels,  when  gayest  they 

waken, 

Have  tones  'mid  their  mirth  like  the  wind  over 


graves 


Yet  hadst  thou  thy  vengeance — yet  came  there  the 
morrow. 
That  shines  out,  at  last,  on  the  longest  dark 
niglit, 
Wlien  the  sceptre,  tliat  smote  thee  with  slavery  and 
sorrow, 
Was  shivcr'd  at  once,  like  a  reed,  in  thy  sight. 

When  that  cup,  wliich  for  otiiers  the  proud  Golden 

City'" 
Il.id  biinmi'u  full  of  bitterness,  drench'd  her  own 

lips ; 
And  the  world  she  liad  trampled  on  heard,  without 

The  howl  in  lier  hulls,  and  the  cry  from  her  ships 

Wlien  the   curse  Heaven  keeps  for  the  haughtj 
came  over 

Her  merchants  rapacious,  her  rulers  unjust, 
And,  a  ruin,  at  last,  for  the  earthworm  to  cover," 

The  L-idy  of  Kingdoms"  lay  low  in  the  dust 


DRINK  OF  THIS  CUP. 

Dkink  of  this  cup ;  you'll  find  there's  a  spell  in 

Its  every  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortality  ; 
Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen ! 

Her  cup  was  a  fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 
Would  you  forget  the  dark  world  we  are  in, 

Just  taste  of  the  bubble  tliat  gleams  on  the  top 
of  it; 
But  would  you  lise  above  e;irth,  till  akm  ^ 

To  Immortals  themselves,  you  must  diain  every 
drop  of  it ; 
Send  round  the  cup — for  oh,  there's  a  spel'  m 

Its  every  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortalii/; 
Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen  t 

Her  cup  was  a  fiction,  but  tliis  iv  reality 


5* 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Never  was  philter  form"d  with  such  power 

To  charm  and  bewilder  as  tliis  we  are  quaffing ; 
[ts  magic  began  when,  in  Autumn's  rich  hour, 

A  harvest  of  gold  in  the  fields  it  stood  laughing. 
ITiere  having,  by  Nature's  encliantment,  been  fill'd 

With  the  balm  and  the  bloom  of  Iicr  kindliest 
weather, 
This  wonderful  juice  from  its  core  was  distill'd 

To  enliven  such  hearts  as  are  here  brought  to- 
gether. 
Then  drink  of  the  cup — you'l!  find  tliere's  a  spell  in 

Its  every  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortality ; 
Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen ! 

Iler  cup  was  a  fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 

And  though,  perhaps — but  brcatlie  it  to  no  one — 

like  liquor  the  witch  brews  at  midnight  so  aw- 
ful. 
This  philter  in  secret  was  first  taught  to  flow  on. 

Yet  'lis  n't  less  potent  for  being  unlawful. 
\nd,  ev'n  though  it  taste  of  the  smoke  of  that 
flame, 

Wiich  in  silence  extracted  its  virtue  forbidden — 
l^ill  up — there's  a  fire  in  some  hearts  I  could  niime, 

Wliich  may  work  too  its  charm,  though  as  law- 
less  .and  hidden. 
5o  drink  of  the  cup — for  oil  there's  a  spell  in 

Its  every  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortality; 
:'alk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen! 

(fer  cup  w.-is  a  fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 


THE  FORTUNE-TELLER. 

Down  in  tlie  valley  come  meet  me  to-night, 
.\nd  I'll  tell  you  your  fortune  truly 

As  ever  was  told,  by  the  now-moon's  light, 
To  a  young  maiden,  shining  as  newly. 

But,  for  tlie  world,  let  no  one  be  nigh,  • 
Iy?»t  haply  tlic  stars  should  deceive  me; 

Siuli  HccrctM  between  you  and  mc  Jind  the  hky 
Slioi;!d  never  go  fartlier,  believe  n>e. 

If  ill  llial  linur  the  lieiiv'ns  l)c  not  dim, 
My  science  sliall  call  up  befori'  you 

A  male  apparition, — the  image  of  him 
WliOHC  destiny  'lis  to  ndorc  you. 

And  if  to  llint  phantom  you'll  be  kind. 
So  fondly  around  you  he'll  hover, 

Vou'll  linrdly,  my  dear,  any  difference  find 
Twixt  him  and  i  true  living  lover. 


Down  .at  your  feet,  in  the  pale  moonliglit. 
He'll  kneel,  with  a  warmlli  of  devotion — 

An  .ardor,  of  whic!i  such  an  innocent  sprite 
Vou'd  scarcely  believe  had  a  notion. 

Wh.at  other  tliouglits  and  events  ni.ay  arise, 
As  in  destiny's  book  I've  not  seen  them, 

Must  only  be  left  to  the  stars  and  your  cyesi 
To  settle,  ere  morninrr,  between  thom. 


on,  YE  DEAD! 

Oh,  ye  Dead !  oh,  ye  Dead  1"  whom  we  know  by 

the  light  you  give 
From  your  cold  gleaming  eyes,  though  you  mo\e 
like  men  who  live. 

Why  leave  you  tlius  your  graves 
In  far-off  fields  and  waves. 
Where  the  worm  and  the  se.a-bird  only  know  your 
bed, 

To  haunt  this  spot  where  .all 
Those  eyes  that  wept  your  fall, 
.\nd  the  hearts  that  wail'd  you,  like  yom-  own,  lie 
de.id? 

It  is  true,  it  is  true,  we  are  shadows  cold  and  wan ; 
And  the  fair  and  tlie  brave  whom  we  loved  on  earth 
are  gone ; 

But  still  thus  ev'n  in  death, 
So  sweet  the  living  breath 
Of  the  fields  and  the  flow'rs  in  our  youth  we  wan- 
der'd  o'er. 

That  ere,  eondemn'd,  wo  go 
To  freeze  'mid  Ilccla's  snow, 
We  would  taste  it  awhile,  and  think  we  live  once 
more  I 


O'DONOIIUE'S  MISTRESS. 

Or  all  the  fair  months,  that  round  the  sun 
In  light-link'd  dance  their  circles  run. 

Sweet  May,  shine  thou  for  mo ; 
For  still,  when  thy  earliest  beams  aiise. 
That  youth,  who  bene.ath  the  bine  lake  lies, 

Sweet  May,  returns  to  mo. 

or  all  the  bright  haunts,  wliere  daylight  leavtw 
Its  lingering  smile  on  golden  eves. 

Fair  Lake,  lliou'rt  dearest  lo  mo; 
For  when  the  lust  April  sun  grows  dim, 
Thy  Xaiads  prepare  his  sleed"  for  hii»' 

Who  dwells,  bright  Lake,  in  thee 


IPJSn  MELODIES. 


fib 


Of  all  tho  prinid  steeds,  that  ever  boro 
Yoiiii!?  pUuiU'd  Chiofs  on  sea  or  shore, 

Wiiife  Steed,  most  joy  to  thee; 
Who  still,  when  the  first  yonn^  fflanee  of  spring, 
From  under  that  j,'loriou3  lake  dost  hrinij 

My  love,  my  chief,  to  me. 

While,  white  as  tlie  sail  some  hark  unfurls, 
Wlien  newly  launeh'd,  thy  long  mane""  eurls, 

Fair  Steed,  as  white  and  free ; 
And  s])irits,  from  all  the  lake's  deep  bowers, 
Glide  o'er  the  blue  wa\c  scattering  flowers, 

Around  ray  love  and  thee. 

Of  all  the  sweet  deaths  that  maidens  die, 
Wliose  lovers  beneath  the  cold  wave  lie, 

Most  sweet  that  death  will  be, 
Wliich,  under  the  next  IMay  evening's  light, 
Wlien  thou  and  thy  steed  are  lost  to  sight, 

Dear  love,  I'll  die  for  thee. 


ECHO. 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  m.akes 

To  music  at  night, 
Wlien,  roused  by  lute  or  horn,  she  wakes. 
And  far  away,  o'er  lawns  and  lakes, 

Goes  answering  light. 

Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far. 

And  far  more  sweet. 
Than  e'er  beneath  the  moonlight's  star, 
Of  horn,  or  lute,  or  soft  guitar. 

The  songs  repeat. 

'Tis  when  the  sigh,  in  youth  sincere, 

And  only  then,^ 
The  sigh  that's  breathed  for  one  to  hear, 
fs  by  that  one,  that  only  dear. 

Breathed  back  aijain ! 


OH  BANQUET  NOT. 

On  banquet  not  in  those  shining  bowers, 

\\nicre  Youth  resorts,  but  come  to  mo: 
For  mine's  a  garden  of  faded  flowers. 

More  fit  for  sorrow,  for  age,  and  thee. 
And  there  we  shall  have  our  feasts  of  tears, 

And  many  a  cup  in  silence  pour ; 
Our  guests,  the  shades  of  former  years. 

Our  toasts,  to  lips  that  bloom  no  more. 


There,  while  the  myrtle's  witiiering  boughs 

Their  lifeless  leaves  around  us  shed. 
We'll  brim  the  bowl  to  broken  vows. 

To  friends  long  lost,  the  changed,  the  dead. 
Or,  while  some  blighted  laurel  waves 

Its  branches  o'er  the  dreary  spot. 
We'll  drink  to  those  neglected  graves. 

Where  valor  sleeps,  unnamed,  forgot. 


THEE,  THEE,  ONLY  THRE. 

The  dawning  of  morn,  the  daylight's  sinking. 
The  night's  long  hours  still  tind  me  thinking 

Of  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 
When  friends  are  met,  and  goblets  crown'd. 
And  smiles  are  near,  that  once  enchanted. 
Unreach'd  by  all  that  sunshine  round, 
Jly  soul,  like  some  dark  spot,  is  haunted 
By  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 

Whatever  in  fame's  high  path  could  waken 
■  My  spirit  once,  is  now  forsaken 
For  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 
Like  shores,  by  which  some  headlong  bark 

To  th'  ocean  hurries,  resting  never. 
Life's  scenes  go  by  me,  bright  or  dark, 
I  know  not,  heed  not,  hastening  ever 
To  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 

I  have  not  a  joy  but  of  thy  bringing. 

And  pain  itself  seems  sweet  when  springing 

From  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 
Like  spells,  that  naught  on  earth  can  break. 

Till  lips,  that  know  the  charm,  have  spoken, 
This  heart,  howe'er  the  world  may  wake 
Its  grief,  its  scorn,  can  but  be  broken 
By  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 


SHALL  THE  HARP,  THEN,  BE  SILENT. 

Shall  the  IJarp,  then,  be  silent,  when  he  who  first 
gave 
To  our  country  a  name,  is  withdrawn  from  all 
eyes  ? 
Shall  a  Minstrel  of  Erin  stand  mute  by  the  grave. 
Where  the  first — where  the  last  of  her  Patriots 
lies' 

No — faint  tho'  the  death-song  may  fall  from  his  lips, 
Tho'  his  Ilarp,  like  his  soul,  may  with  shadow* 
be  cross'd, 


56 


MOOKE'S  WOEKS. 


Yet,  yet  shall  it  sound,  'mid  a  nation's  eclipse, 
And  proclaim  to  the  world  what  a  star  hath  been 
lost;"— 

Wli.T.  a  union  of  all  the  affections  and  powers 
By  wliich  life  is  exalted,  embolU.-ili'd,  refined. 

Was  embraced  in  that  spiiit — whose  centre  was  onrs, 
Wliile  its  mighty  circumference  circled  maiikiiul. 

Oh,  who  that  loves  Erin,  or  who  tliat  can  sec, 
Through  tlie  waste  of  lier  annals,  tliat  epoch 
sublime — 

Like  a  pyramid  raised  in  the  desert — where  he 
And  his  glory  stand  out  to  tlie  eyes  of  all  time ; 

That  one  lucid  interval,  snatcli'd  from  the  gloom 
And  the  madness  of  ages,  when  fill'd  with  his  soul, 

A  Nation  o'erleap'd  tlie  dark  bounds  of  her  doom, 
And  foroJK  sacred  instant,  touch'd  Liberty's  goal ! 

Who,  that  ever  liath  heard  him — hath  drunk  at  the 
source 
Of  that  wonderful  eloquence,  all  Erin's  own, 
In  whose  liigli-thoughted  daring,  the  lire,  and  the 
force. 
And  the  yet  untamed  spring  of  her  Bpirit  are 
shown  ? 

An  eloquence  rich,  wheresoever  it  wave 

Wander'd  free  and  triumphant,  with  thouglits  that 
slione  throu'.'li, 

As  clear  as  the  brook's  "stone  of  lustre,"  and  gave. 
With  the  flash  of  the  gem,  its  solidity  too. 

Who,  that  ever  approach'd  him,  wlien  free  from  the 
crowd. 
In  a  home  full  of  love,  he  delighted  to  tread 
'.Mong  the  trees  which  a  nation  had  given,  and 
which  bow'd. 
As  if  each  brought  a  new  civic  crown  for  his 
head — 

Is  there  unc,  who  hath  thus,  through  his  orbit  of  life. 
But  at  distance  observed  liim — through  glory, 
lliroiigb  blame, 
III  the  calm  of  retreat,  in  the  grandeur  of  strife. 
Whether  Hhiiiiiig  or  clouded,  still  iiigh  and  the 
Hnme, — 

Oh  no,  not  a  heart,  that  o'er  knew  him,  but  mourns 

Deep,  drop  o'er  the  grave,  where  sucli  glory  is 

Hhrini'd — 

O'er  ft  niiinumcnt  Fume  will  prpsor\'e,  'mong  the 

urnt 

Uf  llio  wihohI,  Iho  bravest,  llic  bcBt  of  niuukiiid  ! 


OH,  THE  SIGHT  ENTIl^VNCINO. 

Oir,  the  sight  entrancing. 

When  morning's  beam  is  glaneinsr 

O'er  files  array'd 

With  helm  and  blade, 
And  plumes,  in  the  gay  wind  dancii  g  ! 
When  hearts  are  all  liigh  beating. 
And  the  triunpet's  voice  repeating 

That  song,  whose  breath 

May  lead  to  death. 
But  never  to  retreating. 
Oh  the  sight  entrancing. 
When  mornmg's  beam  is  glancing 

O'er  files  array'd 

With  helm  and  blade. 
And  pUiiiies,  in  tlie  gay  wind  dancing. 

Yet,  'tis  not  helm  or  feather — 
For  ask  yon  despot,  wlietlier 

His  plumed  bands 

Could  bring  such  hands 
And  hearts  as  ours  togetlier. 
Leave  pomps  to  those  who  need  'em- 
Give  man  but  heart  and  freedom. 

And  proud  he  braves 

Tlie  gaudiest  slaves 
That  crawl  where  monarchs  load  'em. 
The  sword  may  pierce  the  beaver. 
Stone  walls  in  time  may  sever, 

'Tis  mind  alone. 

Worth  steel  and  stone. 
That  keejis  men  free  fur  ever. 
Oil  that  sight  entrancing. 
When  the  morning's  beam  is  glancing. 

O'er  files  array'd 

With  lielm  and  blade. 
And  In  Freedom's  cause  advancing' 


SWEET  INNISFALLEN. 

Swrr.T  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well. 

May  calm  and  suiishiiie  long  he  lliino' 

How  fair  thou  art  let  others  tell, — 
To  fed  how  fair  shall  long  be  mine. 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  long  8h.ill  dwell 
In  ninmory's  dream  that  sunny  smile, 

Wliich  .1  er  thee  >n  that  evening  feM, 
Wlieii  fir:;(  1  saw  L'ly  fiiitj'  l.do. 


IlllSII  MELODIES. 


'Twas  light,  indeed,  too  bless'd  for  one, 
Who  liad  to  turn  to  paths  of  care — 

Througli  crowded  haunts  again  to  run. 
And  h^ive  tliee  bright  and  Kilcnt  llicrc; 

No  more  iinlo  thy  shores  to  come. 
But.  on  the  world's  rude  ocean  toss'd, 

Dream  of  thee  sometimes,  as  a  home 
Of  sunshine  he  h.id  seen  and  lost. 

Par  better  in  thy  weeping  hours 
To  part  from  thee,  as  I  do  nov.', 

When  mist  is  o'er  thy  blooming  bowers, 
Lilve  sorrow's  veil  on  beauty's  brow. 

For,  though  unrivall'd  stiU  thy  grace, 
Thou  dost  not  look,  .as  then,  too  bless'd, 

Dut  thus  in  shadow,  seem'st  a  place 
Where  erring  man  might  hope  to  rest — 

Might  hope  to  rest,  .ir.d  find  in  thee 
A  gloom  like  Eden's,  on  the  day 

He  left  its  shade,  when  every  tree. 

Like  tliine,  hung  weeping  o'er  his  way. 

Weeping  or  smiling,  lovely  isle  ! 

And  all  the  lovelier  for  thy  tears — 
For  though  but  rare  thy  sunny  smile, 

'Tis  heav'n's  own  glance  when  it  appears. 

Like  feeling  hearts,  wliose  joys  are  few, 
But,  when  indeed  they  come,  divine — 

The  brightest  light  the  sun  e'er  threv/ 
Is  lifeless  to  one  gleam  of  thine  ! 


'TWAS  ONE  OF  THOSE  DREAMS." 

7'lVAs  one  of  those  dreams,  that   by  music  are 

brought, 
Like  a  bright  summer  haze,  o'er  tlie  poet's  warm 

thought — 
\\'"iien,  lost  in  the  future,  his  soul  wanders  on, 
And  all  of  this  life,  but  its  sweetness,  is  gone. 

The  wild  notes  he  heard  o'er  the  water  were  those 
He  had  taught  to  sing  Erin's  dark  bondage  and 

woes. 
And  the  breath  of  the  bugle  now  wafted  .them  o'er 
Prom  Dinis'  green  isle,  to  Glcifa's  wooded  siiore. 

He  listen'd — while,  high  o'er  the  eagle's  rude  nest, 

Tlio  lingering  sounds  on  their  way  loved  to  rest ; 

8 


And  the  echoes  sung  back  from  their  full  mount.ini 

quire, 
As  if  loath  to  let  song  so  enchanting  expire. 

It  seom'd  as  if  ev'ry  sweet  note,  that  died  here, 
Was  again  brought  to  life  in  some  airier  sphere. 
Some  hcav'n  in  those  hills,  whore  the  soul  of  thn 

strain. 
That  had  ceased  upon  earth  was  awaking  again  ! 

Oh    i'orgivc,  if,  while   list'ning  to   music,  whose 

breath 
Seem'd  to  circle  his  name  with  a  charm  against 

death, 
lie  should  feel  a  proud  Spirit  within  him  proclaim, 
"  Even  so  sh.alt  thou  live  in  the  echoes  of  Fame : 

"  Even  so,  tho'  thy  mera'ry  should  now  die  aw.ay, 
"  'Twill  be  caught  up  again  in  some  happier  day, 
"  And  tlie  hearts  and  the  voices  of  Erin  prolong, 
"  Through  the  answering  Future,  thy  name  and  tli| 
song." 


FAIREST!   PUT  ON  AWHILE. 

Fairest  !  put  on  awliile 

These  pinions  of  light  I  bring  thee, 
.\nd  o'er  thy  own  Green  Isle 

In  fancy  let  me  wing  thee. 
Never  did  Ariel's  plume, 

At  golden  sunset  hover 
O'er  scenes  so  full  of  bloom. 

As  I  shall  waft  thee  over. 

Fields,  where  the  Spring  delays. 

And  fearlessly  meets  the  ardor 
Of  the  warm  Summer's  gaze. 

With  only  her  tears  to  guard  her. 
Rocks,  through  myrtle  boughs 

In  grace  majestic  frowning ; 
Like  some  bold  warrior's  brows 

That  Love  hath  just  been, crowning. 

Islets,  so  freshly  fair. 

That  never  hath  bird  come  nigh  them. 
But  from  his  course  through  air 

He  hath  been  won  down  by  them ; — " 
Types,  sweet  maid,  of  thee. 

Whose  look,  whose  blush  inviting, 
Never  did  Love  yet  see 

From  Heav'n,  without  aHghtins:. 


58 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Lakes,  where  tlie  pearl  lies  liid,"' 

And  caves,  where  the  gem  is  sleeping. 
Bright  as  the  tears  thy  lid 

Lets  fall  in  lonely  weeping. 
Glens,'*  where  Ocean  comes, 

To  'scape  the  wild  wind's  rancor. 
And  Harbors,  wortliiest  homes, 

Wliere  Freedom's  fleet  can  anchor. 

Then,  if,  while  scenes  so  grand. 

So  beautiful,  shine  before  thee, 
Pride  for  thy  own  dear  land 

Should  haply  bo  stealing  o'er  thee. 
Oh,  let  gi-icf  come  first. 

O'er  pride  itself  victorious — 
Thinking  how  man  liath  cursed 

What  Heaven  had  made  so  glorious ! 


QUICK !   WE  HAVE  BUT  A  SECOND. 

QincK !  we  liave  but  a  second. 

Fill  round  the  cup,  while  you  may; 
For  Time,  the  churl,  liath  bcckon'd. 

And  we  must  away,  away  ! 
Grasj)  the  pleasure  that's  flying. 

For  oil,  not  Orpheus'  strain 
Ciiuld  keep  sweet  hours  from  dying. 
Or  charm  them  to  life  again. 

Then,  quick  '  we  have  but  a  second. 

Fill  round  tnc  cup,  whi.e  you  may; 
For  Time,  tlie  churl,  hath  bcckon'd, 
And  we  must  away,  away  I 

See  the  glass,  how  It  fluslies, 

Like  some  young  Hebe's  lip, 
And  half  meets  thine,  and  blu.shes 
That  thou  shouldst  delay  to  sip. 
Shame,  oil  sliamc  unto  thee. 

If  ever  thou  scest  th:it  day, 
Wlien  u  cup  or  lip  shall  woo  thee, 
And  turn  untoucli'd  away ! 

Then,  quick  !  we  have  but  a  necciMd, 

Fill  round,  fill  round,  while  you  may  ; 
For  Time,  l!ic  churl,  hath  bcckon'd. 
And  wu  mu.^l  away,  away ! 


AND  DOTH  NOT  A  MEETING  LIKE  THIS 

And  doth  not  a  meeting  like  this  make  amends. 

For  all  the  long  years  I've  been  wand'riiig  away— . 
To  see  tlius  around  me  my  youth's  early  friends. 

As  smiling  and  kind  as  in  that  liappy  day  ^ 
Though  haply  o'er  some  of  your  brows,  as  o'er  niino, 

The  snow-fall  of  time  may  be  stealing — what 
tlien  1 
like  Alps  in  the  sunset,  thus  lighted  by  wine. 

We'll  wear  tiie  g.ay  linge  of  youth's  roses  again. 

Wliat  soften'd  remembrances  come  o'er  the  iieart, 

Li  gazing  on  those  we've  been  lost  to  so  long! 
The  sorrows,  the  joys,  of  which  once  they  were 
part. 

Still  round  them,  like  visions  of  yesterday,  throng ; 
As  letters  some  hand  hatli  invisibly  traced. 

When  held  to  tlie  flame  will  steal  out  on  the  .sight. 
So  many  a  feeling,  tliat  long  seem'd  effaced. 

The  warmth  of  a  moment  lil;e  this  brings   \o 
light. 

And  thus,  as  in  memory's  bark  we  shall  glide. 

To  visit  the  scenes  of  our  boyhood  anew. 
Though  oft  we  may  see,  looking  down  on  the  tide, 

The  wreck  of  full  many  a  hope  shining  througli; 
•Yet  still,  as  in  fancy  we  point  to  the  flowers. 

That  once  made  a  garden  of  all  the  gay  shore. 
Deceived  for  a  moment,  we'll  think  thcin  still  ours, 

And  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  life's  morning  once 
more." 

So  brief  our  existence,  a  glimpse,  at  the  most, 

Is  all  we  can  have  of  the  few  we  hold  dear; 
And  oft  even  joy  is  unheeded  and  lost. 

For  want  of  some  heart,  that  could  echo  it,  near. 
Ah,  well  may  we  hope,  when  this  short  life  is  gone^ 

To  meet  in  some  world  of  more  permanent  bliss, 
F^r  a  smile,  or  a  gra.^p  of  the  hand,  liast'niiig  on. 

Is  all  we  cnjiiy  of  cacli  otljcr  in  this  "" 

But,  come,  the  more  rare  such  delights  to  the  heart, 
TIiu  more  we  sliouUl  welcome  and  bless  them 
the  more ; 
They're  ours  when  we  meet, — they  are  lost  when 
we  part. 
Like  birils  that  bring  sunnner,  ;nid  fly  «  hen  'iJ« 
o'er, 
'■'hus  circling  the  cup,  hand  in  hand,  ere  we  drink, 
lx!l  Sympathy  i>lcdgc  lis,  thro'  plciiiurc,  thro 
pain, 
"'hat,  fast  an  a  A'O.ing  but  touches  one  link, 
llur  magic  sluill  mouJ  it  dirucl  Ihru'  tho  cimiii. 


lEISH  MELODIES. 


59 


THE  MOUNTAIN'  SPRITE. 

In  yonder  valley  tliere  dwelt,  alone, 

A  youth,  whose  moments  had  eaimly  flown. 

Till  spoils  eaine  o'er  him,  and,  day  and  night, 

Ho  was  haunted  and  wateh'd  by  a  Mountain  Sprite. 

As  once,  hy  moonlitrht,  ho  wander'd  o'er 
'Die  golden  sands  of  that  island  shore, 
A  foot-piint  sparkled  before  his  sight. — - 
'Twas  the  fairy  foot  of  the  Mountain  Sprite! 

Beside  a  fountain,  one  sunny  day, 

As  bending  over  the  stream  he  lay, 

Tliere  peep'd  down  o'er  him  two  eyes  of  light. 

And  he  saw  in  that  mirror  th.e  Mountain  Sprite. 

lie  turn'd,  but,  lo,  like  a  startled  bird. 

That  spirit  fled  ! — and  the  youth  but  heard 

Sweet  uiusic,  such  as  marks  the  flight 

Of  sonic,  bird  of  song,  from  flie  Mountain  Sprite. 

One  ii)>f'it,  still  haunted  by  that  bright  look, 

The  hoy,  bewilder'd,  his  pencil  took, 

And.  guided  only  by  memory's  light, 

Drew  the  once-seen  form  of  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

"  Oh  thou,  wlio  lovest  the  shadow,"  cried 
A  voice,  low  whisp'ring  by  his  side, 
••  Now  tuni  and  see," — here  the  youth's  delight 
Scal'd  the  rosy  lips  of  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

"  Of  all  the  Spirits  of  land  and  sea," 

Then  rapt  he  raurmur'd,  "  there's  none  like  tliee, 

"And  oft,  oh  oft,  may  thy  foot  thus  light 

"  In  this  lonely  bower,  sweet  Jlountain  Sprite  !" 


AS  VANQUISH'D  ERIN. 

As  vanqnish'd  Erin  wept  beside 

The  Boyne's  ill-fated  river. 
She  saw  where  Discord,  in  tlie  tide, 

Had  dropp'd  his  loaded  quiver. 
"  Lie  hid,"  she  cried,  "  ye  venom'd  darts, 

"  Where  mortal  eye  may*  shun  you  ; 
"  Lie  hid — the  stain  of  manly  hearts, 

"  That  bled  for  me,  is  on  you." 

But  vain  her  wish,  her  weeping  vain, — 
As  Time  too  well  hath  taught  her — 

Flsuih  year  the  Fiend  returns  again, 
And  di'-es  into  that  water: 


And  brings,  triumph.ant,  from  beneath 

His  shafts  of  desolation. 
And  sends  tlicni,  wing'd  with  worse  than  dcallu 

Through  all  her  madd'ning  nation. 

Alas  for  her  who  sits  and  moums, 

Ev'n  now,  beside  that  river — 
Unwearied  still  the  Fiend  retums, 

And  stored  is  still  his  quiver. 
"When  will  this  end,  ye  Powers  of  Good  T' 

Slie  weeping  asks  for  ever ; 
But  only  hoars,  from  out  that  flood, 

The  Demon  answer,  "  Never !" 


DESMOND'S  SONG." 

By  the  Feal's  wave  benighted. 

No  star  in  the  skies. 
To  thy  door  by  Love  lighted, 

I  first  saw  those  eyes. 
Some  voice  wliisper'd  o'er  me, 

As  the  threshold  I  cross'd, 
There  was  ruin  before  me, 

If  I  loved,  I  was  lost. 

Love  came,  and  brought  sorrow 

Too  soon  in  his  train  ; 
Yet  so  sweet,  that  to-raorrow 

'Twere  welcome  ag.ain. 
Though  misery's  full  measure 

My  portion  should  be, 
I  would  drain  it  with  pleasure, 

If  pour'd  out  by  thee. 

You,  who  call  it  dishonor 

To  bow  to  this  flame. 
If  you've  eyes,  look  but  on  het. 

And  blush  while  you  bkame. 
Hatli  the  pearl  loss  whiteness 

Because  of  its  birth? 
Hath  the  violet  less  brightness 

For  gi'owing  near  earth? 

No — Slan  for  his  glory 

To  ancestry  flies ; 
But  Woman's  bright  story 

Is  told  in  her  eyes. 
While  the  Monarch  but  trace! 

Through  mortals  his  line, 
Beauty,  born  of  the  Graces. 

Ranks  next  to  Di\'iiio ! 


60 


MOOEE'S  T70EKS. 


TUET  liSOW  NOT  ilT  HEART. 

Thlv  know  not  my  heart,  who  believe  there  can  be 
One  stain  of  this  earth  in  its  feelings  for  thee ; 
Who  think,  wliile  I  se«  thee  in  beauty's  young  hour, 
As  pure  as  the  morning's  first  dew  on  the  flow'r, 
.  could  harm  what  I  love, — as  the  sun's  wanton  ray 
But  smiles  on  the  dew-drop  to  waste  it  away. 

\o — beaming  with  light  as  those  young  features 

are. 
There's  a  light  round  thy  heart  which  is  lovelier 

far: 
It  is  not  that  cheek — 'tis  the  soul  dawning  clear 
Thro'  its  innocent  blush  makes  thy  beauty  so  dear; 
As  the  sky  we  look  up  to,  tliougli  glorious  and  fair. 
Is  look'd  up  to  the  more,  because  Heaven  lies  there ! 


I  WISH  I  WAS  BY  THAT  DIM  LAKE. 

I  WISH  I  was  by  that  dim  Lake," 
Where  sinful  souls  their  farewell  take 
Of  this  vain  world,  and  half-v.-ay  lie 
In  deatli's  cold  shadow,  ere  they  die. 
There,  there,  far  from'  thee. 
Deceitful  world,  my  home  should  bo  ; 
Where,  come  what  might  of  gloom  and  pain, 
False  hope  should  ne'er  deceive  again. 

The  lifeless  sky,  the  mournful  sound 

Of  unseen  waters  falling  round  ; 

The  dry  leaves,  quiv'ring  o'er  my  licad, 

Like  man,  unquiet  ev'n  when  dead  ! 

Tliese,  ny,  these  sliall  wean 

My  soul  Ironi  life's  deluding  scene. 

And  turn  each  thought,  o'crchargcd  with  gloom. 

Like  willows,  downward  tow'rds  the  tomb. 

As  they,  who  to  their  eoucli  at  night 
Would  win  repose,  first  quench  the- light, 
So  must  tl;e  hopcH,  that  keep  this  bre:ist 
Awake,  bo  qnench'd,  ere  it  can  rest. 
Cold,  cold,  this  heart  must  grow, 
Unmoved  by  cither  joy  or  woe. 
Like  ficozinjf  founts,  where  all  that's  thrown 
Within  their  current  turns  to  stone. 


SHE  SUNG  01   LOVE. 

She  sung  of  Love,  while  o'er  her  lyre 

The  rosy  rays  of  evening  fell. 
As  if  to  feed,  with  their  soft  fire. 

The  soul  within  that  trembling  shell. 
The  same  rich  light  hung  o'er  her  cheek, 

And  play'd  around  those  lips  that  sung 
And  spoke,  as  flowers  would  sing  and  spcal 

If  Love  could  lend  tiieir  leaves  a  tongue- 

But  soon  the  West  no  longer  burn'd, 

Each  rosy  ray  from  heav'n  withdrew  ; 
And,  when  to  gaze  again  I  turn'd, 

The  minstrel's  form  seem'd  fading  too 
As  if  her  light  and  heav'n's  wore  one. 

The  glory  all  had  left  that  frame  ; 
And  from  her  glimmering  lips  the  tone. 

As  from  a  parting  spirit,  came.*' 

Who  ever  loved,  but  had  tlic  tnought 

That  he  and  all  he  loved  must  part  ? 
Fiird  with  this  fear,  I  (lew  and  caught 

Tiie  fading  imago  to  my  heart — 
And  cried,  "O  Love  !  is  this  thy  doom  ? 

"  Oh  light  of  youth's  resplendent  day  ! 
"  JIust  ye  then  lose  your  golden  bloom, 

"  .\nd  thus,  like  sunsliinc,  die  away  ?" 


SING— SING— MUSIC  WAS  GIVEN. 

Sing — sing — JIusic  was  given. 

To  brighten  the  g.iy,  and  kindle  the  loving 
Souls  hero,  like  planets  in  Hoavon, 

By  harmony's  laws  alone  are  kept  moving. 
Boanty  ni.'iy  boast  of  hor  oyos  and  her  cheeks, 

But  Lovo  frum  the  lijis  his  true  arelu'ry  v.iiigK  ; 
And    she,   wlic)    but    foalhors    the   d.irl    when    hIil 
B])eaks, 
At  once  sends  it  homo  to  the  heart  when  she 
sings. 
Then  sing — sing — JInsic  was  given, 

To  brighten  the  gay,  and  kindle  the  lovin.rr. 
Soids  hero,  like  ]ilanots  in  lleaveni 
By  iiariuony's  laws  nlone  are  kept  moving. 

When  Lovo,  rock'd  \jy  his  molluT. 

Lay  sloopir.g  as  calm  as  slumber  could  make  him, 
"  Hush,  Inisli,"  said  Venus,  "  no  olhcr 

"Swoet  voice  but  his  i  wn  i-  woritiy  to  wiiku 
liim  " 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


61 


Dreaming  of  miisie  lie  sliunbi'.r'd  tlic  wliile 

Till  faint  from  liis  lip  a  soft  mclmly  broke, 
And  Venus,  enchanted,  look'd  on  witli  a  smile. 
While  Love  to  his  own  sweet  singing  awoke. 
Then  sing — sing — music  was  given, 

To  brighten  the  gay,  and  kindle  the  lov- 
ing: 
Souls  here,  like  ])lanets  in  Heaven, 

By  harmony's  laws  alone  are  kept  moving. 


THOUGH  HUMBLE  THE  BANQUET. 

Though   humble   the   banquet  to  which  I  invite 
thee, 
Thou'lt  find  there  tlie  best  a  poor  bard  can  com- 
mand : 
Eyes,  beaming  with  welcome,  shall  throng  round, 
to  light  thee. 
And  Love  serve  the  feast  with  his  own  willing 
liand. 

And  tlion.gh  Fortune  may  seem  to  Iiave  turn'd  from 
the  dwelling 
Of  him  thou  regardcst  her  favoring  ray. 
Thou  wilt  find  there  a  gift,  all  her  treasures  excel- 
ling, 
Which,  proudly  he  feels,  hath  ennobled  his  way. 

Tis  th.at  freedom   of  mind,  which  no  vulgar  do- 
minion 
Can  turn  from  the  path  a  pure  conscience  ap- 
proves ; 
Wliicli,  with  hope  in  the  heart,  and  no  chain  on  the 
pinion, 
Holds  upw-ards  its  course  to  Ihe  light  which  it 
loves. 

'Tis  this  makes  tlie  pride  of  his  humble  retre.it. 
And,  with  this,  though  of  all  other  treasures  be- 
reaved. 
The  breeze  of  his  garden  to  him  is  more  sweet 
Thau  the  costliest  incense   that  Pomp  e'er  re- 
ceived. 

Then,  come, — if  a  board  so  unlempting  hath  power 
To  win   thee  from  grandeur,  its   be.st  shall  be 
thine ; 
And  llicre's  one,  long  the  light  of  the  bard's  hnppy 
bov>-er. 
Who  smiHng,  will   blend   her  bright   welcome 
with  mine. 


Smo,  SWEET  HARl'. 

Si.VR,  sweet  llarp,  oh  sing  to  me 

Some  song  of  ancient  days. 
Whose  sounds,  in  this  sad  memory, 

Long  buried  dreams  shall  raise  ; — 
Some  lay  that  fells  of  vanish'd  fame, 

Whose  light  onee  round  us  shone; 
Of  noble  pride,  now  turn'd  to  shame, 

And  hoj)C3  for  ever  gone. — 
Sing,  sad  Harp,  thus  sing  to  me ; 

Alike  our  doom  is  cast, 
Both  lost  to  all  but  memory, 

We  live  but  in  the  past. 

How  mournfully  the  midnight  air 

Among  thy  chords  doth  sigh, 
As  if  it  sought  some  echo  there 

Of  voices  long  gone  by ; — 
Of  Chieftains,  now  forgot,  who  seem'd 

The  foremost  tlien  in  fame; 
Of  Bards  who,  once  immortal  deem'd, 

Now  sleep  without  a  name. — 
In  vain,  sad  Harp,  the  midnight  air 

Among  thy  chords  doth  sigh  ; 
In  vain  it  seeks  an  echo  there 

Of  voices  long  gone  by. 

Couldst  thou  but  call  those  spirits  round. 

Who  once,  in  bower  and  hall. 
Sat  listening  to  thy  magic  sound, 

Now  mute  and  mould'ring  all ; — 
But,  no  ;  they  would  but  wake  to  weep 

Their  children's  slavery ; 
Then  leave  them  in  their  dreamless  sleep. 

The  dead,  .at  least,  are  free ! — 
Hush,  hush,  sad  Harp,  that  dreary  tone. 

That  knell  of  Freedom's  day  ; 
Or,  listening  to  its  death-like  moan, 

Let  me,  too,  die  away. 


SONG  OF  THE  BATTLE  EVE. 
Time — tue  Ni.\tu  Cextuev. 

To-.MOKROw,  comrade,  we 

On  the  battle-plain  must  be, 

There  to  conquer,  or  both  lie  low! 

The  morr.uig  star  is  up, — 

But  there's  wine  still  in  the  cup, 

And  we'll  take  another  quaff',  ere  we  go,  boy  go 
We'll  take  another  qu-aff,  ere  we  go. 


62 


ilOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


'Tis  true,  in  manliest  eyes 
A  passing  tear  will  rise, 

When  we  think  of  the  friends  we  leave  lone ; 
But  what  can  wailing  do  ? 
See,  our  goblet's  weeping  too  ! 

Willi  its  tears  we'll  chase  away  our  own,  boy, 
our  o^vn ; 

With  its  tears  we'll  chase  away  our  own. 

But  daylight's  stealing  on ; 
The  last  tiiat  o'er  us  shone 

Saw  our  children  around  us  play ; 
The  next — ah  I  where  shall  we 
And  those  rosy  urchins  be  ? 

But — no  matter — gi-asp  thy  sword  and  awav, 
boy,  away ; 

No  matter — grasp  thy  sword  and  away ! 

Let  tliose,  wlio  brook  the  chain 
Of  Saxon  or  of  Dane, 

Ignobly  by  their  firesides  stay ; 
One  sigli  to  home  be  given. 
One  heartfelt  prayer  to  heaven. 

Then,  for  Erin   and  her  cause,  boy,  hurra! 
Iiurra!  hurra! 

Tljcn,  for  Erin  and  her  cause,  hurra ! 


Till-:  WANDERING  CARD. 

What  life  like  that  of  the  bard  can  be, — 
The  wandering  bard,  who  roams  as  free 
As  tlie  mountain  lark  that  o'er  him  sings. 
And,  like  that  lark,  a  music  brings 
Wilhin  him,  where'er  he  comes  or  goes, — 
A  fount  that  for  ever  flows  I 
The  world's  to  him  like  some  pl.iy-ground, 
Where  fairies  dance  their  moonlight  round ; 
If  dimm'd  the  turf  where  late  they  trod. 
The  elves  but  seek  some  greener  sod; 
So,  when  less  bright  his  scene  of  glee, 
To  another  away  Hies  he ! 

'"■  '"hat  would  have  been  young  Beauty's  doom, 

Without  a  b.ird  to  fix  her  bloom  ? 

They  lell  u*,  in  the  moon'H  bright  round, 

Tliing.H  loHt  in  this  dark  world  arc  found  ; 

So  cliarinH,  on  earth  long  pas.s'd  and  gone, 

In  the  poet's  lay  live  on. — 

Would  ye  have  Hinilcs  (hat  ne'er  grow  dim  . 

Vou've  only  lo  give  lliei.-i  all  to  him, 

Who,  with  but  a  touch  of  Fancy's  wand, 

Can  lend  llii-ni  life,  tliis  life  beyond, 

And  fix  Ihcm  IiIkIi,  in  Pocsy'b  aky^— 

Voun|{  Mdirs  that  never  die ! 


Then,  welcome  the  burd  where'er  he  comes,- 
For,  though  he  hath  countless  airy  homes, 
To  which  his  wing  excursive  roves. 
Yet  still,  from  time  to  time,  he  loves 
To  light  upon  earth  and  find  such  cheer 
As  brightens  our  banquet  here. 
No  matter  how  far,  how  fleet  he  flies, 
You've  only  to  light  up  kind  young  eyes. 
Such  signal-fires  as  here  are  given, — 
And  down  he'll  drop  from  Fancy's  heaven, 
The  minute  such  call  to  love  or  mirtii 
Proclaims  he's  wanting  on  earth ' 


ALONE  IX  CROWDS  TO  WANDER  OS 

Alone  in  crowds  to  wander  on. 

And  feel  that  all  the  charm  is  gone 

Wliich  voices  dear  and  eyes  beloved 

Shed  round  us  once,  where'er  we  roved — 

This,  this  the  doom  must  bo 

Of  all  wlio've  loved,  and  lived  to  see 

The  few  bright  things  they  tliought  would  sta 

For  ever  near  them,  die  away. 

Tho'  furer  forms  around  us  (hrong, 

Tlieir  smiles  to  otliers  all  belong. 

And  want  that  charm  whioh  dwells  alone 

Round  those  the  fond  heart  calls  its  own. 

Wlicre,  where  the  sunny  brow? 

The  long-known  voice — where  are  they  now 

Thus  ask  I  still,  nor  ask  in  vain. 

The  silence  answers  all  too  plain. 

Oil,  what  is  Fancy's  magic  worth. 
If  all  her  art  cawiot  call  forth 
One  bliss  like  those  we  felt  of  old 
From  lips  now  mute,  and  eyes  now  cold  ? 
No,  no, — her  spell  is  vain, — 
As  soon  could  she  bring  back  again 
Those  eyes  themselves  from  out  the  grave, 
As  wake  again  one  bliss  Ihey  gave. 


rVK  A  SECRET  TO  Tl'.LL  TIII'.E. 

I've  a  secret  to  tell  thee,  hut  husli!  not' here, — 

Oh !  not  where  tho  world  its  vigil  Keeps: 
I'll  seek,  (i)  whisper  it  in  thine  ear, 

Some  shore  where  the  >S]iirit  of  Silence  sleeps 
Where  summer's  wave  iinmiirin'ring  dies, 

Nor  fay  cjin  hear  the  fountain's  gush  ; 
Where,  if  but  a  note  lior  night-bird  sighs. 

The  rose  saitli,  ehidingly,  "  I  lush,  «weet,  Irjsh"' 


IKlSn  MELODIES. 


63 


There,  amid  the  deep  siloncc  of  thiit  hour, 

Wlien  stars  can  be  lieard  in  ocean  dip, 
Tliyself  shall,  iinder  some  rosy  bower, 

Sit  mute,  with  thy  liiirrer  on  thy  lip : 
[jke  him,  tliu  boy,"  who  born  among 

The  flowers  that  on  the  Nile-stream  blush. 
Sits  ever  thus, — his  only  song 

To  earth  and  heaven,  "Hush,  all,  hush  !" 


SONG  OF  INNISFAIL. 

Thet  came  from  a  land  beyond  the  sea. 

And  now  o'er  the  western  main 
Set  sail,  in  their  good  ships,  gallantly. 

From  the  sunny  land  of  Spain. 
'■•  Oh,  Where's  tlie  Isle  we've  seen  in  dreams, 

"  Our  destined  home  or  grave  ?"" 
Thus  sung  they  as,  by  the  morning's  beams. 

They  swept  the  Atlantic  wave. 

And,  lo,  where  afar  o'er  ocean  shines 

A  sparkle  of  radiant  green. 
As  though  in  that  deep  lay  emerald  mines. 

Whose  light  through  the  wave  was  seen. 
•  'Tis  Innisfail"— 'tis  Innisfail!" 

Rings  o'er  the  echoing  sea; 
While,  bending  to  heav'n,  tlie  warriors  hail 

That  home  of  the  brave  and  free. 

Then  turn'd  they  unto  the  Eastern  wave, 

AVliere  now  their  Day-God's  eye 
A  look  of  such  sunny  omen  gave 

As  lighted  up  sea  and  sky. 
Nor  frown  was  seen  through  sky  or  sea ; 

Nor  tear  o'er  leaf  or  sod, 
When  first  on  their  Isle  of  Destiny 

Our  great  forefathers  trod. 


THE  NIGHT  DANCE. 

SiRiKE  the  gay  harp!  see  the  moon  is  on  high. 

And,  as  true  to  her  beam  as  the  tides  of  the  ocean, 
Voung  hearts,  when  they  feel  the  soft  light  of  her 
eye. 
Obey  the  mute  call,  and  heave  into  motion. 
Then,  sound  notes — the  gayest,  the  lightest. 
That  ever  took  wing,  when  heav'n  look'd  bright- 
est. 

Again!  Again! 


Oh  !  could  such  heart-stirring  music  be  hoard 
III  that  City  of  Statues  described  by  romancers, 

So  wak'ning  its  spell,  even  stone  wou.d  be  stirr'd. 
And  statues  themselves  all  start  into  dancers! 

Why  then  delay,  with  such  sounds  in  our  ears. 
And  the  flower  of  Beauty's  own  garden  before 
us,— 
While  stars  overhead  leave  the  song  of  tlieir  spheres, 

And  list'ning  to  ours,  hang  wondering  o'er  us? 
Again,  that  strain! — to  hear  it  thus  sounding 
Might  set  even  Death's  cold  pulses  bounding — 

Again !  Again ! 
Oh,  what  delight  when  the  youthful  and  gay, 
Each  with  eye  like  a  sunbeam  and  foot  like  a 
feather, 
Thus  d.ance,  like  the  Hours  to  the  music  of  May; 
And  mingle  sweet  song  and  sunshine  together! 


THERE  ARE  SOUNDS  OF  MIRTH. 

There  are  sounds  of  mirth  in  the  night-air  ringing 

And  lamps  from  every  casement  shown ; 
While  voices  blithe  within  are  singing, 

That  seem  to  say  "  Come,"  in  every  tone. 
Ah !  once  how  light,  in  Life's  young  season, 

Jly  heart  had  leap'd  at  that  sweet  lay  ; 
Nor  paused  to  ask  of  greybeard  Reason 

Should  I  the  syren  call  obey. 

And,  see — the  lamps  still  livelier  glitter. 

The  syren  lips  more  fondly  sound; 
No,  seek,  ye  nymphs,  some  victim  fitter 

To  sink  in  your  rosy  bondage  bound. 
Shall  a  bard,  whom  not  the  world  in  arms 

Could  bend  to  tyranny's  rude  control, 
Thus  quail,  at  sight  of  woman's  cliarms. 

And  yield  to  a  smile  his  freeborn  soul  ? 

Thus  sung  the  sage,  while,  slyly  stealing, 

The  nymphs  their  fetters  around  him  cast. 
And, — their  laughing  eyes,  the  ■wiiile,  concealitig,— 

Led  Freedom's  Bard  their  slave  at  last. 
For  the  Poet's  heart,  still  prone  to  loving. 

Was  like  that  rock  of  the  Druid  race," 
AA'hich  the  gentlest  toucli  at  once  set  mo\'ing. 

But  all  e.nrth's  power  couldn't  cast  from  its  base 


64 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


OE !  ARRANilORE,  LOVED  ARRAXMORE. 

Oh  !  Arraninore,  loved  Arranmore, 

How  oft  I  dreara  of  thee, 
And  of  those  days  wlien,  by  tliy  sltore, 

I  wander"d  young  and  free. 
Fidl  many  a  path  I've  tried,  since  then, 

Through  pleasure's  flowery  maze, 
But  ne'er  could  find  the  bliss  again 

I  felt  in  those  sweet  days. 

How  blitlie  upon  thy  breezy  cliffs 

At  sunny  morn  I've  stood. 
With  heart  as  bounding  as  the  skiffs 

That  danced  along  thy  flood ; 
Or,  when  the  western  wave  grew  bright 

With  daylight's  parting  wing, 
Have  souglit  that  Eden  in  its  light 

Wliicli  dreaming  poets  sing ;" — 

That  Eden  where  th'  immortal  brave 

Dwell  in  a  land  serene, — 
Whose  bow'rs  beyond  the  shining  wave. 

At  sunset,  oft  are  seen. 
Ah,  dream  too  full  of  sadd'ning  trutli! 

Those  mansions  o'er  the  main 
^re  like  the  hopes  I  built  in  youth, — 

As  suimy  and  as  vam ! 


LAY  UIS  SWORD  BY  HIS  SIDE. 

I.A¥  his  sword  by  liis  side,"  it  hath  served  him  too 
well 

Not  to  rest  near  his  ])illow  below  ; 
To  the  last  moment  true,  from  his  hand  ere  it  fell, 

Its  point  was  still  tuni'd  to  a  flying  foe. 
FcUow-labVers  in  life,  let  them  slumber  in  death. 

Side  by  nide,  as  becomes  the  reposing  brave, — 
I'h.it  sword  which  he  loved   still   uribroke  in  its 
sliealli. 

And  himself  unsubdued  in  his  grave. 

Vet  jiausc — for,  in  fancy,  a  still  voice  1  hear, 

As  if  breathed  from  liis  bravo  heart's  remains; — 
•'ainl  echo  of  that  which.  In  Slavery's  ear, 

Once    sounded     the    war-word,     "  Hurst    your 
cliains !" 
And  it  crie><,  from  the  grave  wlioro  the  hero  lies 
deep, 

"Tlio'  the  day  of  your  Cliicflain  for  ever  hnlh  set, 
'()  Ic'.ivc  not  hilt  sword  thus  Inglorious  to  sleep, — 

"It  hath  vittur^'H  life  hi  It  yel ! 


"Should  some  alien,  unworthy  such  weapon   to 

wield, 
"  D.ire  to  touch  thee,  my  own  gallant  sword, 
"  Then  rest  in  thy  sheath,  like  a  talisman  seal'd, 
"Or  return  to  tlie  grave  of  thy  chainless  lord. 
"  But,  if  grasp'd  by  a  hand  that  hath  Icarn'd  the 
proud  use 
"  Of  a  falchion,  like  thee,  on  the  battle-plain, — 
"Then,  at  Liberty's   summons,  like  lightning  let 
loose, 
"  Leap  forth  from  thy  dark  sheath  ag.ain !" 


on,  COULD  WE  DO  WITH  THIS  WORLD  OF 
OURS. 

On,  could  wc  do  \\!(h  this  world  of  ours 
As  thou  dost  with  thy  garden  bowers. 
Reject  the  weeds  and  keep  the  flowers, 

Wliat  a  heaven  on  earth  we'd  make  it ! 
So  bright  a  dwelling  should  be  our  own, 
So  warranted  free  from  sigh  or  frown. 
That  angels  soon  would  be  coming  down, 

By  the  week  or  month  to  take  it. 

Like  those  gay  flies  that  wing  thro.igh  aii, 
And  in  themselves  a  lustre  bear, 
A  stock  of  light,  still  ready  there. 

Whenever  they  wish  to  use  it ; 
So,  in  tliis  world  I'd  make  for  fhee. 
Our  hearts  should  all  like  fire-flies  be, 
And  the  flash  of  wit  or  poesy 

Break  forth  whenever  we  choose  it. 

While  ev'ry  joy  that  glads  our  sphere 
Ilatli  still  some  shadow  hov'ring  near. 
In  this  new  world  of  ours,  my  dear. 

Such  shadows  will  all  be  omitted: — 
Unless  llicv're  like  that  gracefnl  one. 
Which,  when  tlKUi'rt  dancing  in  the  sun 
Still  near  thee,  leaves  a  charm  upon 

Eacli  spot  whore  it  h:ith  flitted ! 


THE  WINE-CUP  IS  CIllCLlNO. 

TiiF.  wiiii'-cnp  is  circling  in  Almliin's  hall,'* 
And  its  Chief,  'mid  hi.s  heroes  reclining, 

Looks  up,  with  n  nigh,  to  the  tiophied  wall, 
Whf""  '  H  sword  hangs  Idly  shining. 


IKISn  MELODIES. 


65 


Wlien,  hark !  tliiit  shout 

From  tlie  vale  witliont, — 
•'  Arm  ye  quick,  tlie  Dane,  the  Dane  is  nigli !" 

Ev'ry  Chid"  starts  up 

From  his  foaming  ciip. 
And  "  To  battle,  to  battle!"  is  the  Finian's  cry. 

The  minstrels  have  seized  tlieir  hayps  of  gold, 

And  they  sing  such  thrilling  numbers, — 
'Tis  like  tlie  voice  of  the  Brave,  of  old, 

Breaking  forth  from  their  place  of  slumbers! 
Spear  to  buckler  rang, 
As  the  minstrels  sang, 
And  the  Sun-burst"  o'er  them  floated  wide  ; 
Wliile  rememb'ring  the  yoke 
Whicli  their  fathers  broke, 
•*  On  for  liberty,  for  liberty !"  the  Finians  cried. 

Like  clouds  of  the  niglit  the  Northmen  came, 

O'er  the  valley  of  Almhin  lowenng; 
While  onward  moved,  in  the  light  of  its  fame, 
Tliat  banner  of  Erin,  towering. 

With  the  mingling  shock 

Rung  cliff  and  rock, 
While,  rank  on  rank,  the  invaders  die: 

And  the  shout,  that  last 

O'er  the  dying  pass'd,  • 

Was  "  Victory !  victory !" — the  Finian's  cry. 


THE  DREAM  OF  THOSE  DAYS. 

The  dreiun  of  those  days  when  first  I  sung  thee  is 

o'er, 
Thy  triumpli  hath  stain'd  the  charm  thy  sorrows 

then  wore ; 
And  ev'n  of  the  light  which  Hope  once  shed  o'er 

thy  chahis, 
Alas,  not  a  gleam  to  grace  thy  freedom  remains. 

Say,  is  it  tliat  slavery  sunk  so  deep  in  thy  heart. 
That  still  the  dark  brand  is  there,  though  chainless 

thou  art; 
And  Freedom's  sweet  fruit,  for  which  thy  spirit 

long  bnrn'd, 
N'jw,  reaching  at  last  thy  lip,  to  ashes  hath  turn'd 

V\i  Liberty's  steep  by  Truth  and  Eloquence  led, 
Willi  eyes  on  her  temple  fix'd,  how  proud  was  thy 

tread ! 
Ah,  better  thou  ne'er  hadst  lived  that  summit  to 

gain, 
'Jr  died  in  the  porch,  than  thus  dishonor  the  fane. 
9 


FEOII  THIS  HOUR  THE  PLEDGE  IS  GIVEN 

Fj!o;m  this  hour  the  pledge  is  given, 

From  this  hour  my  soul  is  thine: 
Come  what  will,  from  earlh  or  heaven. 

Weal  or  woe,  thy  fate  be  n;inc. 
When  the  proud  and  great  stood  by  thee. 

None  dared  thy  rights  to  spurn  ; 
And  if  now  they're  false  and  Ily  thee. 

Shall  I,  too,  basely  turn  ? 
No ; — whale'er  tlie  fires  that  try  thee, 

In  the  same  this  heart  shall  burn. 

Though  the  sea,  where  thou  embarkest, 

Offers  now  a  friendly  shore. 
Light  may  eome  where  all  looks  darkest, 

Hope  hath  life,  when  life  seems  o'er. 
And,  of  those  past  ages  dreaming. 

When  glory  deck'd  thy  brow. 
Oft  I  fondly  think,  though  seeming 

So  fall'n  and  clouded  now, 
Thoii'lt  again  break  forth,  all  beaming, — 

None  so  bright,  so  bless'd  as  thou ! 


SILENCE  IS  IX  OUR  FESTAL  HALLS  '• 

Silence  is  in  our  festal  halls, — 

Sweet  Son  of  Song!  thy  course  is  o'er; 
In  vain  on  tliee  sad  Erin  calls. 

Her  minstrel's  voice  responds  no  more ; — 
All  silent  as  th'  Eoli.an  shell 

Sleeps  at  the  close  of  some  bright  day. 
When  the  sweet  breeze,  that  waked  its  8V0II 

At  sunny  morn,  hath  died  away. 

Yet,  at  our  feasts,  thy  spu'it  long. 

Awaked  by  music's  spell,  shall  rise; 
For,  name  so  link'd  with  deathless  song 

Partakes  its  charm  and  never  dies : 
And  ev'n  within  the  holy  fane. 

When  music  wafts  the  soul  to  heaven, 
One  thought  to  him,  whose  e.arly  strain 

Was  echoed  there,  shall  long  be  given. 

But,  where  is  now  the  cheerful  d.ay, 

The  social  night,  when,  by  thy  side, 
He,  who  now  weaves  this  parting  laj'. 

His  skilless  voice  with  thine  allied ; 
And  sung  those  songs  whose  every  tore. 

When  bard  and  minstrel  long  have  past, 
Shall  still,  in  sweetness  all  their  own, 

Embalm'd  bv  fame,  undving  last. 


m 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Yes,  Erin,  thine  alone  the  fame, — 

Or,  if  thy  bard  liave  shared  the  crown, 
From  tliee  tlie  borrow'd  glory  came, 

And  at  thy  feet  is  now  laid  do\ra. 
Enough,  if  Freedom  still  inspiie 

Ilis  latest  song,  and  still  there  be, 
jVs  evening  closes  round  his  lyre, 

One  ray  upon  its  chords  from  thee. 


■)  SAY,  TUOU  BEST  AND  BRIGHTEST. 

O  SAT,  thou  best  and  brightest, 

ily  first  love  and  my  last, 
Wlien  he,  wliom  now  thou  slightest. 

From  life's  dark  scene  liatli  p.i'ss'd, 
Will  kinder  thoughts  then  move  thee  ? 

Will  pity  wake  one  thrill 
For  him  wlio  lived  to  love  thee, 

.And  dying,  loved  thee  still? 

If  when,  that  hour  recalling. 

From  which  he  dates  his  woes, 
'I'iiou  feel'st  a  tear-drop  falling. 

Ah,  blush  not  while  it  flows  : 
But,  all  the  past  forgiving. 

Bend  gently  o'er  his  shrine, 
.And  say,  "  This  heart,  when  living, 

"  With  all  its  faults,  was  mine." 


FEAIl  NOT  THAT,  WHILE  AROUND  TUEE. 

Pear  not  that,  while  around  thee 

Life's  varied  blessings  pour. 
One  sigh  of  hers  shall  wound  thee. 

Whose  smile  thou  seek'st  no  more. 


No,  dead  and  cold  for  ever 
Let  our  past  love  remain; 

Once  gone,  its  spirit  never 
Shall  haunt  thy  rest  again. 

May  the  new  ties  that  bind  thee 

Far  sweeter,  happier  prove. 
Nor  e'er  of  me  remind  thee, 

But  by  their  trulli  and  love. 
Think  how,  asleep  or  waking. 

Thy  image  haunts  me  yet ; 
But,  how  this  heart  is  breaking 

For  thy  own  peace  forget. 


THE  GARLAND  I  SEND  THEE. 

The  Garland  I  send  thee   was  cuU'd  from  tho.'se 

bowers 
Where  thou  and  I  w.inder'd  in  long  vanish'd  liours; 
Not  a  leaf  or  .1  blossom  its  bloom  here  disjilays. 
But  bears  some  remembrance  of  those  happy  dayij. 

The  roses  were  gatlicr'd  by  that  garden  gate. 
Where  our  meetings,  though  early,  seem'd  always 

too  late ; 
Where  ling'ring  full  oft  through  a  sunnner-niglit's 

moon. 
Our  jiartings,  though  late,  appear'd  always  too  soon. 

The  rest  were  .all  cull'd   from  the  banks  of  that 

glade. 
Where,  watching  the  sunset,  so  often  we've  stray 'd, 
-And  mouru'd,  as  the  time  went,  that  Love  had  no 

power 
To  bind  in  his  chain  even  one  happy  hcui. 


lillSn  MELODIES. 


67 


EDITOR'S  POSTSCRIPT. 


The  first  number  of  this  popular  work  was 
issued  in  1807;  Mr.  Moore  writing  the  words,  and 
Sir  John  Stevenson  selecting  tlie  music  and  com- 
posing (lie  .icconipaniments.  The  following  extract 
of  a  letter  from  the  poet  to  tlie  musician  is  higlily 
interesting,  as  it  shows  the  germ  of  an  undertaking 
which  has  since  become  so  famous : 

"  I  feel  very  anxious  that  a  work  of  this  kind 
should  be  undertaken.  We  have  too  long  neg- 
lected tlie  only  talent  for  whicli  our  English  neigh- 
bors ever  deigned  to  allow  us  any  credit.  Our 
National  Music  has  never  been  properly  collected ; 
and,  while  the  composers  of  the  Continent  have 
enriched  tlieir  Operas  and  Sonatas  with  melodies 
borrow  ed  from  Ireland, — very  often  without  even 
the  honesty  of  acknowledgment, — we  have  left 
these  tieasures,  in  a  great  degree,  unclaimed  and 
fugitive.  Thus  our  Airs,  like  too  many  of  our 
countrymen,  have,  for  tlie  want  of  protection  at 
home,  passed  into  the  service  of  foreigners.  But 
we  are  come,  I  liope,  to  a  better  period  of  both 
Politics  and  Music ;  and  how  much  thoy  are  con- 
nected, in  Ireland,  at  least,  appears  too  plainly  in 
the  tone  of  sorrow  and  depression  which  charac- 
terizes most  of  our  early  Songs. 

"  Tlic  t.ask  which  you  propose  to  me,  of  adapting 
wordti  to  those  airs,  is  by  no  means  easy.  The 
I'oet  who  would  follow  the  various  sentiments 
wliich  thoy  express,  must  feel  and  understand  that 
rapid  fluctuation  of  spirits,  that  unaccountable 
mixture  of  gloom  .and  levity,  which  composes  the 
character  of  my  countrymen,  and  has  deeply  tinged 
(heir  Music.  Even  in  their  liveliest  strains  we  find 
some  melancholy  note  intrude, — some  minor  Third 
or  flat  Seventh, — which  throws  its  shade  as  it 
passc;i,  and  makes  even  mirth  interesting.  If 
Burns  h;,d  been  an  Irishman,  (and  I  would  willingly 
give  up  all  our  claims  upon  Ossian  for  him,)  his 


heart  would  h.ave  been  proud  of  such  ;nusic,  a*4 
his  genius  would  h.ave  m.ade  it  immortal. 

"  Anolher  difliculty  (whicli  is,  however,  purely 
mechanical)  arises  from  tiie  irregular  structure  of 
m.TJiy  of  those  airs,  .and  the  lawless  kind  of  metre 
which  it  will  in  consequence  be  necessary  to  adapt 
to  tliem.  In  these  instances  the  Poet  must  write, 
not  to  the  eye, but  to  the  e.ar;  and  must  be  content 
to  have  his  verses  of  that  description  wliicli  Cicero 
mentions, 'Quos  si  canlu  spoliaveris  nitda  remanebit 
omlid.'  Th.at  beautiful  Air, '  The  Twistuig  of  the 
Rope,'  wliich  h.as  all  the  romantic  character  of  the 
Swiss  Ranz  dss  Vaches,  is  one  of  those  wild  .and 
sentimental  r.akes  which  it  will  not  be  very  easy  to 
tie  down  in  sober  wedlock  with  Poetry.  However 
notwithstanding  all  these  difliculties,  and  the  very 
moder.ate  portion  of  talent  which  I  can  bring  to 
surmount  them,  the  design  appears  to  me  so  truly 
National,  that  I  sh.all  feel  much  pleasure  in  givinn 
it  all  the  assistance  in  my  jiower." 

In  IMoore's  dedication  to  the  Marchioness  of 
Donegal,  there  are  many  observations  which  ennce 
how  thoroughly  .at  that  time  the  young  poet  had 
idenlificd  himself  with  the  democr.alic  party.  He 
truly  observes  of  Ireland,  "  Nothing  is  remembered 
but  her  virtues  and  her  misfortunes — the  zeal  with 
which  she  has  alw.ays  loved  liberty,  and  the  bar- 
barous policy  which  has  always  withheld  it  from 
her — the  ease  with  which  her  generous  spirit  might 
be  conciliated,  and  the  cruel  ingenuity  which  has 
been  exerted  to  wring  her  into  undutifulness." 
We  can  well  conceive  how  the  poet's  ardent  spirit 
must  have  glowed,  as  he  married  the  glorious  old 
tunes  of  his  native  land  to  his  own  immortal  verse. 
He  well  observes,  that  "  in  our  music  is  found  the 
truest  of  all  comments  upon  our  history.  The 
tone  of  defiance,  s"'-'"eeded  by  the  languor  ol 
despondency — a  bur=t  of  turbulence  dying  away 


(58 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Into  softness — ^the  sorrows  of  one  moment  lost  in 
the  Icvily  of  the  next — and  all  that  romantic  nux- 
ture  of  mirlh  and  sadness,  whieh  is  naturally  pro- 
duced by  the  efforts  of  a  lively  temperament  to 
shake  of,  or  forget  the  wrongs  whicli  lie  upon  it. 
Such  are  tlie  features  of  our  history  and  character, 
wliich  we  find  strongly  and  faitlifully  reflected  in 
our  music." 

There  is  certainly  a  toucliing  sainess  and  fitful 
power  in  the  Irish  Melodies,  wliicli  penetrate 
deeper  mto  the  heart  than  any  national  airs  we 
have  ever  heard.  As  Moore  says,  they  are  the 
true  eclioes  of  tlie  Irish  character,  and  it  is  on 
account  of  this  peculiarity  of  temperament  which 
h;is  rendered  that  nation  less  prosperous  than 
others.  We  feel  strongly  tempted  to  say  that  it 
is  a  nation  of  genius,  and  we  need  no  confirmation 
to  prove  the  checkered  nature  of  God's  highest 
gift.  Byron  has  remarked,  that  even  in  our  own 
age,  Ireland,  poor  and  wretched  as  slie  is,  has  pro- 
duced some  of  the  highest  specimens  of  man  to 
be  found  in  the  literature  and  fame  of  England. 
In  oratory,  Curran,  Burke,  Sliiel,  O'Connell,  and 
Sheridan ;  the  latter  of  wliom  is  famous  also  for 
his  wit,  coiivers;ilion,  and  dramatic  powers.  Gold- 
emith,  too,  in  the  same  class.  In  poetry,  Moore ; 
in  war,  Wellington  ;  in  stalesmansliip,  I'alnierston  ; 
in  chemistry  they  can  bo.ist  of  Jlichacl  Faraday ; 
and  we  oHcr  Emmctt  and  Fitzgerald  as  instjinccs 
of  lofty  and  unselfish  patriotism.  Of  the  \mcal- 
culating  valor  of  tlie  people,  no  student  of  the 


history  of  Great  Britain  can  doubt.  Thei  achieve, 
ments  are  st.iniped  in  every  battle  of  tlie  Peninsular 
War — but  we  repeat,  that  tills  very  entliusiasm  and 
sentiment  have  militated  against  their  poliik-al 
greatness  and  national  happiness.  In  this  liglit, 
how  inexpressibly  affecting  becomes  every  melody 
now  offered  to  the  American  public.  The  sorrow — 
the  gladness — the  wrongs — tlie  hopes — the  fears — 
the  regrets — the  passionate  loves — the  vindictive 
hates,  are  here  breathed,  not  from  the  heart  of  a 
solitary  being,  but  the  Heart  of  the  Nation.  It  is 
a  chorus  of  either  madness,  gloom,  and  despair,  or 
exuberant  gaycty,  amorous  expectations,  and  victo- 
rious exultation.  It  matters  not  how  many  thou- 
sand miles  tlie  "  Green  Island"  is  from  this  great 
republic,  every  throb  of  its  music  is  felt  here  as 
vividly  as  on  the  hdies  of  Killarney,  or  in  the 
deserted  palace-halls  of  the  O'Brien.  As  Words- 
worth says,  tlie  solution  is  simple — 

"  Ilavo  wo  not  nil  of  v.sonr  htiinaii  hijirtv  ■ 

One  .lir  carries  us  back  to  Ihe  battle-plain  of  tlio 
Boyne — another  to  the  days  of  Carolan — in  one, 
we  have  the  plaintive,  yet  overpowering  anguish 
of  the  exile, .is  ho  gazes  his  last  on  the  dying  vi»ion 
of  his  beloved  country,  consecrated  by  her  very 
misfortunes.  Indeed,  there  is  not  a  chord  <if  feel- 
ing which  is  not  touched  in  these  beautiful  com- 
positions. 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


69 


NOTES. 


(1)  Crien  Ruroinbe,  the  grctit  monarch  of  hohinJ,  who  was 
kUled  at  the  battle  of  Cloiitarf,  in  the  bci,'iimiiij?  of  the  11th 
:entiii7,  nftur  having  dcfonted  the  Danes  in  twenty-live  en- 
gagements. 

(i)  .Mnnster. 

(3)  The  palace  of  Brien. 

(4)  This  alludes  to  an  intercstini;  circumstanre  related  of  the 
Dal^ais,  the  favorite  troops  of  Brien,  when  they  were  inter- 
rupted in  their  return  from  the  battle  of  Clontarf,  by  Fitzpat- 
rick,  prince  of  Osaory.  The  wounded  men  entreated  that  they 
mii,'ht  be  allowed  to  fight  with  the  rest.—"  Let  stakes  (they 
said)  he  stuck  in  the  ground^  and  suffer  each  of  usy  tied  to  and 
supported  btj  one  of  these  slakes^  to  be  placed  in  his  rank  by  the 
side  of  a  sound  man.''''  "  Between  seven  and  eight  hundred 
wounded  men,  (adds  O'llalloran,)  pale,  emaciated,  and  sup- 
ported in  this  manner,  appeared  mixed  with  the  foremost  of 
Mie  troops ;— never  was  such  another  sight  exhibited." — 
Uislcrij  of  Ireland^  book  xli.  chap.  i. 

(5)  SoUs  Fons,  near  the  Temple  of  Aramon. 

(6)  *'In  the  twenty-eighth  year  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  an 
Act  was  made  respecting  the  habits,  and  dress  in  general,  of 
the  Irish,  whereby  all  pei"sons  were  restrained  from  being 
shorn  or  shaven  above  the  ears,  or  from  we.iring  Glibbes,  or 
Coidins,  (long  locks,)  on  their  heads,  or  hair  on  their  upper 
lip,  called  Croraraeal.  On  this  occasion  a  song  was  written  by 
one  of  our  bards,  in  which  an  Irish  virgin  is  made  to  give  the 
preference  to  her  dear  Couliu  {or  the  youth  with  the  flowing 
loekst  tu  alt  strangers,  (by  which  the  English  were  meant,)  or 
lho3«  who  wore  their  habits.  Of  this  song,  the  air  alone  has 
reached  vis,  and  is  universally  admired." — iValkcr's  Historical 
Mnnoirx  of  Irish  Bards,  p.  134.  Rlr.  AValker  informs  us  also, 
that,  about  the  same  period,  there  wore  some  harsh  measures 
taken  against  the  Irish  Minstreld. 

(7)  This  ballad  is  founded  upon  the  following  anecdote: — 
"The  people  were  inspired  with  such  a  spirit  of  honor,  virtue, 
and  religion,  by  the  great  example  of  Brien,  and  by  his  ck- 
ceilent  administration,  Hurt,  as  a  proof  of  it,  we  are  informed 
that  a  young  lady  of  great  beauty,  adorned  with  jewels  and  a 
costly  dress,  undertook  a  journey  alone,  from  one  end  of  the 
kingdom  to  the  other,  with  a  wand  only  in  her  hand,  at  the 
top  of  which  was  a  ring  of  exceeding  great  value;  and  such 
8n  impression  had  the  laws  and  government  of  this  Monarch 
made  on  the  minds  of  all  the  people,  that  no  attempt  was 
made  upon  her  honor,  nor  was  she  robbed  of  her  clothes  or 
Jewels." — ii'urncr^s  History  of  Ireland,  vol.  i.,  book  X. 

(B)  "Tiie  Meeting  of  the  Waters"  (orms  part  of  that  beauti- 
ful scenery  which  lies  between  Rathdrum  and  Arklow,  in  the 
cotnity  of  Wicklow,  and  these  lines  were  suggested  by  a  visit 
to  this  romantic  spuit,  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1907. 

rtJ)  The  rixnrs  Avon  and  Av"«"» 


(10)  "  lu  ever)  houae  was  one  or  two  burps,  free  to  all  tiav- 
ellers,  who  were  the  more  caressed,  the  more  they  excelled  in 
music." — O^  Halloran. 

(11)  '■  This  brought  on  an  encounter  between  .^lali.chi  (the 
Monarch  of  Ireland  in  the  tenth  centiiry)  and  the  Danes,  in 
which  Malachi  defeated  two  of  their  champions,  whom  he 
^.ncountered  successively,  hand  to  hand,  taking  a  collar  of  gold 
from  the  neck  of  one,  and  carrying  off  the  sword  of  the  other, 
as    trophies   of  his    victory." — IVamers    History    of    Ireland, 

vol.  i.,  book  ix. 

(12)  "Military  orders  of  knights  were  very  early  establisbed 
in  Ireland ;  long  before  the  birth  of  Christ  we  lind  an  hered- 
itary order  of  Chivalry  in  Ulster,  called  Curaidhe  va  Craiobhe 
ruadh,  or  the  Knights  of  the  Red  Branch,  from  their  chief  seat 
in  Eraania,  adjoining  to  the  palace  of  the  Leister  kings,  called 
Teagh  na  Craiobhe  ruadh,  or  the  Acadomy  of  the  Red  Branch; 
and  contiguous  to  which  was  a  large  hospital,  founded  fur  tht 
sick  knights  and  soldiers,  called  Bronbhcarg,  or  the  House  of 
the  Sorrowful  Soldier." — O^Hallorait's  Introduction,  &,-c,,  part  i 
chap.  5. 

(13)  U  was  aii  old  tradition,  in  the  time  of  Giraldus,  tha* 
Lough  Keagh  had  been  originally  a  fountain,  by  whose  sud- 
den overflowing  the  country  was  inundated,  and  a  whole 
region,  like  the  Atlantis  of  Plato,  overwhelmed.  lie  says 
that  the  fishermen,  in  clear  weather,  used  to  point  out  to 
strangers  the  tall  ecclesiastical  towers  under  the  water. 
Piseatores  aquts  iUius  turres  ecclesiasticas,  qu(£  mare.  patri<E 
arct(E  sunt  et  aU<E,  necnon  et  rotundtt,  sub  uJidis  mnnifeste 
sereno  tempore  eo7ispiciunt,  et  extraneis  transcuntibus,  rciqiu, 
causas  admiraniibus,  frequenter  cstendunt.  —  Topogr.  Hib. 
dist.  2.,  c.  9. 

(14)  To  make  this  story  intelligible  in  a  song  would  require  a 
much  greater  number  of  verses  than  any  one  is  authorized  to 
Inflict  upon  an  audience  at  once ;  the  reader  must  therefore 
be  content  to  learn,  in  a  note,  that  Fionnuala,  the  daughter  of 
Lir,  was,  by  some  supernatural  power,  translormed  into  a 
swan,  and  condemned  to  wandci,  for  many  himdred  years, 
over  certain  lakes  and  rivers  in  Ireland,  till  the  coming  of 
Christianity,  when  the  first  sound  of  the  mass-bell  was  to  be 
the  signal  of  her  release. — I  found  this  fanciful  fiction  among 
some  manuscript  translations  from  the  Irish,  which  were 
begun  under  the  direction  of  that  enlightened  friend  of  Ire- 
land, the  late  Countess  of  Moira. 

(15)  The  inextinguishable  fire  of  St.  Bridget,  at  Kildai-e. 
which  Giraldus  mentions:— " Apud  Kildariam  occurrit  ignia 
Sanctre  Brigidie,  quern  inextinguibilem  vocant;  non  quod  ex- 
tingui  non  possit.  sed  quod  tarn  solicite  moniales  et  sanctse 
mulieres  ignem,  suppetente  materia,  fovent  et  nuiriunt,  ut  c 
tempore  virginis  per  tot  annorum  curricula  scmner  mansit  in 
extinctus." — Gira/d.  Camb.  de  J^irabil.  Hibern,  Jist.  %  C,  34. 

(16)  Mrs.  H.Tighe,  in  ht.  exquisite  lines  on  the  Mly,  has  ap 
plied  this  ima:r«  to  a  sull  m<aH  important  object. 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


(17)  We  may  suppose  this  apology  to  have  been  littered  by 
one  of  those  wandering  bards,  whom  Spenser  so  severely,  and, 
ptirbaps,  truly,  describes  in  his  State  of  Ireland,  and  whose 
poems,  he  tells  us,  "were  sprinkled  with  some  pretty  flowers 
of  their  nutural  device,  which  have  good  grace  and  comeliness 
unto  them,  the  which  it  is  great  pity  to  see  abused  to  the 
gracing  of  wickedness  and  vice,  which,  with  good  usage, 
would  serve  to  adorn  and  beautify  virtue." 

'18)  It  is  conjectured  by  AVormius,  that  the  name  of  Ireland 
is  derived  from  Xr,  the  Runic  for  a  ioir,  in  the  use  of  which 
weapon  the  Irish  were  once  very  expert.  This  derivation  is 
certainly  more  creditable  to  us  than  the  following:  "So  that 
Ireland,  called  the  land  of  Jre^  from  the  cuiistuut  broils  therein 
for  400  years,  was  now  become  the  land  of  concord." — IJoijtPs 
State  JVcrthies^  art.  The  Lord  Orcndifion, 

(19)  See  the  Hymn,  attributed  to  AIc^us,  "I  will  cairy  ray 
eword  hidden  in  myrtles,  like  Harmodius  and  AristogitoUt"  &.c. 

(20)  "Of  s-.ich  celestial  bodies  as  are  visible,  the  sun  ex- 
cepted, the  single  moon,  as  despicable  as  it  is  in  comparison 
to  most  of  the  others,  is  much  more  beneficial  than  they  all 
put  together." — H'/iiston''s  Thconj,  ^-c. 

In  the  Entrcticns  d\-]riste,  among  other  ingenious  emblems, 
v/e  find  a  starry  sky  without  a  moon,  wiUi  these  words,  Jv'cri 
milte,  quod  absens. 

(21)  This  image  was  suggested  by  the  fnUowing  thought, 
which  occurs  somewhere  in  Sir  William  Jones's  works:  "The 
moon  looks  upon  many  night-flowers,  the  night-flower  sees 
but  one  moon." 

(23)  An  emblem  of  Uie  soul. 

(^i  *»Thc  Irish  C<jrlia  was  not  entirely  devoted  to  martial 
purposes.  In  the  heroic  ages,  our  ancestors  quaffed  Meadh 
out  of  them,  as  the  Danish  hunters  do  their  beverage  at  this 
dny."—  ti'atkcr. 

(24j  I  believe  it  is  Marmonlel  who  wnyB,  "  Quand  on  w'a  pas 
ee  que  Con  aime,  it  faut  aimer  ce  que  Von  a." — There  are  so 
many  matter-of-fact  people,  who  take  sucUjfur  d\\-'prit  as  this 
defence  of  iucortstancy  to  be  the  nclual  and  genuine  senti- 
ments of  him  who  writes  them,  that  they  compel  one,  in  self- 
defence,  t'l  bo  OS  matter-of-fact  as  themselves,  and  to  remind 
them,  Dr.l  Democritus  was  not  the  worse  physiologist  for 
having  playfully  contended  that  snow  was  black ;  nor  Krasmua, 
In  any  degree,  the  ie^s  wis<!,  for  having  written  ati  ingenious 
cnctiniiuin  of  folly. 

«'2i.  \i-;titii>Fr  """gorically,  tho  anciimt  Church  of  Ireland. 

(%;  "  Where  tho  Hplril  of  the  Lord  Is,  thcro  is  Liberty."— 
SI,  rn«/,i;Cor.  lii.  I*. 

(27>  Theav  llneit  were  uccjifliuni>d  by  !li«  loss  of  n  *ery  near 
iu)d  dear  relative,  who  Imd  died  lately  at  Madeira. 

(^  Tliln  song  was  wriltea  for  u  fi^to  In  honor  iff  the  Prince 
of  Wales's  birthday,  ffivec  by  my  fiicn't.  M:iii>r  llrMui.  ni  his 
iotd  In  the  county  of  Kilkenny. 

(*JI)>  1  have  heru  mude  n  feeble  e.Tort  to  liuiUde  lltut  exipiiiitu 
InRcrlplion  of  She  nii  to  no's,  "lleiil  rjunnto  minus  est  cum 
rullquls  vunuirl  qunm  momlnlssol" 

(30t  Till*  bnlind  i«  rounded  upon  onn  of  llio  mnnj  storjfft  ro* 
laird  '.f  Hi.  Kevin,  whowi  bed  In  the  rork  In  to  hi'  w-cn  nt 
niendnloiiKh,  O  UimhI  uloonit  fiml  nuruititiL-  nput  in  Itm  roiiiity 
at  W;  klow. 


(31)  There  are  many  other  curio'.^s  traditions  concerning  this 
Lake,  which  may  be  found  in  Giraldus,  Colgan,  tc. 

(3^)  This  alludes  to  Robert  Emmet. 

(33)  The  words  of  this  song  were  suggested  by  tlie  very  ;m-  ^ 
cicnt  Irish  story  called  "  Deirdri,  or  the  Lamentable  Fate  of 
the  ^ons  of  Usnach,"  which  has  been  Irausialed  literally  from 
the  Gaelic,  by  Mr.  O'Flanagan,  (see  vol.  i.  of  T'ransactioiis  of 
the  Gaelic  Society  of  Dublin.,)  and  upon  which  it  appt-ors  that 
the  "Darlhida  of  iMaepherson'^  is  founded.  The  treachery  of 
Conor,  King  of  Ulster,  in  putting  to  death  the  three  sons  of 
Usna,  was  the  cause  of  a  desolating  waa-  against  L'lsler,  which 
terminated  in  tho  destruction  of  Eman.  *'This  story  (s.iys  Mr. 
OTlanagan)  has  been,  from  time  immemurial,  held  in  high 
repute  as  one  of  the  three  tragic  stories  of  tl»e  Irieh.  These 
are,  *Tlie  death  of  the  childien  of  Tourau ;'  'The  death  of  the 
children  of  Lear,"  (both  regai'ding  Tuutha  de  Paiians,)  mid  this, 
*Tho  death  of  the  children  of  I'snach,' which  is  u  Milesian 
story."  It  will  be  recollected,  that,  in  the  Second  Number  of 
these  Melodies,  there  is  a  ballad  upon  the  story  ol  the  children 
of  Lear  or  Lir ;  "  Silent,  oh  Moyle  I"  &.c. 

\A"hatever  may  ho  thought  of  those  sanguine  claims  to 
antiquity,  which  Mr.  O'Flanagan  and  others  advance  for  the 
literature  of  Ireland,  it  would  be  a  lasting  reproach  upon  our 
nationality,  if  the  Gaelic  resoarclu's  of  this  genth  iu::ii  did  not 
meet  with  all  the  liberal  encouragement  tlu-y  »o  well  merit 

(,34)  "  Oh  Nasi  I  view  that  cloud  that  I  here  sec  in  the  sky  1  1 
see  over  Eman-grcon  a  chilhng  cloiul  of  blood-tinged  red."— 
DcirdrCs  Song. 

tr>)  i:iater. 


(36) 


"Proposito  florcm  pra?tulit  officio. ' 

Proi'lkt.  lib.  i.  cleg.  a>. 


(,37>  It  is  said  that  St.  Patrick,  when  preaching  tho  Triuily 
to  tlio  Pagan  Irish,  usi-d  to  illustrate  his  subject  by  relVrenoe 
to  that  species  of  trefoil  called  in  Ireland  by  tJio  name  of  the 
Shamrock;  and  hence,  perhaps,  the  Island  of  Saints  ndopleJ 
this  plant  as  her  natinnnl  emblem.  Hope,  among  the  ancients 
was  someiiiucs  represented  as  a  beautiful  child,  standing  upoa 
tiptoe,  and  a  trefoil  of  thruo*colorcd  gross  in  her  hand. 

(38)  ''Tliero  are  couulrics,"  says  Moulaignc,  "where  they 
believe  the  souls  of  the  happy  live  In  all  n:aimer  of  liberly  tu 
delightful  fields;  and  that  it  is  those  »oul^,  n'pi-iiiing  Dih 
words  we  utter,  which  we  call  Echo." 

(39)  "Steals silently  to  Morna's grove."— See, in  Mr.  Hunting's 
collection,  a  poem  translated  from  the  Irish,  by  tho  late  Juhu 
Itrown,  onu  of  niy  earliest  college  companituis  and  Irieiids. 
whose  death  watt  as  singularly  muliincholy  and  unruilunntii 
us  liis  life  had  been  amiable,  hnnorabh-,  and  r\eui[ilary. 

(10)  The^e  stanzas  arc  founded  upon  an  eviuit  of  mor>t  niel- 
anclioly  Iniportanco  to  Irehmil  ;  if,  as  we  aru  told  by  our  IrlHh 
hlitorlans,  it  gave  Knc;l:tnd  the  llrst  opportunity  of  prniUliiK 
by  our  divihhuis  and  sutxluing  us.  The  foUowlrtg  are  ihn 
clrcuiii(*tanres  as  related  by  O'llatUiran :— **  The  Kl  i-.;  nf 
Leinnter  h»d  hmg  ronct>l\ed  n  violent  alfcctlon  for  Disirhl.or 
gil,  daughter  to  the  king  of  Meath,  and  though  site  hud  brcu 
for  sumo  time  married  to  iril.uurk,  prince  of  lIvefTid,  yui  il 
conM  not  n-slrtiln  his  panMlon.  They  cnrrletl  on  ii  private  cor 
renpondenco,  and  nIio  infi>rmed  him  th:it  O'ltuurk  luti-nde<l 
XHin  to  go  on  n  pilgrhnngi*,  (an  act  of  piety  frequent  in  Ihomi 
day^.i  and  conjiin-d  liini  to  einbrnee  tlinl  oppoilunlly  of  imu 
vrying  Ix-r  from  a  hunband  Khe  det<'><ti'il  to  ii  lover  she  mlnriMl. 
Mric  .Mtiniuid  tmi  puni'lually  idit-yed  Ihf  Hiirnnionts  and  liad 
tlio  lady  tonveyeil  to  hli  capital  of  IViiis.''     Tlio  nion»»:lj 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


71 


Roderick  espniisrd  the  cauae  of  D'Ruark,  while  Mac  Murchnd 
Rvd  tu  Engluiul,  mid  ubtaiiiud  Ihu  aEsi^tnitcu  of  Henry  II. 

•^Siich,"  adds  Ciriildiis  Cainbreiisis,  (ati  I  find  hiiu  iu  an  old 
tianshitlon,)  *'is  Ihe  variablu  and  ficklo  uuture  of  woman,  by 
wliom  all  niischiuf  in  the  world  (for  the  ir.cst  part)  do  happen 
and  como,  as  may  a])pear  by  Marcua  Antouiua,  and  by  Iho 
desLruction  of  Troy." 

(41)  This  ballad  was  suggested  by  a  wcil-known  ai>d  intor- 
estinj  story  told  of  acerlaiu  noble  family  i a  England,  (Marquis 
of  Exeter.)    Tcnuysou  haa  also  a  ballad  on  tlio  e.-ime  sulyect. 

(,42)  Our  Wicklow  Gold  Mines,  to  which  thU  verse  alludes, 
deserve,  I  fear,  but  loo  well  the  character  here  given  of  them. 

(■Ul)  ''The  bird,  having  got  its  prize,  Bottled  not  far  olT,  with 
the  talisman  in  his  mouth.  The  prince  drew  ni^ar  it.  honiiiir 
it  would  drop  it;  but,  as  be  approached,  the  bird  took  wing, 
and  settled  again,"  &.c.—Jii-abiaii  J^/^hts. 

(14)  Tliis  alludes  to  a  kind  of  Irish  fairy,  which  is  to  be  met 
with,  they  say,  iu  the  fields  at  dusk.  As  long  as  you  Iceep 
yi.-uv  eyes  upon  him,  he  is  fixed,  and  in  your  power ;— but  the 
moinent  you  look  away  (and  he  is  ingenious  in  ftn-nisliing 
some  inducement)  ho  vanishes.  I  had  thought  that  this  was 
the  sprite  whieh  we  call  the  Leprechaun ;  but  a  liigh  autliority 
upon  such  subjects.  Lady  :\!oi'gan,  (iu  a  note  upon  her  luitional 
and  interesting  novel,  O'Donnel,)  has  given  a  very  dilTorcnt 
aucount  of  that  goblin. 

(45)  "Tho  Sun-burst"  was  the  fanciful  name  given  by  the 
ancient  Irish  to  the  Royal  Banner. 

(46)  in  that  rebellious  but  beautiful  song,  "  Wlien  Erin  first 
rose,"  there  is,  if  I  recollect  right,  the  following  line  :— 

"The  dark  chain  of  Silence  was  thrown  o'er  the  deep." 

Tlie  chain  of  Silence  was  a  sort  of  practical  figure  of  rhet- 
oric among  the  ancient  Irish.  Walker  tell  us  of*  a  celebrated 
contention  fur  precedence  between  Finn  and  GanI,  near 
Finn's  palace  at  Almhaim,  wliere  the  attending  Bards,  anxious, 
if  possible,  to  produce  a  cessation  of  hosiilitics,  shook  the 
2luun  of  Silence,  and  tlung  themselves  among  the  ranks."  See 
V.so  tlie  Ot/e  tx>  Qaid^  the  Son  of  JKorjii^  in  Miss  Urooko's 
Iteliqnes  of  frisk  Poetry. 

(47)  Dimidio  magic;e  resonant  ubi  Mem  none  chordx. — 
Jurennl. 


M,>udcs. 


it's  habitaus  de  Mercure  snnt  vifs. — Plarafile  tics 


(40)  La  terrc  pourra  itre  pour  Vliuus  IVtoile  du  berger  et  la 
mere  de5  amours,  comme  Venus  Test  pour  nous.— P/urrt/i(e  dcs 
Months. 

v50)  In  a  metrical  life  of  i?t.  Senanus,  which  is  taken  from  an 
old  Kilkenny  MS.,  and  may  be  found  among  the  Jicta  Sancto- 
mm  JlibcrnitE^  we  are  told  of  his  fiight  to  the  island  of  Scat- 
tery,  and  his  fesolutioa  not  to  admit  any  woman  of  the  party; 
and  that  he  refused  to  receive  even  a  sister  saint,  St.  (Jannera, 
whom  an  angel  hud  taken  t(  the  island  for  the  express  purpose 
of  introdticing  her  to  him.  The  following  was  the  ungracious 
ttnswor  of  Senanus,  according  to  his  poetical  biographer  : 

Cui  Prceaul^  (juidfxminis 
Cominune  est  cum  monackis  ? 
Jk'cc  te  ncc  vllam  aliam 
\  JJdmittemus  in  insidam, 

Koe  th<^  JicUi  Sfinct.  Hib..  page  C!0. 


According  to  Dr.  Ledwich,  St.  Senanus  was  no  less  a  per 
Boiuigo  than  tho  river  Shannon;  but  O'Connor  and  other  nnli- 
qnariaiM,  deny  tlio  metamorphose  indignantly:  it  is  certaiuiir 
nut  characteristic  of  the  Creen  Isle. 

(51)  These  verses  were  wi'ittcn  after  tlie  jterusal  of  a  trcaliM 
by  Mr.  Hamilton,  professing  to  prove  that  the  Irish  were  ori- 
ginally Jews. 

(ti^.)  '-Her  sun  is  gone  down  while  it  was  yet  day."— /tr. 
.w.  9. 


(.53)  "Thou  Shalt  no 
Ixii.  4. 


more  be  termed  J'orsaken." — haiaK, 


(51)  "How  hath  tlie  oppressor  ceased!  the  golden  citj 
ccaaed!" — Isaink,  xiv.  4. 

(55)  ''Thy  pomp  is  brought  down  lo  the  grave  ....  and  the 
worms  cover  thee." — Isaiah,  xiv.  U. 

(.56)  "Thou  shall  no  more  bo  called  the  Lady  of  Kingdoms.'- 
— Isaiah,  xlvii.  5. 

(57)  Paul  Zealand  mentions  that  there  is  a  mountain  in  somo 
part  of  Ireland,  where  the  ghosts  of  persons  who  have  died  in 
foreign  lands,  walk  about  and  convei'se  with  tliose  they  meet, 
like  living  people.  If  asked  why  they  do  not  return  to  their 
homes,  they  say  they  are  obliged  to  go  to  Mount  Hecla,  and 
disappear  immediately. 

(58)  The  particulars  of  the  tradition  respecting  O'Donohuo 
and  his  V\Tiite  Horse,  may  bo  found  in  Mr.  Weld's  Account  of 
Killarney,  or  more  fully  detailed  in  Derrick's  Letters.  For 
many  years  after  his  death,  the  spirit  of  this  hero  is  supposed 
to  have  been  seen  on  tho  morning  of  May-day,  gliding  over  the 
lake  on  his  favorite  white  horse,  to  the  sound  of  sweet  un- 
earthly music,  and  preceded  by  groups  of  youths  and  maidens, 
who  flung  wreaths  of  delicate  spi-ing  flowers  in  bis  path. 

Among  other  stories,  connected  with  this  Legend  of  the 
Lakes,  it  is  said  that  there  was  a  young  and  beautiful  girl, 
whose  imagination  was  so  imjtrcssed  with  the  idea  of  this  via- 
iunary  chieftain,  that  she  fancied  lierself  in  love  with  him,  and 
at  last,  in  a  fit  of  insanity,  on  a  May-morning,  threw  herself 
into  the  lake. 

(59)  The  boatmen  at  Killarney  call  those  waves  which  como 
on  a  windy  day,  crested  with  foam,  "O'Donohue's  white 
hoi-ses."  An  English  poet  has  called  ocean  "  the  Blue  Steed 
with  the  Silveiy  ftLine."  Byron  has  also,  in  his  Childe  Harold, 
used  this  figure  as  applied  to  the  sea. 

(GO)  These  lines  were  written  on  the  death  of  om-  great  pa- 
triot, Grattan,  in  the  year  1820.  It  is  only  the  first  two  verses 
that  are  either  intended  or  fitted  to  be  sung. 

(61)  Written  durirg  a  visit  to  Lord  Kenmare.  at  Killarney. 

(62)  In  describing  tlie  Skeligs,  (islands  of  the  Barony  of 
Forth,)  Dr.  Keating  says,  '-There  is  a  certain  attractive  virtue 
in  the  soil,  which  draws  down  all  the  birds  that  attempt  to  fly 
over  it,  and  obliges  tbem  to  light  upon  the  rock." 

(63)  "  Neunius,  a  British  writer  of  the  ninth  century,  mention; 
the  abundance  of  pearls  in  Ireland.  Their  princes,  he  eajs, 
bimg  them  behind  their  ears;  and  this  we  I:nd  confirmed  by? 
present  made  A.  D.  1094,  by  Gilbert,  Bishop  of  Limerick,  lo 
Anselm,  Archbishop  of  Cauterburj*,  of  a  considerable  '|uaniilv 
of  Irish  pearls." — O^IIallorar.. 

(G4)  GleDgariff. 


72 


MOOEE'S  AVOEKS. 


(65)  Joiira  cfaannans,  quand  je  songe  a  vos  heurevix  instans, 
Je  pease  remonler  le  fleuve  tie  tact  ans;  . 
El  mou  ca'ur,  enchaiu^  sur  sa  rive  flearie,         , 
Ue^pire  cHCore  I'air  pi:r  du  matin  de  la  vie. 

(CI)  Tlie  same  (bought  haa  beeu  happily  expressed  by  my 
frieud,  Mr.  Washington  Irviui^,  in  his  liracviridge  Hally  vol.  i., 
p.  213.— The  sincere  pleasure  which  1  feel  in  calling  tliis  gen- 
tleman ray  friend*  is  much  enhanced  by  the  reflection  that  he 
i3  loo  good  an  American,  to  have  admitted  me  so  readily  to 
mich  a  distinction,  if  he  had  not  known  that  my  feelings  to- 
wards the  great  and  free  country  that  gave  him  birth,  have 
been  long  such  as  every  real  lover  of  the  liberty  und  happiness 
of  ibo  human  race  must  entertain. 

(67)  "Thomas,  the  heir  of  the  Desmond  family,  had  acci- 
dentally been  so  engaged  in  the  chase,  that  he  was  benighted 
near  Tralce,  and  obliged  to  take  shelter  at  the  Abbey  of  Feal, 
in  the  house  of  one  of  his  dependents,  called  Mac  Cormac. 
ratherinef  a  beautiful  daughter  of  his  host,  instantly  inspired 
the  Earl  with  a  violent  passion,  which  he  could  not  subdue. 
He  married  her,  and  by  this  inferior  alliance  alienated  his  fol- 
lowers, whose  brutal  prido  regarded  tlils  Jr.dvtigence  of  his 
love  as  an  unpardonable  degradation  of  his  family."— /.c/awd, 
vol.  H. 

(6S)  These  verses  are  meant  to  allude  to  that  ancient  haunt 
of  BuperBtition,  called  Patrick's  Purgatory.  "In  the  midst  of 
these  gloomy  regions  of  Donegall  (says  Dr.  Campbell)  lay  a 
lahe.  which  was  to  become  the  mystic  theatre  of  this  fabled 
and  iutermediale  state.  In  the  lake  were  Sv^veral  islands;  but 
one  of  them  was  dignified  with  that  called  the  Mouth  of  Purga- 
tory, which,  during  the  dark  ages,  attrficli-il  the  notice  of  all 
Christcadom,  und  was  the  resort  of  penilwnls  ard  pilgrims 
from  utmost  every  country  in  Europe." 

•'  It  was,''  as  the  same  writer  tells  us,  "one  of  the  most  dis- 
mal and  dreary  spots  In  the  North,  .almost  inaccessible,  throiv^'h 
deep  glcns  and  rntfgcd  mountain:t,  frightful  with  impending 
rockM,  and  the  hollow  murmurs  of  the  western  winds  in  daik 
caverns,  peopled  only  with  such  rnnla.Mtic  beings  us  the  mind, 
however  gay,  is,  from  itlrange  as.9ociution,  wont  to  appropriate 
to  such  gloomy  scenes."— .Sfricikrc*  on  the  Ecclesiaxtieal  and 
tMrrarf  f/»ttory  of  Ireland, 


(C9)  The  thought  here  was  suggested  by  some  b^r.flitiful  liL:« 
in  Mr.  Eogers's  Poem  of  Human  LiJ'r,  beginning — 

*'  Now  in  the  glimmering,  dying  light,  she  g-  ows 
Less  and  less  eai-thly." 

I  would  quote  the  entire  passage,  did  I  not  fear  to  put  my 
own  humble  imitation  of  it  out  of  countena:ice. 

(70)  The  God  of  Silence,  thus  pictiu-ed  by  the  Egj-ptians. 

(71)  "Milesius  remembered  the  remarkable  prediction  of 
the  principal  Druid,  who  foretold  that  the  posterity  of  i.'adelup 
should  obtain  the  possession  of  a  VN'estern  l:>tiiud.  (which  wai 
Ireland,)  and  there  inhabit.'- — ICcatiti^. 

(72)  The  Island  of  Destiny,  one  of  the  ancient  names  of  Ire- 
land. 

(73)  The  Rocking  Stones  of  the  Druids,  some  of  which  no 
force  is  able  to  dislodge  from  their  stations. 

(74)  The  inhabitants  of  Arranmore  arc  still  persuaded  that, 
in  a  clear  day,  they  can  see  from  this  coast  Hy  Bry«iil.  or  the 
Enchanted  Island,  the  Paradise  of  the  Pagan  Irish,  a;id  con 
cerning  which  they  relate  a  number  of  romantic  stories." 
BcauforCs  ^'Indent  Topotrraphy  vf  Ireland. 

(75)  It  was  the  custom  of  the  ancient  Irish,  in  the  munner  «r 
the  Scytliians,  to  bury  the  favorite  sw^^^rds  of  their  heroes  along 
with  them. 

(76)  The  Palace  of  Fin  .Mac-Cuinhal  (the  Fingal  of  IVlacpher- 
8on)  in  Leiuster.  It  was  built  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  which  h;is 
retained  fri>m  thence,  the  name  of  the  hill  of  Allen,  in  the 
county  of  Kildare.  Tlie  Fiidaiis,  or  Fenii,  were  llio  celebniU-d 
National  Militia  of  Ireland,  which  this  Chief  commanded.  The 
introductit)n  of  the  Danes  in  this  song  is  an  anachronism  coin 
mon  to  most  of  the  Finian  and  Osslanic  legends. 

(77)  The  nam©  given  lo  the  banner  of  Iho  Irish. 

(78)  It  is  hardly  necessary,  perhaps,  to  inform  the  render, 
that  these  lines  are  meant  as  u  tribute  of  sincere  niendship  to 
the  memory  of  an  old  and  valued  collonguo  fn  this  work,  8lf 
John  Stovenson. 


B  „ 


J^ATIOIAL    AIES, 


■ — ■♦ « > 


MOORE'S  PREFACE. 


It  is  Cicero,  1  believe,  who  says,  "  naturd  ad 
■mndos  ducimur ;"  and  the  abundance  of  wild,  in- 
digenous airs,  wliich  almost  every  country,  except 
England,  possesses,  sufficiently  proves  the  trutli 
of  his  assertion.  The  lovers  of  this  simple,  but 
interesting  kind  of  music,  are  here  presented  with 
the  first  number  of  a  collection,  wliich,  I  trust, 
their  contributions  will  enable  us  to  continue.  A 
pretty  air  without  words  resembles  one  of  those 
half  creatures  of  Plato,  which  are  described  as 
wandering  in  search  of  the  remainder  of  them- 
selves througli  the  world.     To  supply  this  other 


half,  by  uniting  with  congenial  words  the  m.'iny 
fugitive  melodies  which  have  hitherto  had  none, — ■ 
or  only  such  as  are  unintelligible  to  the  generality 
of  their  hearers, — is  the  object  and  ambition  of  the 
present  work.  Neither  is  it  our  intention  to  con- 
tine  ourselves  to  what  are  strictly  called  National 
Melodies,  but,  wherever  we  meet  with  any  wander- 
ing and  beautiful  air,  to  which  poetry  has  not  yet 
assigned  a  worthy  home,  we  shall  venture  to  claim 
it  as  an  estray  swan,  and  enrich  our  humble  Hippo. 
crene  with  its  song. 


NATIONAL    AIRS. 


A  TEMPLE  TO  FRIENDSHIP." 

(  SPARISIl  Ai;t.) 

"A  Temple  to  Friendship,"  said  Laura,  enchanted, 

"  I'll  build  in  this  garden, — the  thought  is  divine !" 
Her  temple  was  built,  and  she  now  only  wanted 

An  image  of  Friendship  to  place  on  the  shrine. 
She  flew  to  a  sculptor,  who  set  down  before  her 

A  Friendship,  the  fairest  his  art  could  invent ; 
But  so  cold  and  so  dull,  that  the  youthful  adorer 

Saw  plainly  this  was  not  the  idol  she  meant. 

"  Oh !  never,"  she  cried, "  could  I  think  of  enshrining 
"  An  image,  whose  looks  are  so  joyless  and  dim ; — 
"  But  yon  little  god,  upon  roses  reclining, 

"  We'll  make,  if  yuu  please,  sir,  a  Friendship  of 
him," 

10 


So  the  bargain  was  struck ;  with  the  little  god  laden 

She  joyfully  flew  to  her  shrine  in  the  grove : 
"  Farewell,"  said  the  sculptor,  "  you're  not  the  first 
maiden 
'  Who  came  but  for  Friendship  and  look  away 
Love." 


FLO'W  ON,  THOU  SHINING  RR'ER 
(Portuguese  Air.j 

Flow  on,  thou  shining  river : 
But,  ere  tliou  re.ach  the  spa. 

Seek  Ella's  bower,  and  gi\  e  hei 
The  wreatlis  I  fling  o'er  thee. 


74 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


And  tell  her  thus,  if  she'll  be  mine, 
The  current  of  our  lives  shall  be, 

With  joys  along  their  course  to  shine. 
Like  those  sweet  flowers  on  tliee. 

But  if,  in  wand'ring  thither, 

Thou  find'st  she  mocks  my  prayer, 
Tlien  leave  those  WTeaths  to  witlier 

Upon  the  cold  bank  tlicre ; 
And  tell  her  thus,  when  youtli  is  o'er, 

Her  lone  and  loveless  charms  shall  be. 
Thrown  by  upon  life's  weedy  shore, 

Like  those  sweet  flowers  from  thee. 


ALL  THATS  BRIGHT  MUST  FADE. 
Indian  Air.) 

All  that's  bright  must  fade, — 

The  brightest  still  tlie  fleetest ; 
All  that's  sweet  was  made, 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest. 
Stars  that  shine  and  fall ; — 

The  flower  tliat  drops  in  springing ; — 
These,  alas  !  are  types  of  .ill 

To  wliich  our  hearts  are  clinging. 
All  that's  bright  must  fade, — 

The  briglitest  still  the  fleetest ; 
All  that's  sweet  was  made 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest ! 

Who  would  seek  or  prixc 

Delights  that  end  in  aching  ? 
Who  would  trust  to  tics 

Th.-it  every  hour  are  breaking  : 
Better  far  to  be 

In  utter  darkness  lying. 
Than  to  be  bless'd  with  liglit  and  bcc 

That  liglit  for  ever  flying. 
All  that's  bright  must  fade, — 

The  brightest  still  the  fleetest; 
All  that's  sweet  was  made. 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest. 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 
(Air.— Tub  Hblli  or  8t.  Pktkkidi;roii.) 

Those  evening  bells!  those  evening  bells! 
How  many  n  talc  their  music  IcIIh, 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  lime, 
Whnn  lajtt  I  hc;ird  their  Koothing  chime. 


Those  joyous  hours  are  pass'd  aw.ay ; 
And  many  a  heart,  that  then  was  g.ay, 
Witliin  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells. 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells 

And  so  'twill  be  when  I  am  gone  ; 
Tliat  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on, 
While  otiier  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells 


SO  WARMLY  WE  MET. 

(IIUNa.^RiAN  Air.) 

So  warmly  wc  met  and  so  fondly  we  parted. 

That  which  was  the  sweeter  ev'n  I  could  not 
tell.— 
That  first  iook  of  welcome  her  sunny  eyes  darted, 

Or  that  tear  of  passion,  which  bless'd  our  fare- 
well. 
To  meet  was  a  heaven,  and  to  part  thus  another, — 

Our  joy  and  our  sorrow  seem'd  rivals  in  bliss ; 
Oh !  Cupid's  two  eyes  are  not  liker  each  other 

In  smiles  and  in  tears,  than  that  moment  to  this. 

The   fir.st   was  like  daybreak,  new,  sudden,  deli- 
cious,— 
Tlie  dawn  of  a  pleasure  sc;irce  kindled  up  yet; 
Tl;c  last  like  the  farewell  of  daylight,  more  precious, 

Jlore  glowing  and  deep,  as  'tis  nearer  its  set. 
Our  meeting,  though  happy,  w.as  tinged  by  a  sorrow 
To  think  Ih.at  such  happiness  could  not  rem.ain  ; 
While  our  parting,  though  sad,  gave  a  hope  that 
to-morrow 
Wonld  bring  back   the  blest  hour  of  meeting 
:igain. 


SHOULD  THOSE  FOND  HOPES 
(rnRTroncHB  Air.) 

Should  tho.sc  fond  hopes  e'er  forsake  thee,* 

Which  now  so  sweetly  thy  heart  employ , 
Should  the  cold  world  come  to  wake  theo 

From  all  Ihy  visions  of  youth  and  joy; 
Should  the  gay  friend.s,  for  whom  thou  wouldirt 
banish 

IRm  who  once  thought  thy  young  heart  his  -jwn, 
All,  like  spring  birds,  falsely  vanish. 

And  leave  thy  winter  tmliccdcd  and  luie  ;— 


NATIONAL  AIES. 


76 


Oh  !  'lis  Hion  that  he  thou  hast  slighted 

Would  come  to  cheer  tlice,  when  all  secra'd  o'er ; 
Then  the  truant,  lost  and  blighted, 

Would  to  his  bosom  be  taken  once  more, 
liike  that  dear  bird  we  both  remember, 

Who  left  US  while  summer  shone  round, 
I5ut,  when  chill'd  by  bleak  December, 

On  our  threshold  a  welcome  still  found. 


REASON,  FOLLY,  AND  BEAUTY. 

(Italian  Air.) 

Reason,  and  Folly,  and  Beauty,  the)'  fc.ay, 
Went  on  a  party  of  pleasure  one  day : 

Folly  play'd 

Around  the  maid. 
The  bells  of  his  cap  rung  merrily  out ; 

While  Reason  took 

To  his  sermon-book — 
Oh !  which  was  the  pleasanter  no  one  need  doubt. 
Which  was  the  pleasanter  no  one  need  doubt. 

Beauty,  who  likes  to  be  thought  very  sage, 
Turn'd  for  a  moment  to  Reason's  dull  page, 

Till  Folly  said, 

"  Look  here,  sweet  maid  !" — 
The  sight  of  his  cap  brought  her  back  to  herself; 

Willie  Reason  read 

His  leaves  of  lead, 
With  no  one  to  mind  him,  poor  sensible  elf! 
No, — no  one  to  mind  him,  poor  sensible  elf! 

Tlicn  Reason  grew  je.alous  of  Folly's  gay  cap ; 
Had  he  that  on,  he  her  heart  might  entrap — 

'^  There  it  is," 

Quoth  Folly,  "  old  quiz  !" 
(Folly  was  always  good-natured,  'tis  said,) 

"  Under  the  sun 

"  There's  no  such  fun, 
"As  Reason  with  my  cap  and  bells  on  his  head, 
"  Reason  with  my  cap  and  bells  on  his  head  I" 

But  Reason  the  head-dress  so  awkwardly  wore. 
That  Beauty  now  liked  him  still  less  than  before ; 

While  Folly  took 

Old  Reason's  book. 
And  twisted  the  leaves  in  a  cap  of  such  ion. 

That  Beauty  vow'd, 

(Though  not  aloud,) 
She  liked  him  still  better  in  that  than  his  own, 
Yes, — liked  him  still  better  in  that  than  liis  own. 


FAKR  THEE  WELL,  THOU  LOVELY  ONE! 
(Sicilian  Air.) 

¥::v:£.  theo  well,  thou  lovely  one  I 

Lovely  still,  but  dear  no  more ; 
Once  his  soul  of  truth  is  gone, 

Love's  sweet  life  is  o'er. 
Thy  words,  whate'er  their  Hatt'ring  Bjiell, 

Could  scarce  have  thus  deceived  ; 
But  eyes  that  acted  truth  so  well 

Were  sure  to  be  believed. 
Then,  fare  thee  well,  thou  lovely  one  1 

Lovely  still,  but  dear  no  more  ; 
Once  his  soul  of  truth  is  gone. 

Love's  sweet  life  is  o'er. 

Yet  those  eyes  look  constant  still. 

True  as  stars  they  keep  their  light; 
Still  those  cheeks  their  pledge  fulfil 

Of  blushing  always  bright. 
'Tis  only  on  thy  changeful  heart 

Tlie  blame  of  falsehood  lies ; 
Love  lives  in  every  other  part. 

But  there,  alas !  he  dies. 
Then,  fare  thee  well,  thou  lovely  one  I 

Lovely  still,  but  dear  no  more ; 
Once  his  soul  of  truth  is  gone, 

Love's  sweet  life  is  o'er. 


DOST  THOU  REMEMBER. 
(PoRTUGCESB  Air.) 

Dost  thou  remember  that  place  so  lonely, 
A  place  for  lovers,  and  lovers  only, 

^V^lere  first  I  told  thee  all  my  secret  sighs  ? 
When,  as  the  moonbeam,  that  trembled  o'er  thee, 
Illumed  thy  blushes,  I  knelt  before  thee, 

And  read  my  hope's  sweet  triumph  in  thos<^  eyesi 
Then,  then,  «'liile  closely  heart  was  drawn  tc  heart, 
Love  bound  us — never,  never  more  to  p.ait ! 

And  when  I  call'd  thee  by  names  the  dearest' 
That  love  could  fancy,  the  fondest,  nearest, — 

"  My  life,  my  only  life  !"  among  the  rest ; 
In  those  sweet  accents  that  still  enthral  me, 
Thou  saidst, "  Ah !  wherefore  thy  life  thus  call  me ! 

"  Thy  soul,  thy  soul's  the  name  that  I  love  best  ■ 
"  For  life  soon  passes, — but  ho.v  bless'd  to  be 
"  That  Soul  which  never,  never  parts  from  tlieo !" 


76 


MOOEE'S  WOKKS. 


OH,  COME  TO  ME  WHE^  DAYLIGHT  SETS. 
rV'ESETiAN  Air.) 

Oh,  come  to  me  when  daylight  sets  ; 

Sweet !  then  come  to  me, 
\\nien  smoothly  go  our  gondolets 

O'er  tl!e  moonlight  sea. 
\Vlien  Mirth's  .awake,  and  Love  begins, 

Beneath  that  glancing  ray, 
With  sound  of  lutes  and  mandolins. 

To  steal  young  hearts  away. 
Then,  come  to  me  when  daylight  sets ; 

Sweet !  then  come  to  me. 
When  smoothly  go  our  gondolets 

O'er  the  moonlight  sea. 

Oh,  then's  the  hour  for  those  who  love. 

Sweet !  like  thee  and  me ; 
When  all's  so  calm  below,  above. 

In  heav'n  and  o'er  the  sea. 
When  maidens  sing  sweet  barcarolles' 

And  Echo  sings  again 
So  sweet,  that  all  with  ears  and  souls 

Should  love  and  listen  then. 
So,  come  to  me  when  daylight  sets ; 

Sweet !  then  come  to  mc, 
Wlien  smoothly  go  our  gondolets 

O'er  the  moonlight  sea. 


OFT,  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT. 
(Scotch  Aia.) 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Slemory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me ; 
The  smiles,  the  tears. 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
Tho  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 
The  eyes  tli.it  shone. 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
Tlie  cheerful  hearts  now  broken ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  Imth  bound  mo 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

Tlic  friends,  so  link'd  together, 
I've  Been  around  mo  fu.l, 

Lixe  IcavoB  ii    wintry  weather ; 


I  feel  like  one-. 

Who  tie.ads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted. 

Whose  lights  are  lied. 

Whose  garland's  dead; 
And  all  but  he  dep:irted ! 
Thus,  ill  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


HARK  I  THE  VESPER  HYiDT  IS  STEALlNa 

(Russian  Air.) 

Hark  :  the  vesper  hymn  is  stealing 

O'er  the  waters  soft  and  clear : 
Nearer  yet  and  nearer  pealing, 
And  now  bursts  upon  the  ear: 
Jubilate,  Amen. 
Fartlier  now,  now  farther  stealuig, 
Soft  it  fades  upon  the  ear : 
Jubilate,  Amen. 

Now,  like  moonlight  waves  retreating 

To  the  shore,  it  dies  along; 
Now,  like  angry  surges  meeting, 
Breaks  the  mingled  tide  of  song' 
Jubilate,  Amen. 
Hush  !  again,  like  waves,  retreating 
To  the  shore,  it  dies  along : 
Jubilate,  Amen. 


LOVE  AND  HOPE. 
(Swisa  A:a.) 

At  morn,  beside  yon  summer  sea, 
Young  Hojic  and  Love  reclined  ; 

But  scarce  had  iioonlidc  come,  w'len  hf 

Into  his  bark  leap'd  smilingly, 
And  left  poor  Hope  behind. 

"I  g""  wdd  Love,  "  to  s.iil  awhilo 

"Across  'Jiis  sunny  main;" 
And  then  so  sweet  his  parting  smile, 
That  Hope,  who  never  dream'd  of  guilft 
Bclicvi'd  lic'd  com»i  again. 


NATIONAL  AIES. 


77 


She  linger'J  there  till  evening's  beam 

In  vain  I  try,  with  livelier  air. 

Along  the  waters  lay ; 

To  wake  the  breathing  string ; 

And  o'er  the  sands,  in  thoughtful  dream, 

Tl;:;t  voice  of  other  times  is  there. 

Oft  traced  his  name,  which  still  the  stream 

And  saddens  all  I  sing. 

As  often  wasli'd  away. 

Breathe  on,  breatlis  on,  thou  languid  strain, 

At  length  a  sail  appears  in  sight, 

Henceforth  be  all  my  own  ; 

And  tow'rd  the  maiden  moves  I 

Though  thou  art  oft  so  full  of  pain 

'Tis  Wealth  that  comes,  and  gay  and  bright, 

Few  hearts  can  bear  thy  tone. 

His  golden  bark  reflects  the  light. 

Yet  oft  thou'rt  sweet,  as  if  thy  sigh. 

But  ah  !  it  is  not  Love's. 

The  breath  that  Pleasure's  wings 

Gave  out,  when  last  they  wanton'd  by. 

Another  s.ail — 'twas  Friendship  show'd 

Were  still  upon  thy  strings. 

Her  night-lamp  o'er  the  sea; 

■  And  calm  tlie  light  tliat  lamp  bestow'd  ; 
But  Love  had  lights  that  warmer  glow'd. 

And  where,  alas !  was  ho  ^ 

OH,  NO— NOT  EV'N  WHEN  FIRST  WE 

LOVED. 

Now  fast  around  the  sea  and  shore 
Night  threw  her  darkling  chain ; 

(CVSUMERIAS   Am.) 

The  sunny  sails  were  seen  no  more. 

Oh,  no — not  ev'n  when  first  we  loved. 

Hope's  morning  dreams  of  bliss  were  o'er, — 

Wert  thou  as  dear  as  now  thou  art; 

Love  never  came  again. 

Thy  beauty  then  my  senses  moved. 

But  now  thy  virtues  bind  my  heart. 

What  was  but  Passion's  sigh  before. 

Has  since  been  turn'd  to  Reason's  vow ; 

THERE  COMES  A  TIME. 

And,  though  I  then  might  love  thee  more, 

(GKRMA.N  Air.) 

Trust  me,  I  love  tly^e  belter  now. 

There  comes  a  time,  a  dreary  time. 

Although  my  heart  in  earlier  youth 

To  liira  whose  heart  hath  flown 

Might  kindle  with  more  wild  desire, 

O'er  all  the  fields  of  youth's  sweet  prime, 

Believe  me,  it  has  gain'd  in  truth 

'And  made  each  flower  its  own. 

Much  more  than  it  has  lost  in  fire. 

'Tis  when  his  soul  must  first  renounce 

The  flame  now  warms  my  inmost  core. 

Those  dreams  so  bright,  so  fond ; 

That  then  but  sparkled  o'er  my  brow. 

Oh !  then's  the  time  to  die  at  once, 

And,  though  I  seem'd  to  love  thee  more, 

For  life  has  naught  beyond. 

Yet,  oh,  I  love  thee  better  now. 

When  sets  the  sun  on  Afric's  shore, 

That  instant  all  is  night; 

And  so  should  life  at  once  be  o'er. 

PEACE  BE  AROUND  THER 

When  Love  withdraws  his  light ; — 
Nor,  like  our  northern  day,  gleam  on 

(Scotch  Air.) 

Through  twilight's  dim  delay, 

Peace  be  around  thee,  wherever  thou  rovest; 

The  cold  remains  of  lustre  gone, 

May  life  be  for  thee,  one  summer's  day. 

Of  fire  long  pass'd  away. 

And  all  that  thou  wishest,  and  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Come  smiling  around  thy  sunny  w.iy ! 

If  sorrow  e'er  this  calm  sliould  break. 

May  even  thy  tears  pass  off  so  lightly. 

Mr  HAUP  HAS  ONE  UNCHANGIXG  THEME. 

Like  spring-showers,  they'll  only  make 
The  smiles  that  follow  shine  more  bright]; 

(Sv-fEDisn  AiB.) 

My  harp  has  one  unchanging  theme, 

May  Time,  who  sheds  his  blight  o'er  all. 

One  strain  that  still  comes  o'er 

And  daily  dooms  some  joy  to  death. 

Its  languid  chord,  as  'twere  a  dream 

O'er  thee  let  years  so  gently  fall, 

Of  joy  that's  now  no  more. 

They  shall  not  crush  one  flower  beneath. 

78 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


As  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sun 
This  world  along  its  path  advances, 

May  that  side  the  sun's  upon 

Be  all  that  e'er  shall  meet  thy  glances ! 


COMMON  SENSE  AND  GENIUS. 
(Frkncu  Air.) 

While  I  touch  the  string, 

Wreath  my  brows  ^^•ith  laurel, 
For  the  tale  I  sing 

Has,  for  once,  a  moral. 
Common  Sense,  one  night, 

Though  not  used  to  gambols, 
Went  out  by  moonlight, 

With  Genius,  on  his  rambles. 

Wliile  I  touch  the  string,  iSic. 

Common  Sense  went  on, 

Many  wise  things  saying ; 
Wliile  the  light  tliat  shone 

Soon  sot  Genius  straying. 
One  his  eye  ne'er  raised 

From  tlie  path  before  him ; 
T'other  idly  gazed 

On  e.icli  night-cloud  o'er  him. 

While  I  toiich  the  string,  &c. 

So  tlicy  came,  at  last. 

To  a  shady  river ; 
Common  Sense  soon  pasa'd, 

Safe,  as  he  doth  ever ; 
While  the  boy,  whose  look 

Was  in  Heaven  that  minute, 
Never  saw  the  brook, 

But  tumbled  headlong  in  it! 

While  I  touch  the  string,  &c. 

How  tho  Wise  One  smiled. 

When  safe  o'er  the  torrent. 
At  that  youth,  so  wild, 

Dripping  from  the  current  I 
Sense  went  home  to  bed ; 

Genius,  left  to  shiver 
On  the  bank,  'li.s  wiid. 

Died  of  that  cold  river ! 

While  I  touch  tho  siring,  &c. 


THEN,  FARE  THEE  WELL. 
(Old  KnoLitii  Air.) 

Them,  faro  tlieo  well,  my  own  dear  love, 
This  world  has  now  for  us 


No  greater  grief,  no  pain  above 
The  pain  of  parting  thus. 

Dear  love ' 
The  pain  of  parting  thus. 

Had  we  but  known,  since  first  we  mel, 
Some  few  short  hours  of  bliss. 

We  might,  in  numb'ring  them,  forget 
The  deep,  deep  pain  of  this, 

Dear  love ! 
The  deep,  deep  pain  of  this. 

But  no,  alas,  we've  never  seen 
One  glimpse  of  pleasure's  r.ay. 

But  still  tliere  came  some  cloud  between, 
And  chased  it  all  away, 

Dear  love ! 
And  chased  it  all  away. 

Yet,  ev'n  could  those  sad  moments  last, 

Far  dearer  to  my  heart 
Were  hours  of  grief,  together  p.ass'd, 

Than  years  of  mirth  apart, 
Dear  love  ! 

Than  years  of  mirth  ap.art. 

Farewell !  our  hope  was  born  in  fears, 
And  nursed  'mid  vain  regrets ; 

Like  winter  suns,  it  rose  in  tears. 
Like  them  in  tears  it  sets. 

Dear  love ! 
Liljc  them  in  tears  it  sets. 


GAYLY  SOUNDS  TUE  CASTANET 

(Maltksc    AlK.) 

Gatly  sounds  the  caslanet. 

Beating  time  to  bounding  feet, 
When,  afler  .daylight's  golden  set. 

Maids  and  youths  by  moonlight  meet. 
Oh,  then,  how  sweet  to  move 

Through  nil  that  m.azc  of  mirth, 
Led  by  light  from  eyes  we  love 

Beyond  all  eyes  on  ciirlh. 

Then,  the  joyous  banquet  spread 

On  the  cool  nn<l  fragrant  ground. 
With  hcnv'n's  bright  sparklers  overhead, 

And  still  brighter  sparkling  round. 
Oh,  then,  how  sweet  to  say 

Into  some  loved  one's  ear, 
Thoughts  reserved  through  mauy  a  day 

To  III)  thus  wliispcr'il  here. 


NATIONAL  AIES. 


79 


^hen  the  danco  and  feast  are  done, 

JOYS  OF  YOUTH,  HOW  FLEETINO' 

Arm  in  arm  as  homo  we  atiay, 

How  sweet  to  see  the  dawning  sun 

(PORTUOUKBK    A[R.) 

O'er  her  cheek's  warm  blushes  play  ! 

Wkisp'rings,  heard  by  wakeful  maids. 

Then,  too,  the  farewell  ki^-" — 

To  whom  the  night-stars  guide  us  ; 

T1.C  ..v.uo,  wnose  parting  tone 

Stolen  walks  through  moonlight  .shades, 

Lingers  still  in  dreams  of  bliss, 

With  those  we  love  beside  us. 

That  haunts  young  hearts  alone. 

Hearts  beating, 

At  meeting ; 

Tears  starting, 

LOVE  IS  A  HUNTER-BOY. 

At  parting : 

Oh,  sweet  youth,  how  soon  it  fades ! 

(Lanoufdocian  Air.) 

Sweet  joys  of  youth,  how  fleeting! 

Love  is  a  hunter-boy. 

Who  makes  young  hearts  his  prey; 

Wand'rings  far  aw.ay  from  home. 

And,  in  his  nets  of  joy. 

With  life  .all  new  before  us ; 

Ensnares  them  night  and  day. 

Greetings  warm,  when  home  we  come, 

In  vain  conceal'd  they  lie — 

From  hearts  whose  prayers  w.atcird  o'er  n* 

Love  tracks  them  everywhere  ; 

Tears  starting. 

In  vain  .aloft  they  fly — 

At  parting ; 

Love  shoots  them  flying  there. 

Hearts  beating, 

At  meeting ; 

But  'tis  his  joy  most  sweet, 

Oh,  sweet  youth,  how  lost  on  some ! 

At  early  d.twn  to  trace 

To  some,  how  bright  and  fleeting ! 

The  print  of  Beauty's  feet, 

And  give  the  trembler  chase. 
And  if,  through  virgin  snow. 

He  tracks  her  footsteps  fair, 

HEAR  ME  BUT  ONCE. 

How  sweet  for  Love  to  know 

None  went  before  him  there. 

(French  Air.) 

Hear  me  but  once,  while  o'er  the  grave, 

In  which  our  Love  lies  cold  and  dead, 

COME,  CHASE  THAT  STARTING  TEAR 

I  count  each  flatt'ring  hope  he  gave 

AWAY. 
(French  Air.) 

Come,  chase  that  starting  tear  aw.iy, 

Ere  mine  to  meet  it  springs ; 
To-night,  !it  least,  to-night  be  gay, 

Whate'cr  to-morrow  brings. 
Like  sunset  gleams,  that  linger  late 

When  all  is  dark'iiing  fast. 
Are  hours  like  these  we  snatch  from  Fate- 

The  brightest,  and  the  last. 

Tlien,  chase  that  starting  tear,  &c. 

To  gild  the  deep'ning  gloom,  if  Heaven 

But  one  bright  hour  allow, 
Oh,  think  that  one  bright  hour  is  given. 

In  all  its  splendor,  now. 
Let's  live  it^out — then  sink  in  night, 

Like  w.aves  that  from  the  shore 
One  mmuto  swell,  are  touch'd  with  liglit, 

Then  lost  for  evermore ! 

Come,  chate  that  starting  tear  &« 


Of  joys,  now  lost,  and  charms  now  ficd. 

Who  could  have  thought  the  smile  he  wore 
When  first  we  mot,  would  fixde  aw.ay  ? 

Or  that  a  chill  would  e'er  come  o'er 

Those  eyes  so  bright  through  m.iny  a  day 
Hear  me  but  once,  &c 


WHEN  LOVE  WAS  A  CHILD. 
(Swedish  Air.) 

When  Love  was  a  child,  and  went  idling  round, 
'Mong  flowers,  the  whole  summer's  day. 

One  morn  in  the  valley  a  bower  lie  found. 
So  sweet,  it  allured  him  to  stay. 

O'erlu.ad,  from  tlie  trees,  hung  a  garland  fair, 

A  fountain  ran  darkly  beneath ; — 
'Twas  Pleasure  had  hung  up  the  flow'rets  there ; 

Love  knew  it,  and  jump'd  at  the  wreath. 


so 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


But  Love  didn't  know — aud,  at  his  weak  years, 

GO,  THEN— 'TIS  VA  tN. 

What  urchin  was  likely  to  know  ?— 

That  Sorrow  had  made  of  her  own  salt  tears 

(SiclllAN  Air.) 

The  fountain  that  murmur'd  below. 

Go,  then — 'tis  vain  to  hover 

He  caught  at  the  wreath — but  with  too  much  haste, 

Tlius  round  a  hope  that's  dead  ; 

At  length  my  dream  is  over ; 

As  boys  when  impatient  will  do — 

'Twas  sweet — 'twas  false — 'tis  fled ! 

[t  fell  in  those  waters  of  briny  taste, 

And  the  flowers  were  all  wet  through. 

Farewell !  since  naught  it  moves  thee, 

Such  truth  as  mine  to  see — 

This  garland  he  now  wears  night  and  d.ay ; 

Some  one,  who  far  less  loves  thee, 

And,  though  it  all  sunny  appears 

Perhaps  more  bless'd  will  be. 

With  Pleasure's  own  light,  each  leaf,  they  say. 

Still  tastes  of  the  Fountain  of  Tears. 

Farewell,  sweet  eyes,  whose  brightness 

New  life  around  me  shed ; 

Farewell,  false  heart,  whose  lightness 

Now  leaves  me  death  instead. 

SAY,  WHAT  SHALL  BE  OUR  SPORT  TO- 

Go, now,  those  charms  surrender 

DAY! 

To  some  new  lover's  sigli — 

(Sicilian  Air.) 

One  who,  though  far  less  tender, 

Miiy  be  more  bless'd  than  I. 

Say,  wh.it  shall  be  our  sport  to-day  ? 

There's  nothing  on  earth,  in  sea,  or  air, 

Too  bright,  too  high,  too  wild,  too  gay, 

For  spirits  like  mine  to  dare ! 

THE  CRYSTAL-HUNTER& 

Tis  like  the  returning  bloom 

Of  those  d,-iys,  alas,  gone  by. 

(Swiss  Aie.) 

Wlien  I  loved,  each  hour — I  scarce  knew  whom — 

O'er  mountains  bright 

And  was  bless'd — I  scarce  knew  why. 

With  snow  and  light, 

We  Cryst.il-IIun(crs  speed  along; 
While  grots  and  caves, 

Ay — those  were  days  when  life  had  wings. 

And  flew,  oh,  flew  so  wild  a  height. 

And  icv  waves. 

That,  like  the  lark  which  sunward  springs. 

Each  instant  echo  to  our  son"-. 

'Tw.Ts  giddy  witli  too  much  light. 

^  "o* 

And,  when  we  meet  witli  store  of  gem' 

And,  though  of  some  plumes  bereft. 

We  grudge  not  kings  their  diadems. 

With  that  sun,  too,  nearly  set, 

O'er  mountains  bright 

I've  enough  of  light  and  wing  still  left 

With  snow  and  light. 

For  a  few  gay  soarings  yet. 

We  Crystal-Hunters  speed  along ; 

While  grots  and  caves, 

And  icy  waves. 

BIUGHT  r.E  THY  DREAMS. 

Each  instant  echo  to  our  song. 

(WiLsii  Am.) 

Not  half  so  oft  the  lover  dreams 

BsiGHT  be  thy  dreams — may  all  thy  weeping 

Of  sparkles  from  his  lady's  eyes, 

Turn  into  smiles  wliile  thou  art  sleeping. 

As  we  of  those  refreshing  gleams 

May  those  by  death  or  acas  removed. 

That  tell  wheio  dee|)  (he  crystal  lies 

The  friends,  who  in  thy  Hpring-time  knew  Ihce, 

'lliough,  next  to  orysl:il,  wo  too  grant, 

All,  tliou  hast  ever  prized  or  loved. 

That  ladies'  eyes  may  must  enchant. 

III  dreams  come  smiling  to  thee ! 

O'er  monnt.ains  bright,  &c. 

There  may  (he  child,  whose  love  lay  deepest, 

Somclimc.s,  when  on  the  Alpine  rosa 

nearest  of  nil,  como  while  thou  Hiecpe.st ; 

The  golden  sunset  leaves  its  ray, 

Still  08  she  wa.^ — no  charm  forgot — 

So  like  a  gem  the  flow'ret  glows. 

No  lustre  lost  that  life  had  given  ; 

We  lliillier  bend  our  headlong  w.'iy ; 

Or,  Ifeli.'inged,  but  cliaiiged  to  what 

And,  tli()ugl\  we  (iiid  no  IreaHure  there. 

Thcru'll  find  her  yet  in  ilcuvon  I 

We  bIcBs  the  roao  that  bIuih's  *o  fail. 

NATIONAL  AIRS. 


81 


(J'cr  mountains  bright 

Willi  snow  and  light, 
We  Crystal-IIuntors  speed  along ; 

WiiUe  roi'ka  and  caves, 

And  icy  waves, 
Ea2h  instant  echo  to  our  son''. 


ROW  GENTLY  HERE. 

(Venetian  Air.) 

Row  gently  here, 
My  gondolier, 
So  softly  wake  the  tide, 
That  not  an  ear, 
On  earth,  m.ay  hoar. 
But  hers  to  whom  we  glide. 
Had  He.aven  but  tongues  to  speak,  as  well 

As  starry  eyes  to  see. 
Oh,  think  what  tales  'twould  have  to  tell 
Of  wandering  youths  like  me  ! 

Now  rest  thee  here 

My  gondolier ; 
Hush,  hush,  for  up  I  go, 

To  climb  yon  light 

Balcony's  height. 
While  thou  keep'st  watch  belov/. 
Ah !  did  we  take  for  Heaven  above 

But  half  such  pains  as  we 
Take,  day  and  night,  for  woman's  love. 
What  An!;els  wo  should  be  I 


on,  DAYS  OF  YOUTH. 
(French  Air.) 

On,  days  of  youth  and  joy,  long  clouded, 

Why  thus  for  ever  haunt  my  view? 
When  in  the  grave  your  light  lay  shrouded. 

Why  did  not  Memory  die  there  too  ? 
Vainly  doth  Hope  her  strain  now  sing  me. 

Telling  of  joys  that  yet  rem.iin — 
No,  never  more  can  this  life  bring  me 

One  joy  that  equals  youth's  sweet  pain. 

Dim  lies  the  way  to  death  before  me. 

Cold  winds  of  Time  blow  round  my  brow ; 
Sunshine  of  y out  h  !  that  once  fell  o'er  me. 

Where  is  your  warmth,  your  glory  now  ? 
"Tis  not  that  then  no  pain  could  sting  me  ; 

'Tis  not  that  now  no  joys  rem.ain  ; 
Oil,  'tis  that  life  m.  more  can  bring  me 

One  joy  so  sweet  ae  that  worst  pain. 
11 


"WHEN  FIRST  THAT  SMILE 

(VttKlcTiAN  Air.) 

When  first  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  bless'd  my 
sight. 

Oh  what  a  vision  then  came  o'er  mo ! 
Long  years  of  love,  of  calm  and  pure  delight, 

Seem'd  in  that  smile  to  pass  before  me. 
Ne'er  did  the  peasant  dream  of  summer  skies, 

Of  golden  fruit,  and  harvests  springing. 
With  fonder  hope  than  I  of  those  sweet  eyes. 

And  of  the  joy  their  light  was  bringing. 

Where  now  are  all  those  fondly  promised  hours  ? 

Ah !  woman's  faith  is  like  her  brightness — 
Fading  as  fast  as  rainbows,  or  day-llowers. 

Or  aught  that's  known  for  grace  and  lightnea). 
Short  as  the  Persian's  prayer,  at  close  of  day, 

Should  be  each  vow  of  Love's  repeating ; 
Quick  let  him  worship  Beauty's  precious  ray — 

Even  while  he  kneels,  that  ray  is  fleeting'. 


PEACE  TO  THE  SLUMB'REUS  I 
(Catalosian  Air.) 

Peace  to  the  slumb'rers  ! 

They  lie  on  the  b.attle-piain. 
With  no  shroud  to  cover  them  ; 

The  dew  and  the  summer  rain 
Are  all  that  weep  over  them. 

Peace  to  the  slumb'rers! 

Vain  was  their  bra\'ry  ! — 

The  fallen  oak  lies  where  it  lay 

Across  the  wintry  river  ; 
But  brave  hearts,  once  swept  away 

Are  gone,  alas !  for  ever. 

Vain  was  their  brav'ry ! 

Woe  to  the  conq'ror! 

Our  limbs  shall  lie  as  cold  as  their* 
Of  whom  his  sword  bereft  us, 

Ere  we  forget  the  deep  arrears 
Of  vengeance  they  have  left  us ! 
Woe  to  the  conq'ror ! 


82 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


WHEN  THOU  SHALT  "WAKDER 

(Sicilian  Am.) 

When  tliou  shall  v.-ander  by  that  sweet  liglit 
We  used  to  gaze  on  so  many  an  eve, 

Wlien  love  was  new  and  hope  was  bright, 
Ere  I  could  doubt  or  thou  deoeii'e — 

Oh,  then,  reaicnib'ring  how  swift  went  by 

Those  hours  of  transport,  even  iliou  niayst  sigh. 

Ves,  proud  one  !  even  thy  heart  may  own 
That  lovo  like  ours  was  far  too  sweet 

To  be,  liUe  summer  garments,  thrown 
Aside,  wlien  pass'd  the  summer's  heat ; 

.'Vnd  wisli  in  vain  to  know  again 

Such  days,  such  nights,  as  bless'd  thee  then. 


WHO'LL  BUY  MY  LOVE-KNOTS  f 

(PORTUQUESE  AlR.) 

IIv.ME-v,  late,  his  love-knots  selling, 
Call'd  at  many  a  maiden's  dwelling ; 
None  could  doubt,  who  saw  or  knew  them, 
Hymen's  call  w'as  welcome  to  them. 

"  Who'll  buy  my  love-knots? 

"  Who'll  buy  my  love-knots?" 
Soon  as  that  sweet  cry  resounded, 
How  his  baskets  were  surrounded ! 

Maids,  who  now  first  drcam'd  of  trying 
These  gay  knots  of  Hymen's  tying; 
Dames,  who  long  had  sat  to  \\atch  him 
Passing  by,  but  ne'er  could  catch  him ; 

"Who'll  buy  my  love-knots? 

"  Who'll  buy  my  love-knots?" — 
All  at  that  sweet  cry  assembled  ; 
Some  laugh'd,  some  blush'd,  and  some  trembled. 

"Here  arc  knots,"  said  Hymen,  taking 
Some  loose  flowers,  "  of  Love's  own  making ; 
"  Here  arc  gold  ones — you  may  trust  'em" — 
(These,  of  course,  found  ready  custom,) 

"  Come,  buy  my  love-knots ! 

"Come,  buy  my  love-knots  I 
"  Some  arc  labcll'd  '  Knots  to  lie  men — 
»  Love,  the  maker — Bought  of  Hymen.' " 

Scarce  tlieir  bargains  were  completed. 
When  the  nymphs  all  cried,  "  We're  che.ilcd  ! 
"  See  these  (lowers — Ihey're  <lriio|iing  Kidly  ; 
This  gold-knot,  loo,  lies  bill  baiUy— 


"  Wlio'd  buy  such  love-knots  ? 

"  Wlio'd  buy  such  love-knols  ? 
"  Even  this  tie,  with  Love's  name  round  it — 
"All  a  sliam — He  never  bound  it." 

Love,  who  saw  the  whole  proceeding, 
Would  have  laugh'd,  but  for  good-breeding; 
While  Old  Hymen,  who  was  used  to 
Cries  like  that  these  dames  gave  loose  tO' — 

"  Take  back  our  love-knots ! 

"  Take  back  our  love-knots !" 
Coolly  said,  "  There's  no  returning 
"  Wares  on  Hymen's  hands — Good  morning  l" 


SEE,  THE  DAWN  FROM  HEAVEN. 
(To  AN  Air  sunq  at  Rome,  on  Christmas  Evb.) 

See,  the  dawn  from  Heaven  is  breaking 

O'er  our  sight. 
And  Earth,  from  sin  awaking, 

Hails  the  light! 
See  those  groups  of  angels,  winging 

From  the  realms  above. 
On  their  brows,  from  Eden,  bringing 

Wreaths  of  Hope  and  Love. 

Hark,  their  hymns  of  glovy  pealing 

Tlirough  till'  air. 
To  mortal  cars  revealing 

Who  lies  there ! 
In  that  dwelling,  dark  and  lowly, 

Sleeps  the  Heavenly  Son, 
He,  whose  home's  above, — the  Holy, 

Ever  Holy  One! 


NETS  AND  CAGEa* 

(Swedish  Am.) 

Come,  listen  to  my  story,  whilo 
Your  needle's  task  you  ply ; 
At  what  I  sing  some  maids  will  smile, 

While  some,  perhaps,  may  sigh. 
Though  Love's  (he  thcnie,  and  Wisd  nn  b'4'><v 

Such  florid  songs  iis  ours, 
Vet  Truth  Komctimes,  like  eastern  dames. 
Can  sjieak  her  thoughts  by  flowers. 
Then  listen,  maids,  come  listen,  while 

Your  needle's  task  you  ply ; 
At  what  I  sin^h<"re's  some  may  smile, 
While  .HOiiie,  perhaps  will  sigh. 


NATIONAL  AIRS. 


S3 


Young  Clot",  bent  on  cafcliinj  Loves, 

Such  nets  li:id  leaniM  to  fninie, 
TliJit  none,  in  .'ill  our  vales  and  groves. 

E'er  caujjlit  so  mue!i  small  game: 
But  gentle  Sue,  less  giv'u  to  roam, 

VVliilc  Cloe's  nets  were  taking 
Sueli  lots  of  Loves,  sat  still  at  home, 

(Jnc  liltle  Lovo-cage  making. 

Coine,  listen,  maids,  &c. 

Slueli  Cloc  langh'd  at  Susan's  l;isk ; 

But  mark  how  things  went  on: 
These  light-caught  Loves,  ere  you  could  ask 

i'heir  name  and  age,  were  gone! 
So  weak  poor  Cloe's  nets  were  wove, 

That,  thougli  she  cliarm'd  into  them 
New  game  each  hour,  the  youngest  Love 

Was  able  to  break  through  them. 
Come,  lislen,  maids,  &.C. 

Meanwhile,  young  Sue,  whose  cnge  was  wrought 

Of  bars  too  strong  to  sever. 
One  Love  with  golden  pinions  caught, 

And  caged  him  there  for  ever ; 
Instructing,  thereby,  all  coquettes, 

Whate'er  their  looks  or  ages, 
Tliat,  though  'tis  pleasant  weaving  Nets, 
'Tis  wiser  to  make  Cages. 

Thus,  maidens,  thus  do  I  beguile 

The  task  your  fingers  ply, — 
May  rdl  who  hear,  like  Susan  smile. 
And  not,  like  Cloe,  sigh  ! 


WHEN  THROUGH  THE  PIAZETTA. 

(Vknctun  Air.) 

W'liE.N  through  the  Piazctta 

Night  brcatJies  lier  cool  air, 
Tlien,  dearest  Ninett^i, 

I'll  come  to  thee  there. 
Beneath  thy  mask  shrouded, 

I'll  know  thee  afar. 
As  Love  knows,  though  clouded. 

His  own  Evening  Star. 

Ill  garb,  then,  resembling 

Some  gay  gondolier, 
I'll  whisper  thee,  trembling, 

"  Our  bark,  love,  is  near ; 
"  Now,  now,  while  there  hover 

"  Those  clouds  o'er  the  moon, 
"'Twill  waft  thee  safe  over 

-  Yon  silent  Lagoon." 


GO,  NOW,  AND  DREAM. 
Sicilian  Am.) 

Go,  now,  and  dre.am  o'er  that  joy  in  thy  slumber- 
Moments  .so  sweet  again  ne'er  shalt  thou  number. 
Of  Pain's  bitter  draught  the  flavor  ne'er  flies, 
While  Pleasure's  scarce  touches  the  lip  ere  it  dies. 
Go,  then,  and  dream,  &c. 

That  moon,  which  hung  o'er  your  purling,  so  splen. 

did. 
Often  will  shine  again,  bright  as  she  then  did — 
But,  never  more  will  the  beam  she  saw  burn 
In  those  happy  eyes,  at  your  meeting,  return. 
Go,  then,  and  dream,  &o. 


TAKE  HENCE  THE  BOWL. 
rNEAPoHTAN  Air.) 

Take  hence  the  bowl ; — though  beamuigj 

Brightly  as  bowl  e'er  shone. 
Oh,  it  but  sets  me  dreaminj 

Of  happy  days  now  gone. 
There,  in  its  clear  reflection. 

As  in  a  wizard's  glass. 
Lost  hopes  and  de.ad  .affection, 

Like  shades,  before  me  pass. 

Each  cup  I  drain  brings  hither 

Some  scenes  of  bliss  gone  by ; 

Bright  lips,  too  bright  to  wither, 

Warm  hearts,  too  warm  to  die. 
Till,  as  the  dre.am  comes  o'er  me 

Of  those  long-vanish'd  years, 
Alas,  the  wine  before  me 

Seems  turning  all  to  tears ! 


FAREWELL  THERESA. 
(Venetian  Air.) 

Farewell,  Theresa !  yon  cloud  that  over 
Heaven's  pale  night-star  galh'ring  we  see, 

Will  scarce  from  that  pure  orb  have  p;iss'd,  ere  thy 
lover 
Swift  o'er  the  wide  wave  shall  wander  from  theo. 


84 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


Long,  like  tliat  dim  cloud,  I've  liung  around  tliee, 

Then,  to  every  bright  tree 

Dark'uing  f hy  prospects,  sadd'ning  tliy  brow ; 

In  the  garden  he'll  wander  ; 

Willi  gay  heart,  Theresa,  and  bright  cheek  I  found 

While  I,  oh,  much  fonder. 

thee; 

Will  stay  with  thee. 

Oil,  think  how  changed,  love,  how  changed  art 

In  search  of  new  sweetness  through  thousands  he'l 

thou  now ! 

run, 

While  I  find  the  sweetness  of  thousands  in  one 

Put  here  I  free  thee;  like  one  awaking 

Then,  to  every  bright  tree,  &c. 

From  fearful  slumber,  thou  brcak'st  the  spell; 

Tis  over— the  moon,  too,  her  bondage  is  break- 

ing- 
Past  are  the  dark  clouds  ;  Theresa,  farewell  I 

THOUGH  'TIS  ALL  BUT  A  DREAM. 

HOW  OFT,  WHEN  V,'ATCHING  STARS. 

(Frencu  .\i?..) 

(SiVOVAnD  AlE.) 

Though  'tis  all  but  a  dream  at  the  best. 

And  still,  when  h.ippiest,  soonest  o'er 

Oft,  when  the  watching  stars  grow  pale, 

Yet,  even  in  a  dream,  to  be  bles.s'd 

And  round  nie  sleeps  the  moonliglit  scene, 

Is  so  sweet,  that  I  ask  for  no  more. 

To  hear  a  flute  through  yonder  vale 

The  bosom  that  opes 

I  from  my  casement  lean. 

With  earliest  hopes. 

"  Come,  come,  my  love !"  each  note  then  seems  to 

The  soonest  finds  those  hopes  untrue ; 

say. 

As  (lowers  tliat  first 

"  Oil,  come,  my  love !  the  night  wears  fast  away  I" 

In  spring-time  burst 

Never  to  mortal  car 

The  earliest  wither  too! 

Could  words,  though  warni  they  be, 

Ay — 'tis  all  bnt  a  droam,  &c. 

Speak  Passion's  language  half  so  clear 

As  do  those  notes  to  me ! 

Though  by  Friendship  \\e  oft  are  deceived, 

And  find  Love's  svmshiiie  .soon  o'ercast, 

Then  quick  uiy  own  light  lute  I  seek. 

Yet  Friendship  will  .still  be  believed. 

And'slrike  the  chords  with  loudest  swell; 

And  Love  trusted  on  to  the  last. 

And,  ihongh  Uiey  naught  to  others  speak, 

The  web  'mong  the  leaves 

lie  knows  Iheir  hin!:u.i''c  will. 

The  spider  weaves 

'1  conic,  my  love  I"  each  note  then  seems  to  .say. 

Is  like  tlie  charm  Hope  hangs  o'er  men; 

"I  come,  my  love! — thine,  thine  fill  break  of  day.-' 

Though  often  she  sees 

Oh,  weak  the  power  of  words. 

'Tis  broke  by  the  breeze. 

The  hues  of  painling  dim. 

She  spins  the  bright  tissue  again. 

Compared  to  what  those  simple  cliords 

Ay — 'tis  all  bnt  a  dream,  &c. 

Then  8;iy  and  paint  to  him ! 

WHEN  THE  WIN'E-CUr  IS  SMH/Vft, 

WHEN  TUE  FIllST  SUMMER  BEE. 

(It»i.ia:<  Air..) 

(GitniiAN  Ain.) 

Wiii;n  the  wine-cup  is  smiling  lul'ore  us, 

Witr.N  the  first  summer  bee 

And  we  pledge  round  to  hearts  th.at  are  true,  boj 

O'er  the  young  rose  shall  hover. 

true, 

Then,  like  that  gay  rover. 

Then  the  sky  of  this  lilo  opens  o'er  us, 

I'll  como  to  Ihop. 

And  Heaven  gives  a  gli!:;]'s('  of  its  liluo. 

He  lo  (Inwer-t,  I  to  li|iH,  full  of  sweets  to  the  brim — 

Talk  of  Ad.im  in  E<len  recliniii',', 

What  n  mending,  w\int  a  tnvoting  for  me  nnd  for 

We  are  better,  far  better  olVlhns,  hoy,  thun; 

him  1 

For  him  bnt  tii^i>  bright  eyes  were  shining — 

Wlion  the  first  Hummcr  bee,  &c 

See,  what  numbers  are  sparkling  for  us. 

NATIONAL  AIES. 


85 


When  oil  one  sidj  flie  gi-apt-juicc  is  dancing, 

While  on  t'oflicr  a  bliio  eye  beams,  boy,  beams, 
Tis  enougli,  'twixt  the  wine  and  the  glaMciiif,', 

To  disturb  cv'n  a  saint  from  his  dreams. 
Yet,  thougli  life  like  a  river  is  flowing, 

I  care  not  how  fast  it  goes  on,  boy,  on. 
Bo  the  grape  on  its  bank  is  still  growing, 

And  I.ove  lights  the  waves  as  they  run. 


•THERE  SHALL  WE  BURY  OUR  SHAME! 
(NKAi'or,iT\N  Air.) 

Where  sh.ill  we  bury  our  shame  ? 

Where,  in  what  desolate  pl.ace, 
Hide  the  last  wreck  of  a  name 

Broken  and  stain'd  by  disgrace  1 
Deatli  m.iy  dissever  the  chain, 

Oppression  will  cease  when  we're  gone; 
But  the  dishonor,  the  stain. 

Die  as  we  may,  will  live  on. 

Wits  it  for  this  wo  sent  out 

Liberty's  cry  from  our  shore  1 
Was  it  for  this  tliat  her  shout 

Thrill'd  to  the  world's  very  core? 
Thus  to  live  cowards  and  slaves! — 

Oh,  ye  free  hearts  that  lie  dead. 
Do  yon  not,  ev'n  in  your  graves. 

Shudder,  as  o'er  you  we  tread  ? 


NE'ER  TALK  OF  WISDOM'S   GLOOMY 
SCHOOLS. 

I.^Iaiiratta  Am.) 

Ne'er  talk  of  Wisdom's  gloomy  schools ; 

Give  me  the  .sage  who's  able 
To  draw  his  moral  thoughts  aud  rules 

From  the  study  of  the  table  ; — 
Who  learns  how  liglitly,  (leelly  pass 

This  world  .ind  all  that's  in  it, 
From  the  bumper  that  but  crowns  his  glass, 

And  is  gone  again  next  minute! 

The  diamond  sleeps  within  the  mine. 

The  pearl  beneatli  the  water; 
While  Trutii,  more  precious,  dwells  in  wine, 

The  grape's  own  rosy  daughter. 
And  none  can  prize  her  charms  like  him, 

Oh,  nonfa  like  him  obtain  her. 
Who  thus  can,  like  I.cander,  swim 

Through  sparkling  Hoods  to  g.ain  her! 


HERE  SLEEPS  THE  BARD. 

^IIioiiLAND  Air.) 

Here  sleeps  tlie  Bard  who  knew  so  well 
All  the  sweet  windings  of  Apollo's  shell: 
Whether  its  mu.sic  roll'd  like  torrents  ne.ar, 
Or  died,  like  distant  streamlets,  on  the  ear. 
Sleep,  sleep,  mute  bard;  alike  unheeded  now 
The  storm  and  zephyr  sweep  thy  lifeless  brow  — 
That  storm,  whose  rush  is  like  thy  martial  lay; 
That  breeze  wliich,  like  thy  love-song,  dies  away 


DO  NOT  SAY  THAT  LIFE  IS  WANTNO. 

Do  not  say  timt  life  is  w.aning. 
Or  that  Hope's  sweet  day  is  set; 

While  I've  thee  and  love  rem.aining. 
Life  is  in  'h'  horizon  yet. 

Do  not  think  those  charms  are  flying, 
Though  thy  roses  fade  and  fall ; 

Beauty  hath  a  grace  undying, 
Which  in  thee  survives  them  all. 

Not  for  charms,  the  newest,  brightest, 
That  on  other  cheeks  m.iy  .shine. 

Would  I  change  the  least,  the  slightest, 
That  is  ling'riiig  now  o'er  thine. 


THE  GAZELLE. 

Dost  tlion  not  hear  the  silver  bell. 
Through  yonder  lime-trees  ringing? 

'Tis  my  lady's  light  g.izclle, 

To  me  her  love  thoughts  bringing, — 

All  the  while  that  silver  bell 
Around  his  dark  neck  ringing. 

>See,  in  his  mouth  he  be.irs  a  wre.ith, 
Sly  love  hath  kiss'd  in  tying ; 

Oh,  what  tender  thoughts  beneath 
Those  silent  flowers  are  lying, — 

Hid  within  the  mystic  wreath. 
My  love  hath  kiss'd  in  tying! 

Welcome,  de.ir  gazelle,  to  thee, 

And  joy  to  her,  the  fairest, 
Wlio  thus  h.ith  breathed  her  soa!  to  «3o 

In  every  le-if  thou  bearest; 
Welcome,  dear  g.nzelle,  to  thee. 

And  joy  to  her,  the  '-liroiit ' 


86 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Ilnil  ye  living,  speaking  flowers, 
Tliat  breathe  of  her  who  bound  ye 

Oh,  'twas  n,it  in  fields,  or  bowers, 
'Twas  on  her  lips,  she  found  ye ; — 

Yes,  yc  blushing-,  speaking  flowers, 
'Twns  on  her  lips  she  found  ye. 


NO— LEAVE  ilY  HEART  TO  REST. 

\o — leave  my  heart  to  rest,  if  rest  it  may, 

Wlieii  youth,  and  love,  and  hope,  have  pass'd  away. 

Couldst  thou,  when  summer  hours  are  fled, 

To  some  poor  leaf  that's  fall'n  and  dead. 

Bring  back  tlie  hue  it  wore,  the  scent  it  shed ! 

No — leave  tliis  heart  to  rest,  if  rest  it  may, 

Wiien  youth,  and  love,  and  hope,  liave  pass'd  away. 

Oh,  had  I  met  thee  tlien,  when  life  was  bright. 

Thy  smile  might  still  have  fed  its  tranquil  liglit ; 

But  now  thou  com'st  like  sunny  skies, 

Too  late  to  cheer  the  seaman's  eyes, 

When  wreek'd  and  lost  liis  bark  before  him  lies ! 

No — leave  tlii.s  heart  to  rest,  if  rest  it  m.iy, 

Since  youth,  and  love,  and  hope,  have  pass'd  aw.ay. 


WHERE  ARE  THE  VISIONS. 

"  WHEnr,  are  the  visions  tlint  round  me  once  hovcr'd, 
"Forms   that  shed   grace   from   their   shadows 
alone; 

"Ijooks  fresh  as  light  from  a  star  just  discover'd, 
"  And  voices  that  Music  might  take  for  her  own  ?" 

Time,  while  I  spoke,  with  his  wings  resting  o'er  me. 
Heard   me  say,  "  Wliere  are  those  visions,  oh 
where  f 

And  pointing  his  wand  to  the  sunset  before  me, 
Said,  with  a  voice  like  the  hollow  wind,  "  There." 

Fondly  I  look'd,  when  the  wizard  h.id  spoken. 
And  there,  mid  the  dim  shining  ruins  of  day. 

Saw,  by  their  light,  like  a  talisman  broken. 
The  last  golden  fragments  of  l.opo  melt  away. 


WIND  THT  HORN,  MY  IIUNTER-IIOY. 

W'lsn  thy  liorn,  my  liuntcr-boy, 

And  Ic.Tvo  thy  lute's  inglorious  sighs; 
Fuming  if  the  hero's  joy, 
Till  war  his  nobler  game  supplies. 


H.ark  !  the  hound-bells  ringing  swoei. 
While  hunters  shout,  and  the  woods  repeat, 

Hil!i-ho!  IlilU-ho! 

Wind  again  thy  cheerful  liorn, 

Till  echo,  faint  uitli  answ'ring,  dies : 

Burn,  bright  torches,  burn  till  morn. 
And  lead  us  where  the  wild  boar  lies. 

Hark  !  the  cry,  "  He's  found,  lie's  found," 

While  hill  and  valley  our  shouts  resound, 

HiUi-ho!  Hilli-ho! 


ufl,  GUARD  OUR  AFFECTION. 

Oh,  guard  our  afTection,  nor  e'er  let  it  feel 

The  blight  that  this  world  o'er  the  w.".rmest  wil 

ste.al : 
While  tlie  faith  of  all  round  us  is  fading  or  past. 
Let  ours,  ever  green,  keep  its  bloom  to  the  last. 

Far  safer  for  Love  'tis  to  wake  and  to  weep, 
As  he  used  in  his  prime,  than  go  smiling  to  sleep ; 
For  death  on  his  slumber,  cold  death  follows  fast, 
Wliile  the  love  that  is  wakeful  lives  on  to  the  last. 

And  though,  as  Time  g.athcrs  his  clouds  o'er  oui 

head, 
A  shade  somewhat  darker  o'er  life  they  may  spread. 
Transparent,  at  least,  be  the  shadow  they  cast, 
So  that  Love's  soften'd  light  may  shine  tlirough  to 

the  last. 


SLUMBER,  on  SLUMBER, 

"  Slumder,  oh  .slumber ;  if  sleeping  thou  malc'st 
"  My  heart  beat  so  wildly,  I'm  lost  if  thou  wak'sl " 
Thus  sung  I  to  a  maiden. 

Who  slept  one  summer's  day. 
And,  like  .1  flower  o'erladcn 
Willi  too  much  sun.shinc,  lay. 

Slumber,  oh  s  umber,  &.v. 

"Breathe  not,  oh  breathe  not,  ye  winds,  o'er  hei 

cheeks; 
"  If  mute  thus  she  charm  me,  I'm  lost  when  she 
speaks." 
Thus  sing  I,  wliile,  aw.aking, 

She  murmurs  words  that  seem 
As  if  her  lips  were  taking 

Farewell  of  some  sweet  dream. 

Breathe  not,  oh  breathe  not,  &a 


NATION Ali  AIES. 


87 


BRING  TJIE  BRIGHT  GARLANDS  UITHER. 

Bkinc  the  bi'iglit  garlands  liilhcr, 

Ero  yet  a  Icnl'  is  dying ; 
If  so  soon  tliey  must  wither, 

Ours  be  Uioir  last  sweet  sigliing. 
Hark,  tliat  low  dismal  eliime  ! 
'Tis  the  dreary  voice  of  Time. 
Oh,  bring  beauty,  bring  roses, 

Biing  all  that  yet  is  ours ; 
Let  life's  day,  as  it  closes. 

Shine  to  tiic  last  through  flowers. 

Haste,  ere.  the  bowi's  declining. 

Drink  of  it  now  or  never ; 
Now,  wiiile  Beauty  is  sliining, 

Love,  or  she's  lost  for  ever. 
Hark  !  again  that  dull  chime, 
'Tis  the  dreary  voice  of  Time. 
Oh,  if  life  be  a  torrent, 

Down  to  oblivion  going, 
Like  this  cup  be  its  current, 

Bright  to  tlie  last  drop  flowing ! 


IF  IN  LOVING,  SINGING. 

If  in  loving,  singing,  night  and  day 

We  could  trifle  merrily  life  away. 

Like  atoms  dancing  in  the  beam, 

Like  day-flies  skimming  o'er  the  stream. 

Or  summer  blossoms,  born  to  sigh 

Their  sweetness  out,  ,and  die — 

How  brilliant,  thoughtless,  side  by  side, 

Thou  and  I  could  make  our  minutes  glide! 

No  atoms  ever  glanced  so  bright. 

No  day-flies  ever  danced  so  light, 

Nor  summer  blossoms  mi.\'d  their  sigh. 

So  close,  as  thou  and  I ! 


THOU  LOV'ST  NO  MORE. 

Too  plain,  alas,  my  doom  is  spoken. 
Nor  canst  thou  veil  the  sad  truth  o'er; 

Thy  heart  is  changed,  thy  vow  is  broken. 
Thou  lov'st  no  more — thou  lov'st  no  more. 

Though  kindly  still  those  eyes  beliold  me. 
The  smile  is  gone,  which  once  they  wore ; 

Though  fondly  still  those  arms  enfold  me, 
"Tis  not  tlie  same — thou  lov'st  no  more. 


Too  long  my  dream  of  bliss  believing, 
I've  thought  thee  all  thou  wcrt  before ; 

But  now — alas !  there's  no  deceiving, 
'Tis  all  too  plain,  thou  lov'st  no  more. 

Oh,  thou  as  soon  the  dead  couldst  v/aken, 
As  lost  .affection's  life  restore. 

Give  peace  to  lier  that  is  for.saken, 
Or  bring  back  him  who  loves  no  more. 


WHEN  ABROAD  IN  'J'HE  WORLD. 

AVhen  abroad  in  the  world  tliou  appeare.st. 
And  the  young  and  the  lovely  are  there, 
To  my  heart  while  of  all  thou'rt  the  dearest. 
To  my  eyes  thou'rt  of  all  the  most  fair. 
They  pass,  one  by  one. 

Like  waves  of  tlie  sea, 
Tliat  s,iy  to  tlic  Sun, 

"  See,  how  fair  we  can  be." 
But  Where's  tlie  liglit  like  thine. 
In  sun  or  shade  to  shine  1 
No — no,  'mong  them  all,  there  is  nothing  like  then, 
Nothing  like  tlieo. 

Oft,  of  old,  without  farewell  or  warning. 

Beauty's  self  used  to  steal  from  the  skies ; 
Fling  a  mist  round  her  head,  some  fine  morning, 
And  jiost  down  to  eartli  in  disguise ; 
But,  no  matter  what  sliroud 

Around  her  might  be, 
Jlen  pccjul  througli  the  cloud. 
And  whisper'd,  "  'Tis  She." 
So  thou,  where  thousands  are, 
Shin'st  forth  the  only  star — 
Yes,  yes,  'mong  them  all,  there  is  nothing  like  tlice, 
Nothing  like  thee. 


KEEP  THOSE  EYEfJ  STILL  PURELY  MINE 

Keep  those  eyes  still  purely  mine, 

Though  far  off  I  be  : 
When  on  others  most  they  shine, 

TVen  think  they're  turn'd  on  me. 

Should  those  lips  as  now  respond 

To  sweet  minstrelsy, 
When  tlicir  accents  seem  most  fond, 

Then  think  they're  breathed  for  me. 


88 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


Jl;ike  wh.it  hearts  thou  wilt  thy  own, 

If  when  all  on  thee 
Fix  their  charmed  thoughts  alone, 

Tlioii  think'st  the  while  on  me. 


HOrK  COMES  AGAIII. 

flopE  comes  again,  to  this  heart  long  a  stranger, 
Once  more  she  smgs  me  her  flattering  strain ; 

But  hush,  gentle  s\Ten — for,  ah,  tliere's  less  danger 
In  still  suff'ring  on,  tlian  in  hoping  again. 

Long,  long,  in  sorrow,  too  deep  for  repining, 
(iloomy,  but  tranquil,  tins  bosom  hath  lain; 

And  joy  coming  now,  like  a  sudden  light  sliining 
O'er  eyelids  long  darken'd,  would  bring  me  but 
pain. 

Fly  then,  ye  visions,  that  Hope  would  shed  o'er 
me; 

Lost  to  the  future,  my  sole  chance  of  rest 
Now  lies  not  in  dre^iming  of  bliss  that's  before  me, 

Hut,  ah — in  forgetting  how  once  I  was  bless'd. 


WHEN  NIGHT  BRINGS  THE  HOUR. 

When  night  brings  the  hour 

Of  starlight  and  joy. 
There  comes  to  my  bower 

A  fairy-wing'd  boy ; 
With  eyes  so  bright, 

So  full  of  wild  arts. 
Like  nets  of  light. 

To  tangle  young  liearLs; 
With  lips,  in  wliose  keeping 

Love's  secret  may  dwell. 
Like  /Zephyr  asleep  in 

Some  rosy  Hcn-shcll. 
Guess  who  he  is, 

Name  but  his  name. 
And  his  bent  kiss. 

For  reward,  you  may  claim. 

Where'er  o'er  the  ground 

Mc  prints  his  light  fcef. 
The  Mow'rs  there  arc  found 

Most  hhining  and  Hwect: 
liis  looks,  ns  soft 

Ah  lightning  in  May, 
Though  dangerons  oft, 

Ne'or  wound  but  In  piny! 


And  oh,  W'hen  his  wings 

Have  brush'd  o'er  my  lyre, 
Vou'd  fancy  its  strings 

Were  turning  to  fire. 
Guess  who  he  is. 

Name  but  his  name, 
And  his  best  kis.s, 

For  reward,  you  ni.iy  claim. 


LIKE  ONE  WHO,  DOOSTD. 

Like  one  who,  doom'd  o'er  distant  seas 

His  weary  path  to  measure. 
When  home  at  length  with  fav'ring  breczOi 

He  brings  tlie  far-sought  treasure ; 

His  ship,  in  sight  of  shore,  goes  down, 
That  shore  to  whieli  he  hasted ; 

And  all  the  wealth  he  thought  his  own 
Is  o'er  the  waters  wasted. 

Like  him,  this  heart,  thro'  many  a  traca 

Of  toil  and  sorrow  straying, 
One  hope  alone  brought  fondly  back, 

Its  toil  and  grief  repaying. 

Like  him,  alas,  I  see  that  ray 

Of  hope  before  me  perish, 
And  one  dark  minute  sweep  .nw.ny 

Wliat  years  were  given  to  cherish. 


WHEN  LOVE  IS  KIND. 

When  Love  is  kind, 
Cheerful  and  free, 

Love's  sm-e  to  find 
Welcome  from  me. 

But  when  Love  brings 
Heartache  or  pang, 

Tears,  and  such  things- 
Love  may  go  hang! 

If  Love  can  sigh 

For  one  alone. 
Well  pleas'd  am  I 

To  be  that  one. 

But  Nhonld  I  sec 
Love  giv'n  to  rove 

To  two  or  throe, 

Then — good  by,  Ijovel 


NATI0N7VL   AIES. 


89 


JjOve  must,  in  short, 
Kct'])  fond  and  true, 

Tlirougli  good  report, 
And  evil  too. 

Else,  here  I  swear. 
Young  Love  may  go, 

For  aught  I  care — 
To  Jericho. 


HOW  SHALL  I  WOO? 

If  I  speak  to  thee  in  Friendship's  name. 

Thou  think'st  I  spenk  too  coldly  ; 
If  I  mention  Love's  devoted  flame, 

Thou  8.ay'st  I  speak  too  boldly. 
Between  these  two  unequal  fires, 

Why  doom  to  me  thus  to  hover? 
I'm  a  friend,  if  such  thy  heart  reqmrcs. 

If  more  thou  seok'st,  a  lover. 
Which  shall  it  bo  ?  How  shall  I  woo? 
Fair  one,  choose  between  the  two. 

The'  the  wings  of  Love  will  brightly  play. 

When  first  lie  comes  to  woo  tliee. 
There's  a  clianco  that  he  may  fly  away 

As  fast  as  he  files  to  tliee. 
While  Frlend.ship,  though  on  foot  she  come 

No  flights  of  fancy  trying, 
Will,  therefore,  oft  bo  found  .at  home. 

When  Love  abroad  is  ilying. 
Which  shall  it  be  ?  How  shall  I  woo  ? 
Dear  one,  choose  between  the  two. 

If  neither  feeling  suits  thy  heart, 

Let's  sec,  to  please  thee,  whether 
We  may  not  learn  some  precious  art 

To  mix  their  charms  together ; 
One  feeling,  still  more  sweet,  to  form 

From  two  so  sweet  already — 
A  friendship  that  like  love  is  warm, 

A  love  like  friendsliip  steady. 
Thus  let  it  be,  thus  let  me  woo, 
"Nearest,  thus  we'll  join  the  two. 


SPRING  AND  AUTUilW. 

Ev'nv  season  bath  its  pleasures; 

Spring  m.iy  boast  her  flow'ry  prime. 
Yet  the  vineyard's  ruby  treasures 

Brighten  Autumn's  soberer  time. 
So  Life's  year  begins  and  closes : 

Days,  though  short'ning,  still  can  shine; 
What  thougli  youth  gave  love  and  roses. 

Ago  still  leaves  us  friends  and  wine. 

Phillis,  when  slie  might  have  caught  nie. 

All  the  Spring  look'd  coy  and  shy, 
Yet  herself  in  Autumn  sought  me, 

When  the  flowers  were  all  gone  by. 
Ah,  too  late; — she  found  her  lover 

Calm  and  free  beneath  his  vine. 
Drinking  to  the  Spring-time  over 

In  his  best  autunmal  wine. 

Thus  may  we,  as  years  are  liying. 

To  their  flight  our  pleasures  suit, 
Nor  regret  the  blossoms  dying, 

While  we  still  may  taste  the  fruit. 
Oh,  while  days  like  tliis  are  ours, 

Where's  the  lip  that  dares  repine? 
Spring  may  take  our  loves  and  flow'rs, 

So  Autumn  leaves  us  friends  and  wine. 


LOVE  ALONE. 

If  thou  wouldst  h.ave  thy  chai-ms  enchant  our  eyes 
First  win  our  hearts,  for  there  thy  empire  lies : 
Beauty  in  vain  would  mount  a  heartless  throne, 
Her  Right  Divine  is  given  by  Love  alone. 

What  woidd  the  rose  ^^•ith  all  her  pride  be  worth, 
Were  there  no  sun  to  call  her  brightness  forth  ' 
Maidens,  unloved,  like  flowers  in  darkness  thrown, 
W.ait  but  that  light,  which  comes  from  Love  alone. 

Fair  as  thy  charms  in  yonder  glass  appear, 

Trust  not  their  bloom,  they'll  fade  from  year  to 

year : 
Wouldst  thou  they  still  should  shine  as  first  they 

shone. 
Go,  fix  thy  min'or  in  Love's  eyes  .alono. 


12 


90 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


EDITOR'S  POSTSCRIPT. 


While  the  "  Irish  Melodies"  are  principally 
confined  to  subjects  local  to  the  land  of  liis  birth, 
liie  National  Airs  breathe  a  wider  range  of  sympa- 
thies The  melodies  to  which  the  words  are  linked 
a-i'  ftkewise  chosen  from  various  nations.  This 
will  account  for  the  greater  variety  of  sentiment 
and  harmony  displayed  in  this  selection ;  which, 
liowcvcr,  has  not  had,  by  any  means,  so  wide  a 
popularity  as  the  more  limited  work.  Neverthe- 
less, some  of  Moore's  finest  lyrics  are  to  be  found 
in  this  comparatively  neglected  child  of  the  Bard. 
We  would  more  particularly  .illude  to  the  surprising 
range  of  thought  and  feeling  here  displayed.  There 
is  scarcely  a  chord  in  the  human  heart  which  is  not 
touched  in  them.  For  pensive,  dcvotionnl  feel- 
•ng,  there  are  "  Those  Evening  Bells,"  Ilark,  the 
Vesper  Hymn  is  Stealing"  and  "  See  the  Dawn 


from  Heaven ;"  for  sentiment,  "  All  that's  Bright 
must  Fade,"  and  "Flow  on,  thou  Sliining  River" — 
but  the  reader  will,  no  doubt,  prefer  choosing  for 
liimself. 

Although  Byion  has,  in  one  or  two  instances, 
d.aahed  off  a  far  nobler  lyric  than  any  wliich  Moore 
has  produced,  yet  the  latter  is  far  excellence  the 
great  English  Song- Writer.  One  of  the  common- 
est errors  of  poetical  aspuants  is,  that  it  is  very 
e-asy  to  wi-ite  a  good  song !  English  literature  has 
in  our  time  produced  only /our,  although  hundreds 
have  made  the  attempt.  We  allude  to  Dibdin, 
Bayly,  and  Jloore,  in  the  old  country,  and  George 
P.  Morris  in  America.  Many  of  the  latter  poet's 
effusions  h.ave  all  the  grace  and  prestige  of  the 
English  Lyrist's  best  productions. 


NOTES 


(I)  Tlie  thouglit  fs  taken  from  a  song  by  I*o  Priour,  called 
«  La  Stnluo  de  rAmiU6." 

<*t)  Tliiti  Is  ono  of  Iho  mnny  instances  omon?  my  I>'r[cAl 
ftofhis,— thou;;!)  ttio  nliovo,  It  must  be  owned,  ts  nn  nxlKmo 
cnao,— where  the  tnctro  lins  been  nnccs^nrily  BacriflccU  to  tho 
slrttcluro  ortlio  air. 

Q\  Tito  tlintt(;ht  111  tliis  vcrw-  is  borrowed  f>oin  tho  ortKloal 
Piirtug^uQW  worda.  I 


(4)  harcaroltus,  sorto  du  chausons  en  langiio  VOniticnno,  que 
chtintont  los  gondoliers  ik  Vcnlso.— 7?oiu«eaK,  Diciionnairc  dt 

Musiqiie. 

(5)  SnRpcinlctl  by  llio  followintj  rcinnrk  of  Swift:— "Tlio  rca 
son  why  pn  ffw  iniirriiiffcs  nre  happy,  l«,  hccauso  yoinix  ladiM 
npeiid  thc-lr  time  in  making  nets,  nut  iu  making  ca^os,'* 


|ira\un^ 


SACEED    SOIGS, 


THOU  ART,  OH  GOD. 
(A  in. — Unknown.*) 

»'TIic  day  is  lliino,  the  night  also  is  Ihiiic:  thou  hast  pre- 
jinrcil  tlu!  lii;l)l  ami  llio  sun. 

"Tliou  hast  si'l  ail  Ibo  bonlors  of  the  earth :  llmii  hast  made 
eunimor  and  winter." — P.^ahn  l.\xiv.  1(3,  17. 

Thou  art,  O  God,  tin;  life  .and  light 
Of  all  this  woni]iou.s  world  wc  see; 

Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  nig'ht, 
Are  but  rclk'otions  caught  from  Thee. 

Where'er  wo  turn,  thy  glories  shine. 

And  all  things  fair  and  blight  are  Thine ! 

\Mien  Day,  with  farewell  beam,  delays 
Among  the  op'iiing  clouds  of  Even, 

And  we  can  almost  think  wc  gaze 
Through  golden  vistas  into  Heaven — 

Those  hues  that  make  the  Snn's  decline 

So  soft,  so  radiant.  Lord  !  are  Thine. 

AVlicn  Night,  with  wings  ofst.irry  gloom, 
O'ershadows  all  the  earth  and  skies, 

Like  some  dark,  beauteous  bu'd,  whose  plume 
Is  sparkling  with  unnumber'd  eyes — 

That  sacred  gloom,  those  fires  divine, 

So  grand,  so  countless,  Lokd  !  are  Thine. 

When  youthful  Spring  around  us  bre.athes, 
Thy  Spirit  warms  her  fragrant  sigh  ; 

And  every  flower  the  Summer  wreathes 
Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 

Where'er  we  turn,  thy  glories  shine. 

And  all  tilings  fair  and  bright,  are  Thine  ! 


THE  BIRD,  LET  LOOSE. 
(Air. — Bketiicvzn.) 

The  bird,  let  loose  in  eastem  skies,' 

When  hast'ning  fondly  home, 
Ne'er  stoops  to  earth  her  wing,  nor  flies 

Where  idle  warblers  roam. 
But  high  she  shoots  through  air  and  light, 

Above  all  low  delay. 
Where  nothing  earthly  bounds  her  flight, 

Nor  shadow  dims  her  way. 

So  grant  me,  God,  from  every  care 

And  stain  of  passion  free. 
Aloft,  through  Virtue's  purer  air. 

To  hold  my  course  to  Thee! 
No  sin  to  cloud,  no  lure  to  stay 

My  Soul,  as  home  she  springs ; — 
Tliy  Sunshine  on  her  joyful  w.iy. 

Thy  Freedom  in  her  wings! 


FALLEN  IS  THY  THRONE. 

(Air. — ^lARTi:fl.) 

Fall'n  is  thy  Throne,  oh  Israel ! 

Silence  is  o'er  thy  pl.iins; 
Thy  dwellings  all  lie  dcsol.ate. 

Thy  children  weep  in  chains. 
Wliere  are  the  dews  that  fed  thee 

On  Etham's  barren  shore  ? 
Th.at  fire  from  Heaven  which  led  then, 

Now  lights  thy  path  no  more. 

Lokd  !  thou  didst  love  Jerusalem— 
Once  she  was  all  thy  own; 

Her  love  tliy  fairest  heritage,' 
Her  power  thy  glory's  throne.' 


92 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Till  evil  came,  .iiid  bli^rlited 
Thy  long-loved  olive  tree ;' — 

And  Salem's  shrines  were  lighted 
For  other  gods  than  Thee. 

Then  sunk  the  star  of  Solyma — 

Then  pass'd  her  glory's  day, 
Like  heath  that,  in  the  ^Wlderness," 

The  wild  wind  whirls  away. 
Silent  and  waste  her  bowers, 

Wliere  once  the  mighty  trod. 
And  sunk  those  guilty  towers. 

While  Baal  reign'd  as  God. 

"Go" — said  the  Lord — '-Ye  Conquerors! 

"  Steep  in  her  blood  your  swords, 
"  And  raze  to  earth  lier  battlements,' 

"  For  they  are  not  the  Lord's. 
■'Till  Zion's  mournful  daughter 

"O'er  kindred  bo'ies  shall  tread, 
'  And  Hinnom's  vale  of  slaughter" 

«  Shall  hide  but  half  her  de.ad !" 


WHO    IS   TUE   MAID? 
BT.  Jerome's  love." 
(Air. — Beetiiovbn.) 

Who  is  the  Maid  my  spirit  seeks. 

Through  cold  reproof  and  slander's  blight  ? 
lias  she  Love's  roses  on  her  checks? 

Is  Iters  an  eye  of  this  world's  liglit? 
No — wan  and  sunk  witli  midniglit  prayer 

.\rc  the  pale  looks  of  her  I  love; 
Or  if,  iit  times,  the  light  be  there. 

Its  beam  is  kindled  from  .ibovc. 

I  chose  not  her,  my  heart's  elect, 

From  those  who  seek  tlirir  Maker's  shrino 
In  gems  and  garlands  proudly  dcck'd, 

Am  if  themselves  were  things  divine. 
No — Heaven  but  faintly  warms  the  breast 

That  beats  beneath  a  broider'd  veil ; 
And  she  who  comes  in  glitl'ring  vest 

To  mourn  her  frailty,  still  is  frail. 

Not  HO  the  faded  form  I  prizo 

And  love,  because  its  bloom  is  gone; 
The  glory  in  those  sainted  eyes 

Ih  uU  the  grace  hrr  brow  p\ils  on. 
And  ne'er  wn.M  Bc.'iuty's  dawn  so  bright 

Ho  touching  ns  that  form's  decay, 
Which,  like  the  altar's  trembling  light, 

In  holy  lustre  wniitcM  away. 


THIS  WORLD  IS  ALL  A  FLEETING  SUdW 
(Air. — Stevenson.) 

This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show. 

For  man's  illusion  given ; 
The  smiles  of  Joj',  the  tears  of  Woe. 
Deceitful  shine,  deceitful  flow — 

There's  nothing  true,  but  Heaven ! 

And  false  the  light  on  Glory's  plume. 

As  fading  hues  of  Even  ; 
And  Love  and  Hope,  and  Be.iuty's  bloom, 
Are  blossoms  gathcr'd  for  the  tomb — 

There's  nothing  bright,  but  Heaven  ! 

Poor  wand'rers  of  a  stormy  day! 

From  wave  to  wave  we're  driven, 
And  Fancy's  flash,  and  Reason's  ray, 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  w.ay — 

Tlicrc's  nothing  cilm,  but  Heaven! 


OH,  THOU!  WHO  DKY'ST  THE  MOURNEIl'3 
TEAR. 

(.\1R.— IIavdn.) 

"  Mo   lieali'lh  tlie  broI<on  in  ht-art,  niul   hindi'lh   up  llidl 
wounds."— rrfn/iH  cxlvii.  3. 

On,  Thou !  wlio  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear, 

How  dark  this  world  would  bo. 
If.  when  deceived  and  wounded  here, 

We  could  not  fly  to  Thee ! 
The  friends,  who  in  our  .sunshine  live, 

When  winter  comes,  are  flown; 
,\nd  he  who  has  but  tears  to  give, 

Must  weep  those  tears  alone. 
But  thou  wilt  hcnl  that  broken  heart, 

Wliieli,  like  till'  plants  that  throw 
Their  fragrance  from  the  wounded  part. 

Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 

When  joy  no  longer  soothes  or  cheers, 

And  e'en  the  hope  that  threw 
A  moment's  sparkle  o'er  our  tears, 

Is  dimin'd  and  vanish 'd  too. 
Oil,  who  woulil  bear  life's  stormy  doom. 

Did  not  thy  Wing  of  Love 
Come,  brightly  wafting  through  tlic  glooi:i 

Our  IV-ace-liranch  from  above? 
Then  sorrow,  tonch'd  by  Thee,  grows  biiglit 

With  more  than  rapture's  ray  ; 
And  darkness  shows  ns  worlds  of  light 

We  never  saw  by  <]i\j  I 


SACRED  SONGS. 


93 


WEEP  NOT  Foil  TUOSE. 
(Air. — AvlsoN.) 

Weep  not  for  those  whom  tlio  veil  of  tlie  tomb, 

In  life's  happy  morning,  hatli  hid  from  our  eyes, 
Ere  sin  threw  a  blight  o'er  the  spirit's  young  bloom, 
t)r  earth  liad  profaned  what  was  born  for  the 
skies. 
Death  chiUM  the   fair   fountain,  ere   sorrow   had 
stain'd  it; 
'Twas  frozen  in  all  the  pure  light  of  its  course. 
And  but  sleeps  till  the  sunshine  of  Heaven  has 
unchain"d  it, 
To  water  that  Eden  where  first  was  its  source. 
Weep  not  for  these  whom  the  veil  of  the  tomb, 

In  life's  happy  morning,  hath  hid  from  our  eyes, 
Ere  sin  threw  a  blight  o'er  the  spirit's  young  bloom. 
Or  earth  had  profaned  whtit  was  born  for  the 
skies. 

Mourn  not  for  her,  the  young  Bride  of  the  Vale,'° 

Our  gayest  and  loveliest,  lost  to  us  now. 
Ere  lif(,>'s  early  lustre  liad  time  to  grow  pale. 
And  the  garland  of  Love  was  yet  fresh  on  her 
brow. 
Oh,  then  was  her  moment,  dear  spirit,  for  flying 
From  this  gloomy  world,  while  its  gloom  was 
unknown — 
And  the  wild  hymns  she  warbled  so  sweetly,  in 
djing. 
Were  echoed  in  Heaven  by  lips  like  her  own. 
Weep  not  for  her — in  her  spring-time  she  flew 
To  that  land  where  the  wings  of  the  soul  are 
nnfurl'd; 
And  now,  like  a  stiu'  beyond  evening's  cold  dew, 
liOoks  radiantly  down  on  the  tears  of  this  world. 


THE  TURF  SHALL  BE  MY  FRAGRANT 
SHRINE. 

(Am. — Stkvkns(»n.) 

The  turf  sh.all  be  my  fragrant  shrine  ; 
Jly  temple.  Lord  !  that  Arch  of  thine ; 
My  censer's  breat".  the  mountain  airs. 
And  silent  thoughts  my  only  prayers." 

My  choir  shall  bo  the  moonliglit  waves. 
When  murm'ring  homeward  to  their  caves. 
Or  when  the  stillness  of  the  soa, 
E'en  more  than  music,  breathes  of  Thee ! 

I'll  seek,  by  day,  some  glade  nnknown. 
All  light  and  KileniT,  like  thy  Throne; 


And  the  Jiale  sl.ars  shall  be,  at  night. 
The  only  eyes  that  watch  my  rite. 

Thy  Heaven,  on  which  'tis  bliss  to  look, 
HhiiW  be  my  pure  and  shining  book, 
Where  I  shall  read  in  words  of  llame 
The  glories  of  thy  wondrous  namo 

I'll  read  thy  anger  in  the  rack 

That  clouds  awhile  the  day-beam's  track ; 

Thy  mercy  in  the  azure  hue 

Of  sunny  brightness,  brealdng  through. 

There's  nothing  bright,  abo\'e,  below, 
From  flowers  that  bloom  to  stars  that  glow 
But  in  its  light  my  soul  can  see 
Some  feature  of  thy  Deity. 

There's  nothing  dark,  below,  above, 
But  in  its  gloom  I  trace  thy  Love, 
And  meekly  wait  that  moment,  when 
Thy  touch  shall  turn  all  briffht  again! 


POUND  THE  LOUD  TIMBREL. 
mieiam's   song. 

(Air. — -AvisoN.)'^ 

"And  Miriam  the  Piophetcss,  the  si.ster  of  Aaron,  took  a  tiia 
brel  iu  her  liand  ;  antl  all  llie  women  went  out  after  her  with 
timbrels  and  witli  dances." — Eiod.  xv.  20. 

Sound  the  loud  Thnbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea! 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd — his  people  are  free. 
Sing— for  the  pride  of  the  Tyrant  is  broken, 

His    chariots,   his    horsemen,   all    splendid   and 
brave — 
How  vain  was  their  boast,  for  the  Loi;d  hath  but 
spoken, 

And  chariots  and  horsemen  are  sunk  in  the  wave. 
Sound  the  loud  Timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  darlc  sea ; 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd — his  people  are  free. 

Praise  to  the  Conqueror,  praise  to  the  Lord  ! 

His  word  was  our  arrow,  his  breath  was  our  sword. 

Who  shall  return  to  tell  Egypt  the  story 

Of  those  she  sent  forth  in  the  hour  of  her  pride  ? 
For  the  Lor.D  hath  look'd  out  from  his  pillar  o-f 
glory," 

And  all  her  brave  thousands  are  dash'd  in  the 
tide. 
Sound  the  loud  Timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  da>.k  sea; 
Jf.iiovah  hnS)  triumph'd  —his  penple  are  tree! 


94 


MOOEE'S  WOKKS. 


GO,  LET  ilE  WEEP. 
(Air. — STEVHXflOR.) 

(lit,  let  me  weep — there's  bliss  in  tears, 

Wlicn  he  who  sheds  them,  inly  feels 
Komo  ling'ring  stain  of  early  years 

Effaced  by  every  drop  that  steals. 
The  fruillrss  showers  of  worldly  woe 

Fall  dai  x  to  earth  and  never  rise ; 
Wliile  teais  that  from  repentance  flow, 

In  bright  exha'.ement  reach  the  skies. 
Go,  let  me  weep. 

Leave  me  to  sigh  o'er  liours  th.at  flew 

More  idly  than  tlie  summer's  wind, 
And,  wliile  they  pass'd,  a  fragrance  threw, 

But  loft  no  trace  of  sweets  behind. — 
The  warmest  sigh  that  pleasure  heaves 

Is  cold,  is  flint  to  those  that  swell 
The  heart,  where  pure  repentance  grieves 

O'er  hoiire  of  pleasure,  loved  too  well. 
I<eave  me  to  sigh. 


COME  NOT,  on  LORD. 
(Air.— HiYDS.) 

I.'OMF.  not,  oh  I^r.D,  in  the  drc.nd  robe  of  splendor 
Thou  wor'st  on  tlio  Mount,  in  tlie  day  of  thine 
ire; 
'lome  veil'd   in  tliose   sliadows,  deep,  awful,  but 
tender, 
Wliicli  Mercy  flings  over  thy  features  of  fire ! 

IxiKD,  thou  remerab'rest  the  night,  when  thy  Na- 
tion'* 

Stood  fronting  lier  Foe  by  tlie  red-rolling  stream ; 
O'er  Egypt  thy  pillar  shed  dark  desolation, 

While  Israel  bask'd  all  the  night  in  its  beam. 

So,  when  tlie  dread  clouds  of  anger  enfold  Thee, 
From  us,  in  thy  mercy,  the  darlc  side  remove ; 

While  shrouded  in  terrors  the  guilty  behold  Thee, 
Oh,  turn  upon  us  the  mild  light  of  thy  Love ! 


•WERE  NOT  TUE  SINFUL  MART'S  TEARS. 
(Ai«.— St«v«ihoii.) 

Wr.nr.  not  (ho  sinful  Mary's  tears 

An  offiTMig  worthy  Heaven, 
When,  fi'cr  llic  faiiltit  of  former  yean 

She  wi'pt — and  wan  fofKivcn  ? 


When,  bringing  every  balmy  sweet 

Her  day  of  luxury  stored. 
She  o'er  her  Saviour's  hallow'd  feet 

The  precious  odors  pour'd; — 

And  wiped  them  with  that  golden  hair, 
Where  once  the  diamond  shone ; 

Tliough  now  those  gems  of  grief  were  there 
Which  shine  for  God  alone ! 

Were  not  those  sweets,  so  humbly  shed- 
That  hair — those  weeping  eyes — 

And  the  sunk  heart,  that  inly  bled — 
Heaven's  noblest  s;icrifice  ? 

Thou,  that  hast  slept  in  error's  sleep. 
Oh,  wouldst  thou  wake  in  Heaven, 

Like  Mary  kneel,  like  Mary  weep, 
"  Love  much""  and  be  forgiven ! 


AS  DOWN  IN  THE  SUNLESS  RETREATS. 
(Air.— IUtun.) 

As  down  in  the  sunless  retreats  of  the  Oce.an, 

Sweet  flowers  are  springing  no  mortal  can  see, 
So,  deep  in  my  soul  the  still  prayer  of  devotion. 
Unheard  by  the  world,  rises  silent  to  Tliee, 
My  God  !  silent,  to  Thee, 
Pure,  warm,  silent,  to  Thee. 

As  still  to  the  star  of  its  worship,  though  ihindod 

The  needle  points  faithfully  o'er  the  dim  sea, 

So,  dark  as  I  roam,  in  this  wintry  world  sluouded 

The  hope  of  my  spirit,  turns  trembling  (o  Theo, 

My  God!  trembling,  to  Thee — 

True,  fond,  trembling,  to  Thee. 


BUT  WHO  SUALL  SEE. 
(All.— STsrinion.) 

But  who  shall  see  the  glorious  day 

When,  throned  on  Zion's  brow, 
The  Lonn  shall  rend  that  veil  away 

Which  hides  the  nations  luiw?" 
When  earth  no  more  beneath  the  fcnr 

Ofhis  rebuke  shall  lie;" 
When  jiain  shall  cease,  and  every  tear, 

iJc  wijied  from  every  eve.' 


2''«4e^' 


.?i*l  . 


C^C*lS^f^ 


i^K- 


(■-^ 


SACRED  SONGS. 


95 


Tlien,  Judah,  thou  no  more  sliall  mourn 

In  whoso  holy  mirror,  night  and  day, 

Beneatli  the  heathen's  d\ain ; 

TliouMt  study  Heaven's  reflected  ray; — 

Thy  days  of  splendor  sliall  return.. 

And  should  the  foes  of  virtue  darC; 

And  all  be  new  again." 

Willi  gloomy  wing,  to  seek  thee  there, 

The  Fount  of  Life  shall  then  be  qualT'd 

Thou  wilt  see  how  dark  Iheir  shadows  lie 

In  peace,  by  all  who  come ;"' 

Between  Heaven  .and  tliee,  and  trembling  fiy  I 

And  every  wind  tliat  blows  shall  waft 

Be  thou  that  dove  ; 

Some  long-lost  exile  home. 

Fairest,  purest,  be  thou  that  dove. 

ALMIGHTY  GODI 

ciior.cs  OF  raiESTs. 
(Air. — Mozart.) 

ALMiGiiTr  God  !  when  round  thy  shrine 
The  Palm-tree's  heavenly  branch  we  twine," 
(Emblem  of  Life's  eternal  ray, 
And  Love  that  "  fadeth  not  .away,") 
We  bless  the  flowers,  expanded  all,"' 
We  bless  the  le.aves  that  never  fall. 
And  trembling  say, — "  In  Eden  thus 
'•  The  Tree  of  Life  may  flower  for  us !" 

lATien  round  thy  Cherubs — smiling  calm. 
Without  their  flames" — we  wTeathe  the  Palm, 
Oh  God  !  we  feel  the  emblem  true — 
Thy  Mercy  is  etern.al  too. 
Those  Cherubs,  with  their  smiling  eyes, 
Th.at  crown  of  Palm  which  never  dies. 
Are  but  the  types  of  Thee  above — 
Eternal  Life,  and  Pe.oce,  and  Love ! 


OU  FAIR!   OH  PUREST. 

SAINT    AUGUSTIXE    TO    HIS    SISTER." 

(A!E.— Moore.) 

On  fair !  oh  purest !  be  thou  the  dove 
That  flies  alone  to  some  sunny  grove, 
."Vnd  lives  unseen,  and  bathes  her  wing, 
.\11  vestal  white,  in  the  limpid  spring. 
There,  if  the  hov'ring  hawk  be  near. 
That  limpid  spring,  in  its  mirror  cle.ar. 
Reflects  him,  ere  he  reach  his  prey. 
And  warns  the  timorous  bird  aw!iy. 

Be  thou  this  dove ; 
Fairest,  purest,  be  thou  this  dove. 

The  sacred  pages  of  God's  own  book 
Sliall  be  the  spring,  the  eternal  brook, 


ATfGEL  OF  CHARITY. 

(Air. — riANDEL.) 

Akgel  of  Charitj',  who,  from  above, 

Comest  to  dwell  a  pilgrim  here. 
Thy  voice  is  music,  thy  smile  is  love. 

And  pity's  soul  is  in  thy  tear. 
When  on  the  shrine  of  God  were  laid 

First-fruits  of  all  most  good  and  fail, 
Th.at  ever  bloom'd  in  Eden's  shade, 

Thine  was  the  holiest  offering  there. 

Hope  and  her  sister.  Faith,  were  given 

But  as  our  guides  to  yonder  sky ; 
Soon  as  they  reach  the  verge  of  he.aven, 

There,  lost  in  perfect  bliss,  they  die.'' 
But,  long  as  Love,  Almighty  Love, 

Shall  on  his  throne  of  thrones  abide, 
Thou,  Charity,  shalt  dwell  above. 

Smiling  for  ever  by  His  side ! 


BEHOLD  THE  SUN. 
(Air. — Lord  Morvinotok.) 

Behold  the  Sun,  how  bright 
From  yonder  East  he  springs. 

As  if  tlie  soul  of  life  and  light 
Were  breathing  from  h's  wings. 

So  bright  the  Ciospe.  broke 

Upon  the  souls  of  men  ; 
So  fresh  the  dreaming  world  awoke 

In  Truth's  full  radiance  then. 

Before  yon  Suii  arose. 

Stars  cluster'd  through  the  skv — 
But  oh,  how  dim  !  how  pale  were  those) 

To  His  one  burning  eye ! 


96 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


So  Truth  lent  many  a  ray, 

To  bless  the  Pagan's  night — 
But,  Lord,  how  weak,  how  cold  were  they 

To  Thy  One  glorious  Light ! 


LORD,  WHO  SHALL  BEAR  THAT  DAY. 
(Air. — Dr.  Uoyce.) 

Lord,  who  shall  bear  that  day,  so  dread,  so  splendid, 
Wl\en  we  shall  see  thy  Angel,  hov'ring  o'er 

This  sinful  world,  with  hand  to  hcav'n  extended. 
And  hear  him  swear  by  Thee  that  Time's  no 
nioi-e  V 

When  Earth  shall  feel  thy  fast  consuming  ray — 

^^^lo,  Jllghtv  God,  oh  who  shall  bear  that  day  1 

When   through    the   world    thy   awfid    call   hath 
sounded — 
"W.ake,  all   yc  Dead,  to  judgment  wake,  ye 
Dead!""' 
And  from  the  clouds,  by  seraph  eyes  surrounded. 
The  Saviour  shall  put  forth  his  radiant  head ;"' 
While  Karlh  and  Heav'n  before  Ilim  pass  away — " 
Who,  Slighty  God,  oli  who  shall  bear  that  day? 

When,  with  a  glance,  tli'  Eternal  Judge  shall  .sever 
Earth's  evil  spirits  from  the  pure  and  bright, 

And  say  to  those,  "  Depart  from  nie  for  ever !'' 
To   these,   "Come,   dwell   willi    me   in   endless 
light!"" 

When  e.aeh  and  all  in  silence  take  their  way — 

Wlio,  Mighty  God,  oh  who  shall  bear  that  day? 


Though  born  in  this  desert,  and  dccm'd  by  nij 

birth 
To  pain  and  .affliction,  to  darkness  .nnd  dearth, 

On  Thee  let  my  spirit  rely — 
Lilie  some  rude  dial,  tliat,  fix'd  on  earth, 

Still  looks  for  its  light  from  the  sky. 


OU,  TEACH  ME  TO  LOVE  TUEE. 

(Air. — Haydn.) 

On,  (each  inc  to  love  Tlice,  to  fed  what  Thou  art, 
Till,  fill'd  with  the  one  sacred  image,  my  heart 

Shall  all  other  i)assions  disown  ; 
Like  Bomc  pure  temple,  that  shines  apart, 

Ilcserved  for  Thy  worship  alone. 

In  jriy  nnd  in  sorrow,  through  prniso  nnd  through 

bl.imr, 
Tliun  olill  let  mc,  living  and  dying  the  came, 

]n  Thy  Mer%'ico  bloom  and  decay — 
like  Homo  lono  nllnr,  whose  votive  flnmo 

la  holincDii  wnatoth  nway. 


WEEP,  CHILDREN  OF  ISRAEL. 

(Air. — Stevenson.) 

Weep,  weep  for  him,  tlie  IMan  of  God — " 
Li  yonder  vale  he  sunk  to  rest; 

But  none  of  earth  can  point  the  sod" 
Tliat  flowers  .above  his  s.icred  bre.ast. 
Weep,  children  of  Israel,  weep! 

His  doctrine  fell  like  Heaven's  rain," 
His  \\-ords  rcfreslfd  like  Heaven's  de^— 

Oh,  ne'er  shall  Lsrael  see  again 
A  Ciiief,  to  God  and  her  so  true. 
Weep,  children  of  Israel,  weep ! 

Remember  ye  his  parting  gaze. 
His  farewell  song  by  Jordan's  tide. 

When,  full  of  glory  and  of  day.s. 

He  saw  the  promised  land — and  died." 
Woop,  children  of  Isrr.el,  wocp ! 

Vet  died  he  not  as  men  who  sink. 
Before  our  eyes,  to  soulless  chay 

But,  cliangod  to  spirit,  lilio  a  wink 
Of  summer  lightning,  ])ass'd  away." 
Weep,  children  of  Israel,  weep! 


LIKE  MORNING,  WHEN  UEU  EARLY 
BREEZE. 

(Air. — He  KTiiov  «!<.■» 

Like  morning,  when  her  early  breeze 
Breaks  up  the  surface  of  the  seas. 
That,  in  those  furrows,  dark  with  night, 
Her  hand  may  sow  the  sccils  of  light — 

Thy  Grace  can  send  ils  breathings  o'er 
The  Spirit,  dark  and  lost  before, 
And,  frcHh'ning  nil  its  depths,  prepare 
For  Truth  divine  to  enter  th»ro. 


SACRED  SONGS. 


97 


Till  D;ivid  toucli'd  Ilia  sacred  lyre, 
In  silence  lay  th'  unbreathing  wire ; 
But  when  he  swept  its  cliords  along, 
Ev'n  Angela  stoop'd  to  hear  tliat  song. 

So  sleeps  the  soul,  till  Thou,  oli  Lord, 
Shalt  deign  to  touch  its  lifeless  chord — 
Till,  waked  by  Thee,  its  breath  shall  rise 
In  music,  worthy  of  the  skies ! 


COME,  YE  DISCONSOLATE. 

(AtR. — German.) 

( !oME,  yo  disconsolate,  where'er  you  languish. 
Come,  at  God's  altar  fervently  kneel ; 

Here  bring  your  wounded  hearts,  hero  tell  your 
anguish — 
Eartli  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven  cannot  heal. 

Joy  of  the  desolate.  Light  of  the  straying, 
Hope,  when  all  otiiera  die,  fodelesa  and  pure. 

Here  speaks  tlie  Comforter,  in  God's  n.ame  saying — 
"  Earth  has  no  son'ow  tl  at  Heaven  cannot  cure." 

Go,  ask  the  infidel,  what  boon  lie  brings  us. 
What  ch.arm  for  aching  hearts  he  can  reveal, 

Sweet  as  that  heavenly  promise  Hope  sings  us — 
"  Rarth  has  no  sorrow  that  God  cannot  he.al." 


AWAKE,  ARISE,  THY  LIGHT  IS  COME. 
(Air. — Stevenson.) 

Awake,  arise,  thy  light  is  come ," 
Tlie  nations,  that  before  outshone  thee. 

Now  at  thy  feet  lie  dark  and  dumb — 
The  glory  of  the  Lobd  is  on  thee  ! 

Arise — the  Gentiles  to  thy  ray, 
From  ev'ry  nook  of  e.arth  sluill  cluster; 

And  kings  and  princes  haste  to  pay 
Their  homage  to  thy  rising  lustre." 

Lift  up  thine  eyes  around,  and  see. 
O'er  foreign  fields,  o'er  farthest  waters. 

Thy  exiled  sons  return  to  thee. 

To  thee  return  tliy  home-sick  daughters." 

And  camels  rich,  from  Midian's  tents, 
Shall  l.ny  their  treasures  down  before  thee ; 

And  Saba  bring  her  gold  and  scents. 
To  nil  tliy  air  and  sparkle  o'er  thee.™ 
1.S 


See,  who  are  those  that,  like  a  cloud," 
Are  gatliering  from  all  earth's  dominioi'is, 

Like  doves,  long  .xbscnt,  when  allow'd 

Ilomew.ard  to  .slioot  their  trembling  pinions. 

Surely  the  isles  shall  wait  for  me," 

The  ships  of  Tarshish  round  will  hover. 

To  bring  thy  sons  across  the  sea. 
And  waft  their  gold  and  silver  over. 

And  LeKanon  thy  pomp  shall  graci — " 
The  fir,  tlie  pine,  the  palm  victorious 

Shall  beautify  our  Holy  PLace, 
And  make  the  ground  I  tread  on  glorious. 

No  more  shall  Discord  haunt  thy  ways," 
Nor  ruin  waste  thy  cheerless  nation  ; 

But  tliou  slialt  call  thy  portals,  Praise, 
And  thou  shalt  name  thy  walls,  Salvation. 

The  sun  no  more  shall  make  thee  bright," 
Nor  moon  shall  lend  her  lustre  to  thee ; 

But  God,  Himself,  shall  bo  thy  Liglit, 
And  flash  eternal  glory  through  thee. 

Thy  sun  shall  never  more  go  down; 

A  ray,  from  Heav'n  itself  descended. 
Shall  light  thy  everlasting  crown — 

Thy  days  of  mourning  all  are  ended." 

My  own,  elect,  .and  righteous  Land ! 

Tiie  Branch,  for  ever  green  and  vernal, 
Whieli  I  have  planted  with  this  hand — 

Live  thou  shalt  in  Life  Eternal." 


THERE  IS  A  BLEAK  DESERT. 
(Air.— Crescentini.) 

There  is  a  bleak  Desert,  wliere  daylight  grovra 

weary 
Of  wasting  its  smile  on  a  region  so  dreary — 

What  may  that  desert  be  ? 
Tis  Life,  cheerless  Life,  where  the  few  joys  tlial 

come 
Are  lost  like  that  daylight,  for  'tis  not  their  home. 

Tliere  i^  a  lone  Pilgrim,  before  whose  faint  eyes 
The  water  he  pants  for  but  sparkles  and  flies — 

Who  may  that  Pilgrim  be  1 
'Tis  Man,  hapless  Man,  through  this  life  tempted  on 
By  fair  shining  hopes,  that  in  shining  are  ironp 


98 


SfOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


There  is  a  bright  Fountsin,  through  that  Desert 

Guard  us,  oh  Tliou,  who  never  sleepes', 

stealing 

Thou  who,  in  silence  throned  above. 

To  pure  lips  alone  its  refreshment  revealing — 

Throughout  all  time,  unwearied,  keepest 

Wlv^t  may  that  Fountain  be  1 

Thy  watch  of  Glory,  Pow'r,  and  Love. 

Tis  Truth,  holy  Trutli,  tlr.it,  like  springs  under 

Grant  that,  beneath  thine  eye,  securely, 

ground, 

Our  souls,  awhile  from  life  withdrawn. 

by  the  gifted  of  Heaven  alone  can  be  found." 

May,  in  their  darkness,  stilly,  purely. 

Like  "  scaled  fountains,"  rest  till  dawn. 

There  is  a  fair  Spirit,  whose  wand  hath  the  spell 

To  point  -where  those  waters  in  secrecy  dwell — 

Who  may  that  Spirit  be  ? 

Tis  Faith,  humble  Faith,  who  hath  learn'd  that, 

WHERE  IS  TOUR  DWELLING,  YE  SAINTEIU 

where'er 
tier  wand  bends  to  worship,  the  Truth  must  be 

(Air.— Uasse.) 

there! 

Where  is  your  dwelling,  yc  Sainted? 

Through  what  Elysium  more  bright 

Than  fancy  or  hope  ever  painted, 

Walk  ye  in  gloiy  and  light? 

SINCE  FIRST  THY  AVORD. 

Who  the  same  kingdom  inlierits  ? 

Breathes  there  a  soul  that  m.iy  dare 

(Air.— Nicholas  Frieman.) 

Look  to  that  world  of  Spirits, 

Or  hope  to  dwell  with  you  there? 

SiscE  first  Thy  Word  awaked  my  heart, 

Like  new  life  dawning  o'er  me, 

Sages!  who,  cv'n  in  e.\plnnng 

Where'er  I  turn  mine  eyes,  Thou  art, 

Nature  through  .all  her  bright  ways. 

All  light  and  love  before  me. 

Went,  like  the  Scraplis,  adoring. 

Naught  else  I  feci,  or  hear  or  see- 

And  veil'd  yonr  eyes  in  the  blaze — 

Ail  bonds  of  earth  I  sever — 

Martyrs !  who  left  for  our  reaping 

Thee,  0  God,  and  only  Thco 

Truths  you  had  sown  in  your  blood- 

I  live  for,  now  and  ever 

Sinners  !  whom  long  years  of  weeping 

Chasten'd  from  evil  to  good — 

Like  him  whose  fetters  dropp'd  away 

Wlien  light  shone  o'er  his  prison," 

Maidens  !  who,  like  the  young  Cresceiit, 

My  spirit,  touch'd  by  Mercy's  ray. 

Turning  away  your  pale  brows 

Hath  from  her  chains  arisen. 

From  earth,  and  the  light  of  the  Present, 

And  shall  a  soul  thou  bidd'st  be  free, 

Look'd  to  your  Heavenly  Spouse — 

Return  to  bondage  ? — never ! 

Say,  through  what  region  enchanted. 

Thee,  0  God,  and  only  Thee 

Walk  ye,  in  Heaven's  sweet  air  ? 

I  live  for,  now  and  ever 

Say,  to  what  spirits  'tis  granted, 

Bright  souls,  to  dwell  with  you  there? 

llAKKl  'TIS  THE  BREEZE. 

HOW  LICillTLY  MOUNTS  TlllO  MUSES  WJIIQ 

(Air.— Anonym  om.) 

(All.— RovMiir.) 

How  lightly  n:ounts  the  JIuse's  wing. 

Hahk!  'lis  the  breeze  of  twilight  calling 

Whose  theme  is  in  the  skies — 

Earth's  weary  children  to  repose ; 

Like  morning  larks,  that  sweeter  sing 

While,  round  the  couch  of  Nature  falling. 

The  nearer  Heav'n  they  rise. 

Gently  the  night's  soft  curtains  clone. 

Soon  o'er  a  world,  in  sleep  reclining, 

Though  Love  his  magic  lyre  ni.'iy  tunc, 

NnmberlesH  slars  llirougli  yonder  dark. 

Yet  all,  the  llow'rs  he  rnuiul  it  wieathcn, 

Hliiill  look,  like  eyes  of  Cherubs  shining 

Were  pliiek'd  beneath  pale  I'assion's  moon, 

Kroin  nut  the  veils  that  hid  the  Ark. 

Whose  madness  in  thi-iv  odor  brealhen. 

RACREI)   SONGS. 


99 


How  purer  fur  the  sacred  lute, 

Round  vvhicli  Devotion  ties 
Sweet  flow'rs  tliat  turn  to  Iieav'nly  fruit, 

And  palm  tliat  never  c'ics, 

Tliougli  War's  liigh-sounding  harp  may  be 
Most  welcome  to  the  hero's  ears, 

Alas,  his  chords  of  victory 

Are  wet,  all  o'er,  with  human  tears. 

How  far  more  sweet  tlieir  numhers  run, 
Who  hymn,  lilce  Saints  above, 

No  victor,  but  th'  Eternal  One, 
No  trophies  but  of  Love ! 


the 


WAR  AGAINST  BABYLON. 
(Air.— NovELLo.) 

"  War  .ag.ainst  Babylon!"  shout  we  around," 

Be  our  banners  through  earth  unfurl'd  ; 
Rise  up,  ye  1^^'*•■-rs,  ye  kings,  .at  the  sound — " 

"War   against    B.abylon!"    shout   through 
world! 
)h  thou,  that  dwcllest  on  many  waters," 

Thy  day  of  pride  is  ended  now  ; 
Vnd  tlie  dark  curse  of  Israel's  daughters 

Breaks,  like  a  thunder-cloud,  over  thy  brow! 
War,  war,  war  against  Babylon  ! 

Make  bright  the  arrows,  and  g.ather  the  shields," 

Set  the  standard  of  God  on  high  ; 
Swarm  we,  like  locusts,  o'er  all  her  tields, 

"  Zion"   our   watchword,  and   "  vengeance"  our 
cry ! 
Woe  !  woe  I — the  time  of  thy  visit.ation'' 

Is  come,  prcpud  Land,  thy  doom  is  cast — 
And  tlie  black  surge  of  desolation 

Sweeps  o'er  thy  guilty  head,  at  last! 

War.  war,  war  against  Babylon ! 


IS  IT  NOT  SWEET  TO  THINK,  HEREAFTER. 
(Am. — IIatdn.) 

Is  it  not  sweet  to  think,  hereafter, 
Wlicn  the  Sjiirit  leaves  this  sphere. 

Love,  with  deathless  wing,  shall  waft  her 
To  those  she  long  hath  mourn'd  for  here? 


Hearts,  from  which  'twas  death  to  sever. 
Eyes,  this  world  can  ne'er  restore, 

There,  as  warm,  as  bright  as  ever, 
Shall  meet  us  and  be  lost  no  more. 

When  we.-irily  we  wander,  asking 
Of  earth  and  heav'n,  where  are  they, 

Beneath  whose  smile  we  once  lay  basking, 
BIcss'd,  and  thinkhig  bliss  would  stay? 

Hope  still  lifts  her  radiant  finger 

Pointing  to  th'  eternal  Home, 
Upon  whose  portal  yet  tliey  linger, 

Looking  back  for  us  to  come. 

Alas,  .alas — doth  Hope  deceive  us  ? 

Shall  friendship — love — sh.all  all  those  ties 
That  bind  a  moment,  and  then  leave  us. 

Be  found  again  where  nothing  dies? 

Oh,  if  no  otiier  boon  were  given. 

To  keep  our  hearts  from  wrong  and  stain, 
Wlio  would  not  try  to  win  a  Heaven 

Where  all  we  love  shall  live  ag.ain  ? 


GO  FORTH  TO  THE  MOUNT. 

(Aia- — Stkvensoh.) 

Go   forth  to  the   Mount — bring   tlie   olive-branch 

home." 
And  rejoice,  for  the  day  of  our  Freedom  is  come ! 
From  that  time,"  when  the  moon  upon  Ajalon's 

vale. 
Looking  motionless  down,"  saw  the  kings  of  the 

earth, 
In  the  presence  of  God's  mighty  Cliampion,  grow 

p.ale — 
Oh,  never  had  Judah  an  hour  of  such  mirtli ! 
Go  forth   to  the   JMount — bring  the   olive-branch 

home. 
And  rejoice,  for  the  day  of  our  Freedom  is  come ! 

Bring  myrtle  and  palm — bring  the  boughs  of  each 

tree 
Thiit's  v/orthy  to  wave  o'er  the  tents  of  the  Free." 
From  that  d.ay,  when  the  footsteps  of  Israel  shone, 
With  a  light  not  their  own,  through  the  Jordan's 

deep  tide, 
Wliose  waters  shrunk  back  as  the  Ark  glided  on." 

Oh,  never  had  Judah  an  hour  of  such  pride ! 
Go   forth   to  tl;e   Mount — ^bring  the   olive-bra/ici 

home. 
And  rejoice,  for  the  day  of  our  Freedom  is  come ! 


100 


AIOOKE  S  WOEKS. 


NOTES. 


(1)  1  have  heard  Ihat  Ibis  air  is  by  the  late  Mi^.  Sheridan. 
It  IB  8ung  to  the  beauti/ul  old  words,  "I  do  confess  thou'rt 
emoolh  and  fair.'' 

(2)  The  carrier-pigeon,  it  is  well  known,  flies  at  an  elevated 
pitch,  in  order  to  surmount  every  obstacle  between  her  and  the 
place  to  which  she  is  destined. 

(3)  "  1  have  left  mine  heritage  ;  I  have  given  the  dearly  be- 
loved of  my  soul  into  the  hands  of  her  enemies."— JtrewroA, 
XU.7. 

(4)  ^''Do  not  disgrace  the  throne  of  thy  glory."— y^r.  xiv.  21. 

(5)  "The  Lord  called  thy  name  a  green  olive-treo;  fair,  and 
of  goodly  fruit,"  &c. — Jer.  Jti.  IG. 

(C)  "  For  he  shall  bo  like  the  hcalh  in  the  desert." — Jcr. 
xvii.  6. 

(7)  **  Take  awuy  her  batlloraenls;  for  they  are  not  the  Lord's." 
-Jer.  T.  10. 

(8)  **  Therefore,  behold,  tbe  days  cotno,  aailb  the  Lord,  that 
it  dliall  no  more  be  called  Tophet,  nor  the  Valley  of  the  Son  of 
lliiinum,  but  the  VuUey  of  Slaughter;  for  they  shall  bury  in 
fophet  till  there  be  no  place."— Jcr.  vii.  3J. 

(9)  Tlieac  lines  wore  suggested  by  n  passage  in  one  of  St.  Je- 
ome'i)  Letters,  replying  to  some  cnliimniotis  remarks  ihal  had 

I cen circulated  respecting  his  intinincy  wilh  the  matron  Paula: 
--**N*iiinqiiid  me  vestcs  serica?,  niteules  gemmx,  picta  facies, 
•tllaiiri  rnpuil  nuibitio?  Nulla  fiiit  alia  Kouiie  mutronarutn, 
•^utn  mearn  possit  edomare  meutem,  nisi  lugens  atque  jcjunaus, 
?Btu  pene  ciecata." — Epiat.  '*  Si  tit/i  putem.^^ 

(10)  This  second  verse,  which  I  wrote  long  aflcr  the  first,  al- 
ludes to  tlic  fate  of  a  very  lovely  and  amiable  girl,  the  davighler 
of  the  lute  Colonel  Ihiinhrigge,  who  was  married  in  .^!«hbourllo 
church,  October  31,  Idlj,  and  diod  of  n  fever  In  a  few  weeks 
.ifli;r:  the  sound  of  her  marringe-bells  seemed  scarcely  out  of 
our  ears  when  wo  heard  of  her  death.  During  her  Iiu>l  delirium 
she  8un;f  several  hymns,  in  a  voice  even  clfaror  and  sweeter 
than  iiflual,  and  among  thcin  were  sitino  frf>m  the  present  col- 
Inction,  (jiarlictilarly,  "There's  nothing  bright  but  Heaven,") 
which  this  very  iDtercstlng  girl  had  orteu  heard  mo  sing  during 
thu  summer. 

(11)  Pii  orant  taclte, 

( 12)  I  havo  to  much  altered  the  character  of  this  nlr,  which 
la  Trom  the  beginning  of  rmo  of  Avl8on*8  old-fashioned  con- 
ccrtnm  that,  without  this  acknowledgment,  it  could  haidly,  I 
think,  bo  recoKtil7.cd. 

(13)  "  And  It  camp  to  pnsn.  that,  in  the  morning  wotch,  the 
l.ord  lonlfod  unto  the  hoit  of  llm  K^Dptlann,  through  thn  pillar 
of  flro  and  u{  thn  cloud,  and  troubled  thu  host  of  the  Lgyp* 
UaaM.*'—KioJ.  xlv.  21. 


(14)  "And  it  came  between  the  caup  of  the  Eg}ptiaus  and 
the  camp  of  Israel ;  and  it  was  a  cloud  and  darkness  to  them, 
but  it  gave  light  by  night  to  these."— £zof/.  xiv.  20. 

(15)  ''Her  sins,  which  are  many,  are  forgiven  ;  for  she  loved 
much."— iiiAc,  vii.  47. 

(IG)  "And  he  will  destroy,  in  this  mountain,  the  face  of  tbs 
covering  cast  over  all  people,  and  the  veil  that  is  spread  ovci 
all  nations." — Isaiah^  xxv.  7. 

(17)  "The  rebuke  of  his  people  shall  he  take  away  from  off 
all  the  eai'th."— /^aiflA,  xxv.  8. 

(18)  "And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  fiom  their  eyes 
....  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain." — licv.  xxi.  4. 

(19)  "  And  he  that  sat  upon  the  throne  said,  Behold,  1  make 
all  things  now." — Rev,  xxi.  5. 

(20)  "And  whosoever  will,  let  him  take  the  waier  of  life 
n-ec ly. "—iice.  xxil.  17. 

(21)  "Tlio  Scrlpturos  having  declared  that  the  Temple  of  Je- 
rusalem was  a  typo  of  the  Messiah,  it  is  natural  to  conclude 
that  the  rahits,  which  made  so  conspicuous  n  figure  in  ihat 
structure,  rejiresented  that  Lift-  and  Imntnrtnlitt/  whicli  were 
brought  to  light  by  tho  (.iospcV*— Observations  on  the  /'a/m,  as 
a  Sacred  Kiitblcm,  by  \V.  Tiglio. 

(22)  "And  he  carved  all  the  walls  of  the  houso  round  about 
with  carved  figures  of  chorubiins,  and  pahn-trees,  and  opm 
Jlowcrs." —  I  Kings,  vi.  29. 

(23)  "  When  tho  pas9o\  er  of  the  tabernacles  was  revealed  tu 
the  great  lawgiver  in  the  mount,  then  the  cherubic  images 
which  appeared  in  that  Hlructurc  were  no  longer  surrounded 
byfiamcs;  fur  the  tabernarle  was  a  typo  of  tho  dispensation 
of  mercy,  by  which  Jiihovau  confirmed  bis  gracious  covenant 
to  redeem  mankind."^f>/>5friJafion.«  on  the  Pa/m. 

(24)  In  St.  Augustine's  Trcntiso  upon  the  odvantngos  of  a 
solitary  life,  nddrensed  to  his  sister,  there  is  tho  following  fan- 
ciful passMige,  from  wliich,  the  reatlerwill  perceive,  tho  thought 
of  thin  song  was  taken: — "Te,  coror,  numpiani  nolo  esse  socu* 
ram,  set]  timere  sernperque  liuim  fragititatem  habere  sui^poclam, 
ad  inelar  pa\ldii<  columb.-e  frequcnlare  rivus  aquarum  el  quasi 
in  Bpeculo  acclpllrifl  cernere  HUper\olanliH  elTlgieni  et  cavero. 
Ulvi  nquuruin  setitenliii'  sunt  scriplurarun),  quie  do  limjiidisil- 
ino  snpientiiu  fonte  pnifiuenU-s,''  &.C.,  Uc—Dc  fit.  I'.rcinit.  id 
Sororem. 

(25)  "Thru  Faith  studl  fai:,  and  holy  llopo  shall  dlo, 

One  lout  iti  certainty,  ant.  one  lu  joy." — Prior, 

(2fi)  "And  the  angel  which  I  ^aw  utiind  upon  the  sea  and 
upon  the  eartli,  llfli'd  up  bin  hand  to  lieaven,  and  swore  by  llim 
that  llveth  fur  ever  and  ever,  ....  that  tl  ere  should  ho  time 
no  longer."- Aff.  x.  5,  0. 


SACKED  SONGS. 


10  t 


(127)  "Awake,  yc  Dead,  nnd  come  to  judgment." 

(28)  "They  shall  see  the  Son  of  Man  coining  in  the  clouds  of 
heaven— and  all  the  angels  with  him." — Matt.  xxiv.  30,  and 
XXV.  31. 

(20)  "From  whose  faco  th*i  earth  and  the  heaven  fled  away." 
~Ii.ev.  XX.  II. 

(30)  "And  before  Ilim  shill  be  gathered  all  nations,  and  lie 
ehall  separate  them  one  from  another 

"Then  shall  Ihc  King  say  imlo  them  on  his  right  hand,  Come, 
yo  blessed  of  my  Father,  inherit  the  kingdom  prepared  for 
you,  &.C. 

"Tlien  sliiill  lie  say  also  unto  them  on  the  loft  hand,  Depart 
from  me,  ye  cursed,  &.c. 

"  And  these  shall  go  away  into  everlasting  punishment ;  but 
the  righteous  into  life  eternal." — Matt.  xxv.  3'2,  ct  scq. 

(31)  "  And  the  chiMren  of  Israel  wept  for  RIosea  in  the  plains 
of  Moab."— Z)fuf.  xxxiv.  8. 

(32)  "And  he  buried  him  in  a  valley  in  the  land  of  Sloab ; 
.  .  .  but  no  man  knoweth  of  his  sepulchre  imto  this  day." — 

Ibid.  vcr.  C. 

(33)  "My  doctrine  shall  drop  aa  the  rain,  my  speech  shall 
ilistil  as  the  dew." — Jifoses^  Songj  Dcut,  xxxii.  2. 

(34)  "  I  have  caused  thee  to  see  it  with  thine  eyeS;  but  thou 
shall  not  go  over  thither."—  Dcut.  xxxiv.  4. 

(3j)  "  As  he  was  going  to  embrace  Eleazcr  and  Joshua,  nnd 
was  still  discoursing  with  them,  a  cloud  stood  over  him  on  the 
sudden,  and  he  disappeared  in  a  certain  valley,  although  he 
wrote  in  the  Holy  Books  that  he  died,  which  was  done  out  of 
fear,  lest  they  should  venture  to  say  that,  because  of  his  extra- 
ordinary virtue,  he  went  to  God."— yosf/j/iHs, book  iv.chap.  viii. 

(3C)  ".Arise,  shine;  for  thy  light  is  come,  and  the  glory  of 
the  Lord  is  risen  upon  thee."     faaiah^  \x. 

(37)  "And  the  Gentiles  shall  come  to  thy  light,  and  kings  to 
the  briglitness  of  thy  rising." — Sb. 

(33)  "Lift  np  thine  eyes  round  about,  and  see:  all  Ihey 
gather  themselve!"  together,  they  come  to  thee:  thy  sons  shall 
come  from  afar,  and  thy  daughters  shall  be  nursed  at  thy  side." 
—!b. 

'  (^39)  "The  multitude  of  camels  shall  cover  thee;  the  drome- 
d  iriea  of  iMidian  and  Ephali ;  all  they  from  Sheba  shall  come  ; 
they  shall  bring  gold  ami  incense." — lb. 

(40)  "  Who  are  these  that  fly  as  a  cloud,  and  as  the  doves  to 
llieir  windows?" — lb. 

(-11)  "Purely  the  isles  shall  wait  for  me,  and  the  ships  of 
Tarshish  first,  to  bring  thy  sons  from  far,  their  silver  and  their 
gold  with  them." — lb. 

(«)  "The  glory  cl  Lebanon  ahaU  come  unto  theo;  the  fir- 


tree,  the  pine-tree,  and  the  box  together,  to  beautify  the  plact 
of  my  sanctuary;  and  I  will  make  the  place  of  ray  feet  glo- 
rious."—/6. 

(43)  "Violence  shall  no  more  be  heard  in  thy  land,  waetin? 
nor  destruction  within  thy  borders;  but  thou  ahalt  call  thy 
walla,  Salvation,  and  thy  gales.  Praise." — lb. 

(44)  "Thyaun  shall  be  no  more  thy  light  by  day;  neiibcr 
for  brightness  shall  the  moon  give  light  unto  thee;  but  the 
Lnp.D  shall  l;e  unlo  thee  an  everlasting  li^ht,  and  thy  Goo  thy 
glory."— /Z». 

(45)  "  Thy  sun  shall  no  more  go  down ;  ....  for  the  Lord 
shall  be  thine  everlasting  light,  and  the  days  uf  thy  mourning 
shall  be  ended." — lb. 

(46)  "Thy  people  also  shall  be  all  righteous;  they  shall  ii> 
herit  the  land  for  ever,  the  branch  of  ray  planting,  the  work 
of  my  hands." — lb. 

(47)  In  singing,  the  following  line  had  better  be  adopted:— 

"Tan  but  by  the  gifted  of  Heaven  be  found." 

(48)  "  And,  behold,  the  angel  of  the  Lord  came  upon  hira, 
and  a  light  shined  in  the  prison,  ....  and  hia  chains  fell  oil 
from  his  hands."— .4c(5,  xii.  7. 

(49)  "Shout  against  her  round  about."— JVr.  1.  15. 

(50)  "Set  ye  up  a  standard  in  the  land,  blow  the  trumpet 
among  the  nations,  prepare  the  nations  against  her,  call  to- 
gether against  her  the  kingdoma,"  &c.,  &LC.—Jer.  li.  27. 

(51)  "  Oh  thou  that  dwellest  upon  many  waters,  ....  thine 
end  is  come." — Jct,  li.  13. 

(52)  "  Make  bright  the  arrows;  gather  the  shields  .  .  .  .  aet 
np  the  standard  upon  the  walla  of  Babylon."— JcrcmiaA,  li. 
11,  12. 

(53)  "Woe  unto  them!  for  their  day  ia  come,  the  time  of  their 
visitation  I" — Jer.  I.  27. 

(54)  "  And  that  they  should  publish  and  proclaim  in  all  their 
cities,  and  in  Jerusalem,  saying.  Go  forth  unto  the  mount,  and 
fetch  olive-branches."  SiC.  &c. — JV'cA.  viii.  15. 

(55)  "  For  since  tlie  days  of  Joshua  the  sr.n  of  Nun  unto  that 
day  had  not  the  children  of  Israel  done  so;  and  there  was 
veiy  great  gladness." — JW-h.  viii.  17, 

(50)  "Sun,  stand  thou  still  upon  Gibeon;  and  thou,  Moon, 
in  the  valley  of  Ajalon."— Jy^/i.  x.  12. 

(57)  "Fetch  olive-branches,  nnd  pine-branclws,  and  myrtle- 
brauches,  and  palm-branches,  and  branches  of  thick  trees,  to 
make  booths." — J^ch.  viii.  15. 

(581  "And  the  priests  that  bare  the  ark  of  the  covena»i,  ?I 
Ibe  Lord  stood  firm  on  dry  ground  in  the  midst  of  Jordan,  rti-t 
all  the  Israelites  pnssed  over  on  dry  ground."^ JojA.  \v.  17. 


EYENIIGS    O    GREECE, 


MOORE'S  PREFACE. 


Is  thus  connecting  together  a  series  of  Songs 
Ijy  a  thread  of  poetical  narrative,  my  chief  object 
lias  been  to  combine  Recitation  witli  Music,  so  as 
to  enable  a  greater  number  of  persons  to  join  in 
the  performance,  by  enlisting,  as  readers,  those  who 
may  not  feel  willing  or  competent  to  fake  a  part 
as  singers. 


The  Island  of  Zea,  wlierc  tlie  scene  is  laid,  was 
called  by  the  ancients  Ccos,  and  was  the  birtliphiee 
of  Simonides,  Bacchylides,  and  other  eminent 
persons.  An  account  of  its  present  state  may  be 
found  in  the  Travels  of  Dr.  Clarke,  who  says,  that 
"  it  appeared  to  him  to  be  the  best  cultiv.ated  of 
any  of  the  Grecian  Isles." — Vol.  xi.,  p.  174. 


EYEXIXGS    IX    GREECE. 


FIRST  EVENING. 

"  The  sky  is  bright — the  breeze  is  fair, 
"  And  the  mainsail  (lowing,  full  and  free — 

"Our  farewell  word  is  woman's  prayer, 
"  And  the  hope  before  us — Liberty ! 

"  Farewell,  farewell. 
"  To  Greece  we  give  our  shining  blades, 
"  And  our  liearts  to  you,  young  Zean  Maids ! 

"  The  moon  is  in  the  heavens  above, 
"  And  the  wind  is  on  the  foaming  sea — 

'  Tlius  sliines  the  star  of  woman's  lovo 
"On  the  glorious  strife  of  Liberty! 

"  l''arcwcll,  farewell. 
"  To  Greece  we  give  our  shining  blades, 
"  And  our  hearts  to  you,  young  Zcan  Maids !" 


Thus  sung  they  from  the  bark,  that  now 
Tiim'd  to  the  »ca  its  gallant  prow. 


Bearing  within  it  Iiearts  as  brave. 

As  e'er  sought  Freedom  o'er  the  wave ; 

And  leaving  on  that  islet's  shore. 

Where  still  the  farewell  beacons  burn, 
Friends,  that  shall  many  a  day  look  o'er 

The  long,  dim  sea  for  tlicir  return. 

Virgin  of  Heaven !  speed  their  way — 

Oh,  speed  their  w.iy, — the  chosen  flow'r, 
Of  Zea's  youth,  the  hope  and  st.iy 

Of  parents  in  tlieir  wintry  hour, 
The  love  of  maidens,  and  the  pride 
Of  the  young,  h:i])|)y,  blusliiiig  bride. 
Whose  nupli.d  wro;ilh  has  not  yet  died— 
All,  all  are  in  that  precious  bark, 

Which  now,  alas,  no  more  is  seen — 
Though  every  cyo  slill  turns  to  mark 

The  moonlight  spot  where  it  had  boi  n. 

Vainly  y<  u  look,  ye  maidens,  sires. 

And  m  "lliers,  your  beloved  are  gone  ! — 

Now  m.iy  you  quench  those  sign.al  fires, 
W'lose  light  they  long  look'd  Iwok  upon 


EVENINGS  ITT  GREECE. 


103 


From  their  dark  deck — vvatcliiiig  tlie  flame 

As  fast  it  laded  fiom  theii-  view, 
With  thoui;hts,  that,  but  for  manly  sliame, 

Had  made  lliein  droop  and  weep  like  you. 
Home  to  your  diambers!  home,  and  pray 
For  the  bright  coming  of  that  day. 
When,  bless'd  by  lieaven,  tlie  Cross  shall  sweep 
The  Crescent  from  the  ^gean  deep, 
And  your  brave  warriors,  hast'ning  back. 
Will  bring  such  glories  in  their  track, 
As  shall,  for  many  an  age  to  come. 
Shed  light  around  their  name  and  home. 

There  is  a  Fount  on  Zea's  isle. 
Round  which,  in  soft  luxuriance,  smile 
All  the  sweet  (lowers,  of  every  kind, 

On  which  the  sun  of  Greece  looks  down. 

Pleased  as  a  lover  on  tlic  crown 
His  mistress  for  her  brow  hath  twined. 
When  he  beholds  each  flow'ret  there, 
Himself  had  wish'd  her  most  to  wear ; 
Here  bloom'd  tlie  laurel-rose'  whose  wreath 

Hangs  radiant  round  the  Cypriot  shrines, 
And  here  tliose  bramble-flowers,  that  breathe 

Their  odor  into  Zante's  wines : — ' 
The  splendid  woodbine,  lliat,  at  eve. 

To  grace  their  floral  diadems. 
The  lovely  maids  of  Patmos  weave : — ° 

And  that  fan-  plant,  whose  tangled  stems 
Shine  like  a  Nereid's  hair,*  when  spread, 
Dislicvell'd,  o'er  her  azure  bed ; — 
All  these  bright  children  of  the  clime, 
(Each  at  its  own  most  genial  time. 
The  summer,  or  the  year's  sweet  prime,) 
Like  beautiful  earth-stars,  adorn 
The  Valley,  where  that  Fount  is  born: 
While  round,  to  grace  its  cradle  green, 
Groups  of  Velani  oaks  are  seen, 
Tow'ring  on  every  verdant  heiglit — 
Tall,  shadowy,  in  the  evening  light. 
Like  Genii,  set  to  watch  the  birth 
Of  some  enchanted  child  of  earth — 
Fail'  oaks,  that  over  Zea's  vales 

Stand  with  their  leafy  pride  unfurl'd; 
While  Commerce,  from  her  thousand  sails. 

Scatters  their  fruit  throughout  the  world !' 

'Tvvas  hero — as  soon  as  prayer  and  sleep 
(Those  truest  friends  to  all  who  weep) 
Had  lighten'd  every  heart,  and  made 
Ev'n  sorrow  wear  a  softer  shade — 
'Twas  here,  in  tliis  secluded  spot, 

^r:id  whose  breathings  calm  and  sweet 
Grief  might  be  sootli'd,  if  not  forgot, 

The  Zean  nymphs  resolved  to  mee^-. 


Each  evening  now,  by  t)ic  same  light 
That  saw  their  farewell  tears  that  night; 
And  try,  if  sound  of  lute  and  song, 

W  vvand'ring  'mid  tlie  moonlight  Ilowers 
In  various  talk,  could  charm  along 

With  lighter  step,  the  ling'ring  hoar», 
Till  tidings  of  that  Bark  should  corao, 
Or  Victory  waft  their  warriors  home ! 

When  first  they  met — the  wonted  smile 

Of  greeting  having  gleam'd  awliilc — 

'Twould  touch  ev'n  Moslem  heart  to  sec 

The  sadness  that  came  suddenly 

O'er  their  young  brows,  when  they  look'd  ronnd 

Upon  that  bright,  enchanted  ground  ; 

And  thought,  how  many  a  time,  with  those 

Who  now  were  gone  to  the  lude  v/ars, 
They  there  had  met,  at  evening's  close, 

And  danced  till  morn  outshone  tlio  stars 

But  seldom  long  doth  hang  th'  eclipse 
Of  sorrow  o'er  such  youthful  breasts — 

The  breath  from  her  own  blushing  lips, 
That  on  the  maiden's  mirror  rests, 

Not  swifter,  lighter  from  the  glass, 

Than  sadness  from  her  brow  doth  pass. 

Soon  did  they  now,  as  round  the  Well 
They  sat,  beneath  the  rising  moon — 

And  some,  with  voice  of  awe,  would  tell 

Of  midnight  fays,  and  nymphs  who  dwell 
Li  holy  founts — while  some  would  tune 

Their  idle  lutes,  that  now  had  lain 

For  days,  without  a  single  strain ; — 

And  others,  from  the  rest  apart. 

With  laugh  that  told  the  lighten'd  heart, 

Sat,  whisp'ring  in  each  other's  ear 

Secrets,  th.it  all  in  turn  would  he.ir; — 

Soon  did  they  find  this  thoughtless  play 

So  swiftly  steal  their  griefs  away. 

That  many  a  nymph,  though  pleased  tlie  «bJak 
Reproach'd  her  own  forgetful  smile. 

And  sigh'd  to  think  she  could  be  gay. 

Among  these  maidens  there  was  one, 
Who  to  Leucadia"  late  had  been^ 

Had  stood,  beneath  the  evening  sun. 
On  its  white  tow'ring  cliffs,  and  seen 

Tlie  very  spot  where  S.appho  sung 

Her  swan-like  music,  ere  she  sprung 

(Still  holding,  in  that  fearful  leap, 

By  her  loved  lyre)  into  the  deep. 

And  dying  quench'd  the  fatal  fire. 

At  once,  of  both  her  heart  and  lyro. 

Mutely  tliey  listen'd  all — and  well 

Did  the  voung  traveU'd  maiden  t«ll 


101 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Of  the  dread  height  to  which  that  steep 
Beetles  above  tlie  eddying  deep'' — 
Of  the  lone  sea-birds,  vheeling  round 
The  dizzy  edge  with  mournful  sound — 
And  of  those  scented  lilies'  found 
Still  blooming  on  that  fearful  place — 
As  if  caird  up  by  Love,  to  grace 
'Th'  immortal  spot,  o'er  which  the  last 
Bright  footsteps  of  lus  martyr  pass'd! 

While  fresh  to  ev'ry  listener's  thought 
These  legends  of  Leucadia  brought 
All  that  of  Sappho's  hapless  flame 
Is  kept  alive,  still  watch'd  by  Fame — 
The  maiden,  tuning  her  soft  lute. 
While  all  the  rest  stood  round  her,  mute. 
Thus  sketch'd  the  languishment  of  sotd. 
That  o'er  the  tender  Lesbian  stole  ; 
And,  in  a  voice,  whose  thrilling  tone 
Fancy  might  deem  the  Lesbian's  own, 
One  of  those  fervid  fragments  gave. 

Which  still, — like  sparkles  of  Greek  Fire, 
Undying,  ev'n  beneath  the  wave, — 

Burn  on  through  Time,  and  ne'er  expire. 


SONG. 


As  o'er  her  loom  the  Lesbian  JIaid 

In  love-.sick  languor  hung  her  head. 
Unknowing  where  her  fingers  stray'd. 

Slie  weeping  tnrn'd  away,  and  said, 
"  Oh,  my  sweet  Mother — 'tis  in  vain — 

"I  cannot  weave,  as  once  I  wove — 
"So  wilder'il  is  my  heart  and  braiit 

"With  thinking  of  that  youth  I  love!'" 

Again  the  web  she  tried  to  trace. 

But  tears  fell  o'er  each  tangled  thread; 
While,  looking  in  her  mother's  face. 

Who  watchful  o'er  her  lean'd,  she  said, 
"  Oh,  my  sweet  Motlier — 'tis  in  vain — 

"  I  cannot  weave,  as  once  I  wove — 
"  So  wilder'd  is  my  heart  and  bruin 

"With  thinking  of  that  youth  I  love!" 


A  silence  foUow'd  this  sweet  air. 

As  each  in  tender  musing  stood, 
Thinking,  with  lips  that  moved  in  prayer 

Of  Sappho  nnd  that  fi-.-irfnl  flood: 
While  some,  who  ne'er  till  now  liarl  known 

Mow  much  their  hearts  resembled  lier.s, 
Kelt  XH  they  made  her  ifripfs  Ihoir  own. 

Tint  Ihnj.  toil,  were  Love's  worHlil|>pcri. 


At  length  a  murmur,  all  but  mute. 
So  faint  it  was,  came  from  the  lute 
Of  a  young  melancholy  maid, 
Whose  fingers,  all  uncertain  play'd 
From  cliord  to  ohovd,  as  if  in  chase 

Of  some  lost  melody,  some  strair 
Of  other  tunes,  wliose  faded  trace 

She  sought  among  those  chords  ; 
Slowly  the  half-forgotten  theme 

(Though  born  in  feelings  ne'er  fc 
Came  to  her  memory — as  a  beam 

Falls  broken  o'er  some  sh.aded  spi 
And  while  her  lute's  sad  symphony 

Fill'd  up  each  sighing  pause  betw. 
And  Love  himself  might  weep  to  see 

What  ruin  comes  where  he  hath  been — 
As  wither'd  still  the  grass  is  found 
Where  fays  have  danced  their  merry  round — 
Thus  simply  to  the  list'ning  throng 
She  breathed  her  melancholy  song: 


SONG. 


WEEriKG  for  thee,  my  love,  through  the  long  day, 

Lonely  and  wearily  life  wears  away. 

Weeping   for  thee,   my   love,   through   the   long 

night — 
No  rest  in  d;irkness,  no  joy  in  liglit ! 
Naught  left  but  Jlenuiry,  whose  dreary  tri'ad 
Sounds  through  this  ruin'd  heart,  where  al    .les 

dead — 
Wakening  the  echoes  of  joy  long  flod! 


Of  many  a  stjinza,  this  alone 
Had  'scaped  oblivion — like  the  one 
Stray  fragment  of  a  WTCck,  which  thrown. 
With  the  lost  vessel's  name,  ashore. 
Tells  who  they  were  that  live  no  morP 

When  thus  tlie  heart  is  in  a  vein 

Of  tender  thought,  the  simplest  strtiin 

Can  touch  it  with  peculiar  power — 

As  when  the  air  is  warm,  the  scout 
Of  the  most  wild  and  r\istic  flower 

Can  fill  the  whole  rich  elcmcnt^ — 
And,  in  such  moods,  the  liomelicHt  tono 
'J'hat's  link'd  with  feelings,  once  our  own^ 
With  friends  or  joys  gone  by — wilKbe 
Worth  rlioirs  of  loftiest  harmony  I 


EVENINGS  IN  GEEECE. 


106 


But  some  thcro  were,  among  the  group 

Of  damsels  tliere,  too  liglit  of  heart 
To  let  their  spirits  longer  droop, 

Ev'n  under  music's  melting  :nt; 
And  one  upspringing,  willi  a  bound. 
From  a  low  bank  of  Howers,  look'd  round 
With  eyes  that,  thougli  so  full  of  light. 

Had  still  a  tremblinir  tear  within ; 
And,  while  her  fingers,  in  swift  flight, 

Flew  o'e.  <i  fairy  mandolin. 
Thus  sung  the  song  her  lover  late 

Had  sung  to  her — 'Jie  eve  before 

Tluit  joyous  night,  when,  as  of  yore, 
\  1  Zea  met,  to  celebrate 

The  Feast  of  May,  on  the  sea^shore. 


SONG. 


Whem  tlie  Balaika'" 

Is  heard  o'er  the  sea, 
I'ii  dance  the  Roraaika 

By  moonlight  with  thee. 
If  waves  tlien,  advancing. 

Should  steal  on  our  play. 
Thy  white  feet,  in  dancing, 

Sh.all  cliase  them  aw.iy." 
When  the  Balaika 

Is  heard  o'er  tlie  sea, 
Thou'it  dance  the  Roraaika, 

My  own  love,  witli  me. 

Then,  at  the  closing 

Of  each  merry  lay. 
How  sweet  'lis,  reposing, 

Bene.atli  the  night  ray ! 
Or  if,  decUnfng, 

The  moon  leave  tlie  skies, 
We'll  talk  by  tlie  shining 

Of  each  other's  eyes. 

Oh  then,  how  featly 

The  dance  we'll  renew, 
Treading  so  fleetly 

Its  light  mazes  through :" 
Till  stars,  looking  o'er  us 

From  heaven's  higli  bow'rs. 
Would  change  tlieir  briglit  chorua 

For  one  dance  of  ours ! 
When  the  Balaika 

Is  heard  o'er  the  sea, 
Thou'it  dance  the  Romaika, 

My  own  love,  with  mo. 


14 


How  changingly  for  ever  veers 

The  ncart  of  youth,  'twixt  smiles  and  tears! 

Ev'n  as  in  April,  the  light  vane 

Now  points  to  sunshine,  now  to  rain. 

Instant  tliis  lively  lay  dispell'd 

The  shadow  from  each  blooming  brow 
And  Dancing,  joyous  Dancing,  held 

Full  empire  o'er  each  fancy  now. 

But  say — what  shall  tlie  measure  be? 

"  Shall  we  the  old  RomaiI;a  tread," 
(Some  eager  ask'd)  "  as  anciently 

"  'Tvvas  by  the  maids  of  Delos  led, 
"  When,  slow  at  first,  then  circling  fast, 
"  As  the  gay  spirits  rose — at  last, 
"  With  hand  in  hand,  like  links,  eulock'd, 

"  Tlirough  tlie  light  air  they  seem'd  to  flit 
"  In  labyrinthine  maze,  that  mock'd 

"The  dazzled  eye  that  folio w'd  itl" 
Some  call'd  .aloud  "the  Fountain  Dance!" — 

Wliile  one  young,  dark-eyed  Amazon, 
Whose  step  was  air-like,  and  whose  glance 

Flasli'd,  lilie  a  sabre  in  the  sun. 
Sportively  said,  "  Shame  on  these  soft 
"  And  languid  strains  we  hear  so  oft. 
"  Daughters  of  Freedom  !  have  not  we 

"  Learn'd  from  cur  lovers  and  our  sires 
"  The  Dance  of  Greece,  while  Greece  was  free— 

"That  Dance,  where  neither  flutes  nor  lyres, 
"  But  sword  and  sliield  clash  on  the  ear 
"  A  music  tyrants  quake  to  hear  V 
"  Heroines  of  Zea,  arm  with  me, 
"  And  dance  the  dance  of  Victory !" 

Thus  saying,  she,  with  playful  grace, 
Loos'd  the  wide  hat,  that  o'er  iier  face 
(From  Anatolia"  came  the  maid) 

Hung,  sliadowing  each  sunny  charm ; 
And,  with  a  fair  young  armorer's  .aid, 

Fixing  it  on  her  rounded  arm, 
A  mimic  shield  witli  jiride  displ.ay'd ; 
Then,  springing  tow'rds  a  grove  that  spread 

Its  canopy  of  foliage  near, 
Pluck'd  off  a  lance-lUie  twig,  and  said, 
"  To  arms,  to  arms !"  while  o'er  her  head 

She  wav'd  the  light  branch,  as  a  spear. 

Promptly  the  laughing  m.aidens  all 
Obey'd  their  Cliief 'a  heroic  caii; — 
Round  the  shield-arm  of  each  was  tied 

Hat,  turban,  shawl,  as  chance  might  be ; 

The  grove,  their  verdant  armory, 
Falcliion  and  lanee"  alike  supplied ; 

And  as  their  glossy  looks,  let  free, 

Fell  down  their  shoulders  carclosslv. 


106 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Vou  might  have  dream'd  you  saw  a  throng 
Of  youthful  Tliyads,  by  the  beam 

Of  a  ilay  njoon,  bounding  along 
Peneus'  silver-eddied'"  stream ! 

And  now  they  stepp'J,  with  measured  tread, 

Martially,  o'er  tlie  shining  field ; 
Now,  to  the  mimic  combat  led 
(A  heroine  at  each  squatlron's  head,) 

Struck  lance  to  lance  and  sword  to  shield: 
VVIiile  still,  throngh  every  varying  feat, 
Thcii-  voices,  heard  in  contrast  sweet 
With  some,  of  deep  but  soften'd  sound, 
From  lips  of  aged  sires  around. 
Who  smiling  watch'd  their  children's  play — 
Tlius  sung  the  ancient  Pyrrhic  lay  : — 


SONG. 


"  Raise  the  buckler — poise  tlie  lance — 

'  Now  here — now  there — retreat — advance !" 

Such  were  the  sounds,  to  which  the  warrior  boy 

Danced  in  those  happy  days,  when  Greece  was 
free ; 
When  Sparta's  youth,  ev'n  in  the  hour  of  joy, 

Tlius  train'd  their  steps  to  war  and  victory. 
''R;iise  the  buckler — poise  the  lance — 
'Now  here — now  there — retreat — advance!" 
.Such  WiUH  tlie  Spartan  warriors'  dance. 
"Grasp  the  faiehion — gird  the  sliicld — 
"Attack — defend — do  all,  but  yield." 
00 
Thus  did  thy  sons,  oh  Greece,  one  glorious  night. 

Dance  by  a  moon  like  this,  till  o'er  tlie  sea 
Tliat  morning  da\vird  V>y  whose  immortal  light 

They  nobly  died  for  thee  and  liberty  I" 
"  Raise  the  buckler — poise  the  l.ancc — 
"  Now  here — now  there — retreat — advance  l" 
Such  woa  the  Spartan  heroes'  dance. 


Scarce  had  they  closed  this  martial  lay 
When,  flinging  their  light  spears  away, 
Tlie  combatants,  in  broken  ranks, 

All  breathless  from  the  war-field  fly  ; 
And  down,  upon  the  velvet  banks 

And  flow'ry  slopes,  e-xhanslcd  lie, 
I/ike  rosy  huntresses  of  Thrace, 
Ke<<tiiig  at  liMii'^et  fr<>:n  tliv  chsuw. 


"  Fond  gkls  !"  an  aged  Zeau  said — 
One  who,  himself,  had  fought  and  bled. 
And  now,  with  feelings,  half  delight. 
Half  sadness,  watch'd  their  mimic  fight — 
"  Fond  maids  !  who  thus  with  War  can  jest — 
"  Like  Love,  in  Mars's  helmet  dress'd, 
"  Wlien,  in  liis  childish  innocence, 

"  Pleased  with  the  shade  that  helmet  iling.^ 
"He  tliinks  not  of  the  blood,  tliat  thence 

"  Is  dropping  o'er  liis  snowy  wings. 
"  Ay — true  it  is,  young  patriot  maids, 

'•  If  Honor's  arm  still  won  tlie  fray, 
"  If  luck  but  shone  on  righteous  blades. 

"  War  were  a  game  for  gods  to  play ! 
"  But,  no,  alas ! — hear  one,  who  well 

"  Hath  Inick'd  the  fortunes  of  the  bravo — 
"  Hear  me,  in  mournful  ditty,  tell 

"  Wliat  gUuy  waits  the  patriot's  grave  :"— 


SONG. 


As  by  the  shore,  at  break  of  day, 
A  vanquish'd  Chief  expiring  lay. 
Upon  the  sands,  with  broken  sword. 

He  traced  his  farewell  to  the  Free ; 
And,  there,  tlie  last  unfinish'd  word 

He  dying  wrote  w.as  "  Liberty !" 

At  night  a  Sea-bird  shriek'd  the  knell 
Of  him  who  thus  for  Freedom  fell ; 
Tlie  words  he  wrote,  ere  evening  came, 

Were  covcr'd  by  the  sounding  sea;— 
So  pass  away  the  cause  and  name 

Of  him  who  dies  for  Liberty ! 


That  tribute      subdued  applause 
A  charm'd,  but  timid,  audience  pays, 

That  murmur,  wliicli  a  minstrel  draws 
From  hearts,  tliat  feel,  but  foar  to  praisie 

Follow'd  this  song,  and  loft  a  pauso 

Of  silence  after  it,  tliat  hung 

like  a  fi.x'd  spell  on  every  tongue. 

At  length,  a  low  and  tremuloHs  sound 
Was  heard  from  midst  a  group,  th.al  rouud 
A  bashful  inaiilcn  stood,  to  liide 
Her  blushes,  while  the  lute  she  tried- 
Like  roses,  gatirring  round  to  veil 
The  song  of  some  young  nightingnlc. 
Whose  trcinl)ling  notes  steal  out  Ixiltvctn 
The  cluslir'il  leave*,  herself  un^'ti-n. 


EVENING&  IN  GREKCE. 


107 


And,  while  tfiut  voice,  in  tones  that  more 

Throufrh  fcelinff  than  througli  weakness  err'a. 

Came,  with  a  stronger  sweetness,  o'er 
Th'  attentive  ear,  this  strain  was  heard: — 


SONG. 

1  SAW,  from  yonder  silent  cave. 

Two  Fountains  running-,  side  by  side. 
The  one  was  Mem'ry's  limpid  wave, 

Tlie  other  cold  Oblivion's  tide" 
"Oh  Love!"  said  I,  in  thouglitless  mood, 

As  deep  I  drank  of  Lethe's  stream, 
"  Be  all  my  sorrows  in  this  flood 

"Forgotten  like  a  vanish'd  dream!" 

But  who  could  bear  that  gloomy  blank. 

Where  joy  was  lost  as  well  as  pain? 
Quickly  of  Jtern'ry's  fount  I  drank. 

And  brought  the  past  all  back  again ; 
And  said,  "  Oh  Love  !  whate'er  my  lot, 

"Still  let  this  soul  to  thee  be  true — 
"  Rather  than  liave  one  bliss  forgot, 

"  JSe  all  my  pains  remeraber'd  too!" 


The  a;roup  that  stood  ai-ound,  to  shade 
The  blushes  of  that  baslifnl  maid, 
[lad,  by  degrees,  as  came  tlie  lay 
More  strongly  forth,  retired  away, 
[jke  a  fair  shell,  whose  valves  divide, 
To  show  the  fairer  pearl  inside : 
For  such  she  was — a  creature,  bright 

And  delicate  as  those  day-flow'rg. 
Which,  while  they  last,  make  up,  in  light 

And  sweetness,  what  they  want  in  hours. 
So  ricli  upon  the  ear  had  grown 
Her  voice's  melody — its  tone 
Gath'ring  new  courage,  as  it  found 
An  echo  in  each  bosom  round — 
That,  ere  the  nymph,  with  downcast  eye 
Still  on  the  chords,  her  lute  laid  by, 
"  Another  Song,"  all  lips  excl.aim'd. 
And  each  some  matchless  fav'rite  named ; 
While  blushing,  .as  her  fingers  ran 
O'er  the  sweet  chords,  she  thus  began:  — 


SONG. 


Oh,  Jleniory,  how  coldly 
Thou  paintest  joy  gone  by: 

Like  rainbows,  thy  pictures 
But  mournfully  shine  and  die. 


Or,  if  some  tints  thou  kcepest, 
Th.it  former  days  recall. 

As  o'er  each  line  thou  weepfcst. 
Thy  tears  efl'ace  Ihem  all. 

But,  JEcmory,  too  truly 

Thou  p.aintest  grief  that's  pswt; 
Joy's  colors  are  fleeting, 

But  those  of  Sorrow  last. 
And,  while  thou  bring'st  before  m 

Dark  pictures  of  past  ill. 
Life's  evening,  closing  o'er  u.i, 

But  makes  them  darker  stilL 


So  went  the  moonlight  hours  along, 
In  this  sweet  glade ;  and  so,  with  song 
And  witching  sounds — not  such  as  they 

The  cymb,alists  of  Ossa,  play'd, 
To  chase  the  moon's  eclipse  away," 

But  soft  and  holy — did  e.ieh  maid 
Lighten  her  heart's  eclipse  awliile, 
And  win  b.ack  Sorrow  to  a  smile. 

Not  far  from  this  secluded  place. 

On  the  sea-shore  a  ruin  stood ; — 
A  relic  of  th'  extinguish'd  r.ace. 

Who  once  look'd  o'er  that  foamy  flood, 
When  fair  loulis,'"  by  the  light 
Of  golden  sunset,  on  the  sight 

Of  mariners  who  sail'd  tli.at  se.a. 
Rose,  like  a  city  of  chrysolite, 

Call'd  from  the  w'.ave  by  witcliery. 
This  ruin — now  by  barb'rous  hands 

Debased  into  a  motley  shed. 
Where  the  once  splendid  column  standi 

Inverted  on  its  le.afy  he.ad — 
Form'd,  .as  thev  tell,  in  times  of  o;d, 

The  dwelli'.y  of  that  bard,  whose  lay 
Could  melt  to  tears  the  stern  and  cold. 

And   .adaen,  'mid  their  mirth,  the  gay-- 
Simonidej  "  whose  fame,  through  ye.ars 
And  Lges  past,  still  bright  appears — 
Like  "lesperus,  a  st.ar  of  tears ! 

'Twas  hither  now — to  catch  a  view 

Of  the  white  waters,  as  they  play'd 
Silently  in  the  light — a  few 

or  vhe  more  restless  damsels  stray'd ; 
And  some  would  linger  'mid  the  scent 

or  h,anging  foli.age,  that  perfumed 
Th?  ruin'd  walls;  while  others  went. 

Culling  whatever  flow're*  bloom'd 


108 


IvICOEE'S  WOEKS. 


In  the  lone  leafy  space  between, 
'NVliere  gilded  chambers  once  had  been ; 
Or,  turning  sadly  to  the  sea. 

Sent  o'er  the  wave  a  sigh  unblest 
To  some  brave  champion  of  the  Free — 
Thinking,  alas,  how  cold  might  be. 

At  that  still  hour,  his  place  of  rest! 

Meanwhile  there  came  a  sound  of  song 
From  the  dark  ruins — a  faint  strahi, 

As  if  some  echo,  that  among 

Those  minstrel  halls  had  slumber'd  long. 
Were  murm'ring  into  life  again. 

But,  no — the  nymphs  knew  well  the  tone- 

A  maiden  of  their  train,  who  loved, 
Ijlce  the  niglit-bird,  to  sing  alone, 

Had  deep  into  tlioso  ruins  roved. 
And  there,  all  other  thoughts  forgot, 

Was  warbling  o'er,  in  lone  delight, 
A  lay  that,  on  that  very  spot. 

Her  lover  sung  one  moonlight  night : — 


BONG. 


Ah;   (\-here  are  they,  wlio  heard,  in  former  hours, 
The  /oicc  of  Song  in  these  neglected  bow'rs? 

They  are  gone — all  gone ! 
The  youtli,  who  told  his  pain  in  sucli  sweet  tone, 
That  all,  who  heard  him,  wish'd  his  pain  their  own — 

He  is  gone — he  is  gone! 

And  she,  who,  while  ho  sung,  sat  li,st'iiiiig  by. 
And  tliought,  to  strains  like  these  'twere  sweet  to 
die — 
She  is  gone — she  too  is  gone ! 

'Ti%  thus,  in  future  hours,  some  bard  will  say 
Of  lier,  who  hears,  and  him,  who  sings  this  l.iy — 
They  are  gone — they  both  arc  gone ! 


The  moon  was  now,  from  Heaven's  steep, 

Rending  to  dip  her  silv'ry  urn 
Into  the  bright  and  silent  deep — 

And  the  young  nymphs,  on  their  return 
From  those  romantic  ruins,  found 
Tli.il  other  pl.nymatcs,  ranged  around 
The  Hjicred  Spring,  prepared  to  tune 
Their  parting  hymn,"  ero  sunk  the  moon, 


To  that  ftiir  Fountain,  by  whose  stream 
Their  hearts  had  form'd  so  many  a  dream 
Who  has  not  read  the  tales,  that  tc1l 
Of  old  Eleusis'  sacred  Well, 
Or  heard  what  legend-songs  recount 
Of  Syra,  and  its  holy  Fount,"' 
Gushing,  at  once,  from  the  hard  rock 

Into  the  \aps  of  living  flowers — 
Where  village  m.aidens  loved  to  flock. 

On  summer-nights,  and,  like  the  hours, 
Link'd  in  harmonious  dance  and  song, 
Ch.irm'd  the  unconscious  night  along ; 
Wliile  holy  pilgrims,  on  their  way 

To  Delos'  isle,  stood  looking  on, 
Encliantcd  with  a  scene  so  gay. 

Nor  sought  their  boats,  till  morning  shone ' 

Such  was  the  scene  tliis  lovely  glade 
And  its  fair  inmates  now  displ.ay'd. 
As  round  the  Fount,  in  linked  ring, 

They  went,  in  cadence  slow  and  light, 
And  thus  to  that  enchanted  Spring 

Warbled  their  Farewell  for  the  night: — 


SONG. 


Here,  while  the  moonlight  dhu 
Falls  on  that  mos.sy  brim. 
Sing  we  our  Fountain  Hymn, 

Maidens  of  Zea ! 
Nothing  but  Music's  strain. 
When  Lovers  part  in  pain. 
Soothes,  till  they  meet  again. 

Oh,  Maids  of  Zea! 

Bright  Fount,  so  cle:ir  and  cold. 
Round  which  the  nymplis  of  old 
Stood,  with  their  locks  of  gold, 

Fuuntain  of  Zea! 
Not  even  C:tslaly, 
Famed  though  its  stroiunlet  be. 
Murmurs  or  shines  like  Ihec, 

Oh,  Fount  of  Zea ! 

Tluiu,  while  our  hymn  we  s'wg 
Thy  silver  voice  shall  biiiig, 
Answering,  answering. 

Sweet  Fount  of  Zeat 
For,  of  all  rills  th.it  run, 
Sparkling  by  moon  or  sup, 
Thou  arl  the  fairest  one, 

Urii'ht  I'ount  of  Zea 


EVENINGS  IN  GllEECE. 


109 


Now,  by  those  stars  ihat  glance 
Over  heaven's  still  expanse, 
Weave  we  our  niirtliful  dance, 

Daughters  of  Zca ! 
Such  aa,  in  former  days. 
Danced  they,  by  Dian's  rays, 
Where  the  Eurotas  strays," 

Oh,  IMaids  of  Zea ! 

But  when  to  merry  feet 
Hearts  with  no  echo  beat, 
Say,  can  the  dance  be  sweet  ? 

Maidens  of  Zea ! 
No,  naught  but  Music's  strain. 
When  lovers  part  in  pain, 
Soothes,  till  tliey  meet  again, 

Oh,  Maids  of  Zea! 


SECOND  EVEJflNO. 

SONG. 

When  evening  shades  are  ftvlling 

O'er  Ocean's  sunny  sleep, 
To  pilgrims'  hearts  recalling 

Their  home  beyond  the  deep; 
When,  rest  o'er  all  descending, 

The  shores  with  gladness  smile, 
And  lutes,  their  echoes  blending, 

Arc  heard  from  isle  to  isle. 
Then,  Mary,  Star  of  the  Sea," 
We  pray,  we  pray,  to  thee! 

The  noonday  tempest  over, 

Now  Ocean  toils  no  more. 
And  wings  of  halcyons  hover, 

Wiiere  all  was  strife  before. 
Oh  thus  may  life,  in  closing 

Its  short  tempestuous  day, 
Beneath  licaven's  smile  reposing, 

Shine  all  its  storms  away ! 
Thus,  Mary,  Star  of  the  Sea, 
^^^e  pray,  we  pray,  to  thee! 


On  Helle's  sea  the  light  grew  dim, 
As  the  last  sounds  of  that  sweet  hymn 

Floated  along  its  azure  tide — 
Floated  in  light,  as  if  the  lay 
Had  mix'd  with  sunset's  fading  ray, 

And  liglit  and  song  together  died. 


So  soft  througii  evening's  air  had  breathed 
That  choir  of  youthful  voices,  wreathed 
In  many-linked  harmony, 
That  boats,  tlien  hurrying  o'er  the  sea. 
Paused,  when  they  reach'd  this  fairy  shore, 
And  linger'd  till  the  strain  was  o'er. 

Of  those  young  maids  who've  met  to  fleet 

In  song  and  dance  this  evening's  hours, 
Far  happier  now  the  bosoms  beat. 

Than  when  they  last  adorn'd  these  bowers 
For  tidings  of  glad  sound  had  come, 

At  break  of  day,  from  the  lar  isles — 
Tidings  like  breath  of  life  to  some — 
That  Zea's  song  would  soon  wing  home, 

Crown'd  with  the  light  of  Vict'ry's  smiles, 
To  meet  that  brightest  of  all  meeds 
That  wait  on  high,  heroic  deeds, 
Wlien  gentle  eyes  that  scarce,  for  tears, 

Could  trace  the  warrior's  parting  track, 
Shall,  like  a  misty  morn  that  clears, 
Wiien  the  long-absent  sun  appears, 

Shine  out,  all  bliss,  to  hail  him  back. 

How  fickle  still  the  youthful  breast! — 

More  fond  of  change  than  a  young  moea, 
No  joy  so  new  was  e'er  possess'd 

But  Youth  would  leave  for  newer  soon. 
These  Zean  nymphs,  though  bright  the  spot, 

Where  first  they  held  their  evening  play, 
As  ever  fell  to  fairy's  lot 

To  wanton  o'er  by  midnight's  ray. 
Had  now  exchanged  that  shelter'd  scene 

For  a  wide  glade  beside  the  sea — 
A  lawn,  whose  soft  expanse  of  green 

Turn'd  to  the  west  sun  smilingly, 
As  tliough,  in  conscious  beauty  bright, 
It  joy'd  to  give  liiin  light  for  light. 

And  ne'er  did  evening  more  serene 
Look  down  from  heav'n  on  lovelier  scene. 
Calm  hay  the  fiood  around,  while  fleet. 

O'er  the  blue  shining  element, 
Light  barks,  as  if  with  fairy  feet 

That  stu-r'd  not  the  hush'd  waters,  went  ■ 
Some  that,  ere  rosy  eve  fell  o'er 

Tlic  blushing  wave,  with  mainsail  free. 
Had  put  forth  from  the  Attic  shore, 

Or  the  near  Isle  of  Ebony ; — 
Some,  Hydriot  barks,  tliat  deep  in  caves 

Beneath  Colonna's  pillar'd  cliffs. 
Had  all  day  lurk'd,  and  o'er  the  waves 

Now  sliot  their  long  and  dart-Jike  skiffs. 
Woe  to  the  craft,  however  fleet. 
These  sea-hawks  in  their  course  sh.iU  meet, 


110 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Laden  witli  jiiice  of  Lesbian  vines, 
Or  rich  from  Naxos'  emery  mines; 
For  not  more  sure,  when  owlets  flee 
O'er  the  dark  ( rags  of  Pendolee, 
Doth  the  night-falcon  mark  '.!:-<  prey, 
Or  pounce  on  it  mon-.  uistt  Uian  they. 

And  what  a  moon  now  lights  the  glade 

Where  these  young  jsbind  nymphs  are  met ! 
FuU-orb'd,  yet  pure,  as  if  no  shade 
Had  touch'd  i:s  virgin  lustre  yet; 
\nd  freshly  bright,  as  if  just  made 
By  Love's  own  hands,  of  new-born  light 
.Stol'n  from  his  mother's  star  to-niglit. 

On  a  bold  rock,  that  o'er  the  flood 
Jutted  from  that  soft  glade,  there  stood 
A  Cliapel,  fronting  tow'rds  the  sea, — 
Built  in  some  by-gone  century, — 
Whsie,  nightly,  as  the  seaman's  mark, 
When  waves  rose  high  or  clouds  were  dark, 
A  lamp,  bequeath'd  by  some  kind  Saint, 
She<l  o'er  the  wave  its  glimmer  faint. 
Waking  in  way-worn  men  a  sigh 
And  pray'r  to  lieav'n,  as  they  went  by. 
Twas  there,  around  tliat  rock-built  shrine, 

A  group  of  maidens  and  their  sires 
H.ad  stood  to  watch  the  day's  decline. 

And,  as  flic  light  fell  o'er  their  lyres. 
Sung  to  the  tiueeivStar  of  the  Sea 
Tliat  soft  and  holy  melodj'. 

But  lighter  thoughts  and  lighter  song 

Now  woo  the  coming  hours  along : 

For,  mark,  where  smooth  the  herbage  lies, 

\on  gay  pavilion,  curtain'd  deep 
With  silken  folds,  through  which,  bright  eyes. 

From  time  to  time,  are  seen  to  peep; 
While  twinkling  lights  that,  to  and  fro, 
neneath  those  veils,  like  meteors,  go. 

Tell  of  some  spells  at  work,  and  keep 
Young  fancies  chain'd  in  mute  suspense. 
Watching  what  next  may  shine  from  thence. 
Nor  long  the  p.iusc,  ere  hands  unseen 

That  mystic  curtain  backvard  drew, 
And  all,  thiit  late  but  shown  between, 

In  half-caught  gleams,  now  burst  to  view. 
A  picture  'twas  of  the  cirly  days 
Of  glorious  Greece,  ere  yet  those  rays 
f )f  rich,  immortal  Mind  were  hers 
That  made  mankind  her  worshippers  ; 
While,  yet  unsung,  her  landscapes  shono 
With  glory  lent  by  Heaven  alone  ; 
Nor  temples  crown'd  her  nameless  hills, 
Nor  Mono  Immortalized  her  rills; 


Nor  aught  but  the  mute  poesy 
Of  sun,  and  stars,  and  shining  sea 
Illumed  that  laud  of  bai-ds  to  be. 
While,  prescient  of  the  gifted  race 

That  yet  would  realm  so  blest  adorn. 
Nature  took  pains  to  deck  the  place 

Where  glorious  Art  was  to  be  born. 

Such  was  the  scene  that  mimic  stage 

Of  Athens  and  her  hills  porirjiy'd ; 
Alliens,  in  her  first,  youthful  age, 

Ere  yet  the  simple  violet  braid,°° 
^\^licll  tlien  adorii'd  licr,  had  shone  down 
Tlie  glory  of  earth's  loftiest  crown. 
While  yet  umlream'd,  her  seeds  of  Art 

Lay  sleeping  in  the  marble  mine — 
Sleeping  till  Genius  bade  them  start 

To  all  but  life,  in  shapes  divine ; 
Till  deified  the  quarry  shone 
And  all  Olympus  .stood  in  stone  ! 

There,  in  the  foreground  of  that  scene, 

On  a  soft  bank  of  living  green, 

Sat  a  young  nymph,  with  her  lap  full 

Of  newly  gather'd  flowers,  o'er  wliich 
She  graceful  lean'd,  intent  to  cull 

All  that  was  there  of  hue  most  rich. 
To  form  a  wreath,  such  as  the  eye 
Of  her  young  lover,  who  stood  by. 
With  palette  mingled  fresh,  might  choose 
To  fix  by  Painting's  rainbow  hues. 

Tlie  wreatli  was  form'd ;  the  maiden  raised 

Her  speaking  eyes  to  his,  while  he — 
Oh  not  upon  tlic  flowers  now  gazed. 

Hut  on  that  bright  look's  witchery. 
While,  quick  as  if  but  then  the  thought, 
Like  light,  had  reach'd  his  soul,  he  caught 
His  pencil  up,  and,  warm  and  true 
As  life  itself,  that  love-look  drew: 
And,  as  his  raptured  task  went  on. 
And  forth  each  kindling  feature  shone. 
Sweet  voices,  through  the  moonlight  aii, 

From  lips  as  moonlight  fresh  and  pure, 
Thus  hail'd  the  bright  dream  passing  there. 

And  sung  the  Birth  of  Portraiture." 


SONG. 


As  once  a  Grecian  maiden  wovo 

Her  gMrland  niid  the  summer  bow'rs. 

There  stood  :\  youth,  willi  eyts  of  love, 

To  watch  her  while  she  w  catlicd  the  fl  iw  ra 


EVENINGS  IN  GREECE. 


Ill 


ITie  youth  was  skill'd  in  Painting's  art, 
But  ne'er  had  studied  woman's  l)row, 

Nor  know  what  miv^'ic  hues  (he  heart 
Can  slied  o'er  Nature's  diariiis,  till  now. 

cHonus. 
Bless'd  be  Love,  to  whom  we  owe 
All  that's  fair  and  bri^dit  below. 

His  liaiid  had  pictured  many  a  rose. 

And  slcctch'd  the  rays  that  light  the  brook  ; 
But  what  were  these,  or  w-hat  were  tliose, 

To  woman's  blush,  to  woman's  look  1 
"  Oh,  if  such  magic  pow'r  there  be, 

"This,  this,"  ho  cried,  "is  all  my  pi-iyer, 
"To  paint  that  living  light  I  see, 

"  And  fix  the  soul  that  sparkles  there." 

His  prayer,  as  soon  as  breathed,  was  heard ; 

His  palette,  touch'd  by  Love,  grew  warm, 
And  Painting  saw  her  hues  transferr'd 

From  lifeless  flow'rs  to  woman's  form. 
Still  as  from  tint  to  tint  he  stole, 

The  fair  design  shone  out  the  more, 
And  there  was  now  a  life,  a  soul. 

Where  only  colore  glow'd  before. 

Then  first  carnations  learn'd  to  speak. 

And  lilies  into  life  were  brought; 
While,  mantling  on  the  maiden's  cheel;. 

Young  roses  kindled  into  thought. 
Then  hyacinths  their  darkest  dyes 

Upon  the  locks  of  Beauty  threw ; 
And  violets,  transform'd  to  eyes, 

Inshrined  a  soul  within  their  blue. 


Bless'd  be  Love,  to  whom  ne  owe 
All  that's  foir  and  bright  below. 
Song  was  cold  and  Painting  dim 
Till  Song  and  Painting  learn'd  from  him. 


JSoon  as  the  scene  had  closed,  a  cheer 

Of  gentle  voices,  old  and  young, 
Rose  from  the  groups  that  stood  to  hear 

This  tale  of  yore  so  aptly  sung ; 
And  while  some  nymplis,  in  haste  to  tell 
The  workers  of  tliat  fairy  spell 
How  erown'd  with  praise  their  task  liad  been, 
Stole  in  behind  the  curtain'd  scene. 
The  rest,  in  happy  converse  stray'd — 

Talking  that  ancient  love-tale  o'er — 
Some,  to  the  groves  that  skirt  the  glade. 

Some,  to  the  chapel  by  the  shore, 


To  look  wliat  lights  were  on  the  sea. 
And  think  of  tli'  absent  silently. 

But  soon  that  summons,  known  so  well 

Througli  bow'r  and  hall,  in  Eastern  lands. 
Whose  sound,  more  sure  than  gong  or  bell. 
Lovers  and  slaves  alike  commands, — 
The  clapping  of  young  female  hands, 
Calls  back  the  groups  from  rock  and  field 
To  see  some  new-form"d  scene  revoal'd; — • 
And  fleet  and  eager,  down  the  slopes 
Of  the  green  glade,  like  anteloi>es. 
When,  in  their  thirst,  they  hear  the  sound 
Of  distant  rills,  the  light  nymi)!is  bound. 

Far  different  now  the  scene — a  waste 
Of  Libyan  sands,  by  moonlight's  ray ; 

An  ancient  well,  whereon  were  traced 
The  warning  words,  for  such  as  stray 
Unanned  there,  "  Drink  and  av/ay  !""* 

While,  near  it,  from  the  night-ray  screcn'd, 
And  like  his  bells,  in  hush'd  repose, 

A  camel  slept — young  as  if  wean'd 
When  last  the  star,  Canopus,  rose." 

Such  was  the  back-ground's  silent  scene;— 

While  nearer  lay,  fast  slumb'ruig  too, 
In  a  rude  tent,  with  brow  serene, 

A  youth  whose  cheeks  of  way-worn  hue 
And  pilgrim-bonnet,  told  tlie  tale 
That  he  had  been  to  Slecca's  Vale : 
Haply  in  pleasant  dreams,  ev'n  now 

Thinking  the  long-wish'd  hoiu-  is  come 

When,  o'er  the  well-known  porch  at  hocie, 
His  hand  shall  hang  the  aloe  bough — 
Trophy  of  his  acconiplish'd  vow."° 
But  brief  his  dream — for  now  the  call 

Of  the  camjj-chiefs  from  rear  to  van, 
"  Bind  on  your  burdens,""  wakes  up  all 

The  widely  slumb'ring  caravan; 
And  thus  meanwhile,  to  greet  the  ear 

Of  the  young  pilgrim  as  he  wakes. 
The  song  of  one  who,  ling'ring  near, 

Had  watch'd  his  slumber,  cheerly  breaks 


SONG. 


Up  and  march  !  tlie  timbrel's  sound 
Wakes  the  slumb'ring  camp  around 
Fleet  thy  hour  of  rest  hath  gone. 
Armed  sleeper,  up,  and  on ! 
Long  and  weary  is  our  way 
O'er  the  turning  sands  to-d;iy ; 


112 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


But  to  pilgrim's  homeward  feet 
Ev'n  the  desert's  path  is  sweet. 

\\lien  we  lie  at  doad  oi'  r.ight, 
Looking'  uj^i  to  lieaveii's  .-ic.-^'. 
Hearing  but  the  watei;ra:ii:'s  tone 
Faintly  elianting,  "  God  is  one,"" 
Oil  wliat  tlioughts  then  o'er  us  come 
Of  our  distant  viUage  home, 
Wliere  the  chant,  when  ev'ning  sets, 
Sounds  from  all  the  minarets. 

Cheer  thee ! — soon  siiall  signal  lights, 
Kindling  o'er  the  Red  Sea  height.-*. 
Kindling  quick  from  man  to  man. 
Hail  our  coming  car.avan :'' 
Think  what  bliss  that  hour  will  be! 
Looks  of  home  again  to  see. 
And  our  names  .again  to  he.ar 
Murmur'd  out  bv  voices  dear. 


So  pass'd  the  desert  dream  away, 
Fleeting  as  his  who  heard  this  lay. 
Nor  long  the  pause  between,  nor  moved 

The  spell-bound  audience  from  that  spot; 
VVIiile  still,  as  usual,  Fancy  roved 

On  to  the  joy  that  yet  v.-as  not; — 
Fancy,  who  hath  no  present  home, 
But  builds  her  bower  in  .scenes  to  come. 
Walking  for  ever  in  a  light 
That  flows  from  regions  out  of  sighf. 

iut  see,  by  gradual  dawn  descried, 
A  mountain  realm — rugged  as  e'er 
Upraised  to  heav'n  its  summits  bare, 

v)r  told  to  earth,  with  frown  of  pride. 
That  Freedom's  falcon  nest  was  there, 

Too  higli  fur  hand  of  lord  or  king 

To  hood  her  brow,  or  chain  her  wing. 

'TJK  Maina's  laud — her  ancient  hills, 

The  cbodo  of  nympliE*' — her  countless  rills 

And  torrents,  in  their  downward  d.ash, 

Shining,  like  silver,  llnough  the  shade 
Of  the  HPiupine  and  llnwVing  ash — 

All  wiih  a  truth  no  fresh  piirtr.iy'd 
As  wants  but  touch  of  life  to  ko 
A  world  ot  warm  reality. 

And  now,  liglit  bounding  forth,  a  band 
Of  mounl.'iiHeers,  all  smiles,  advance— 

Nym|)hH  with  their  lovcrH,  hand  in  hand, 
Link'd  In  the  Ariadno  duirce ;" 


And  while,  ap.art  from  that  guy  throng, 

A  minstrel  youth,  in  varied  song. 

Tells  of  the  loves,  the  joys,  t!ie  ills 

Of  these  wild  children  of  tlie  hills, 

The  rest  by  turns,  or  tierce  or  gay. 

As  war  or  sport  inspires  the  lay. 

Follow  each  change  that  wakes  the  strings, 

And  act  what  thus  the  lyrist  sings: — 


SONG. 


No  life  is  like  the  mountaineer's, 

His  home  is  near  tlie  sky, 
Wiiere,  throned  above  tliis  world,  lie  he.ais 

Its  strife  at  distance  die. 
Or,  should  the  sound  of  hostile  drum 
Proclaim  below,  "  We  come — we  comt, ' 
Eaeli  crag  tliat  tow'rs  in  air 
Gives  answer,  "  Come  who  dare !" 
While,  like  bees,  from  dell  and  dingU, 
Swift  the  swarming  warwors  mingle. 
And  their  cry  "  Hurra !"  will  bo, 
"Hurr.a,  to  victory!"' 

Tlien,  when  battle's  hour  is  over, 

See  the  happy  mountain  lover, 

Willi  the  nymph,  who'll  soon  be  l/ride, 

Seated  blushing  by  his  side, — 

Every  shadow  of  his  lot 

In  her  sunny  smile  forgot. 

Oh,  no  life  is  like  the  mount.aineer's, 

His  home  is  near  the  sky, 
Where,  throned  above  this  world,  he  heara 

Its  strife  at  distance  die. 
Nor  only  thus  through  summer  suns 
His  blithe  existence  cheerly  runs — 

Ev'n  winter,  bleak  and  dim. 

Brings  joyous  hours  to  him ; 
When,  his  rille  beliind  him  Hinging, 
He  watches  the  roe-buck  springing, 
And  away,  o'er  Iho  hills  away 
Re-echoes  his  glad  "  hurra." 

Then  how  bless'd,  when  night  is  closing, 
By  the  kindled  hearth  reposing. 
To  his  rebeck's  drowsy  song. 
He  beguiles  llie  hour  along; 
Or,  provoked  l-y  merry  glances, 
To  n  brisker  movement  dances. 
Till,  weary  at  l.ist,  in  slumber's  chain, 
He  dreams  o'er  chase  and  danco  again, 
Dreams,  dreams  them  o'er  ag.iin. 


EVENINGS  IN  GREECE. 


118 


As  slow  that  minstrel,  at  the  close. 

"  Thou  art  not  dead — thou  art  not  dead '" 

Sunk,  wliilc  he  sunij,  to  i'eign'J  repose, 

As  oft  'twas  sung,  in  ages  flown, 

Aptly  did  they,  whose  mimic  art 

Of  him,  the  Athenian,  who,  to  shed 

Follow'd  tlie  changes  of  his  lay. 

A  tyrant's  blood,  pour'd  out  his  own. 

Portray  tlie  lull,  the  nod,  tlie  start. 

Through  which,  as  faintly  died  away 
His  lute  and  voice,  the  minstrel  pass'd, 

Till  voice  and  lute  lay  husli'd  at  last. 

SONU. 

But  now  far  other  song  came  o'er 

"  Thou  art  not  dead — tliou  art  not  dead  I" 

Their  startled  ears — song  that,  at  first. 

No,  de.irest  Harmodius,  no. 

As  solemnly  the  night-wind  bore 

Thy  soul,  to  realms  .above  us  fled. 

Across  the  wave  its  mournful  burst, 

Tliough,  like  a  star,  it  dwells  o'er  he.ad. 

Seem'd  to  the  fancy,  like  a  dirge 

Still  lights  this  world  below. 

Of  some  lone  Spirit  of  the  Sea, 

Thou  .art  not  dead — thou  art  not  dead ! 

Singing  o'er  Ilelle's  ancient  surge 

No,  dearest  Harmodius,  no. 

The  requiem  of  her  Brave  and  Free. 

Through  isles  of  light,  where  heroes  tread. 

Sudden,  amid  their  pastime,  pause 

And  flow'rs  ethereal  blow. 

The  wond'ring  nymphs ;  and,  as  the  sound 

Thy  god-like  Spirit  now  is  led, 

Of  that  strange  music  nearer  draws. 

Thy  lip,  with  life  ambrosial  fed. 

With  mute  inquiring  eye  look  round. 

Forgets  all  taste  of  woe. 

Asliiiig  each  other  what  can  be 

Thou  art  not  dead — thou  art  not  dead 

The  source  of  this  sad  minstrelsy? 

No,  dearest  Harmodius,  no. 

Nor  longer  can  tliey  doubt,  the  song 

Comes  from  some  island-bark,  wliich  now 

The  myrtle,  round  tli.at  fiilchion  spread 

Courses  the  bright  waves  swift  along, 

Which  struck  the  immortal  blow. 

And  soon,  perhaps,  beneath  the  brow 

Throughout  all  time,  with  leaves  unshed^ 

Of  the  Saint's  Rock  will  shoot  its  prow. 

The  patriot's  hope,  the  tyTant's  dread — 

Round  Freedom's  shrine  shall  grow. 

Instantly  all,  with  hearts  tliat  sigli'd 

Thou  art  not  dead — thou  art  not  dead  ! 

'Twixt  fear's  and  fancy's  influence, 

No,  dearest  Harmodius,  no. 

Flew  to  the  rock,  and  saw  from  thence 

A  red-sail'd  pinnace  tow'rds  them  glide. 

Where  lioarts  like  thine  h.ave  broke  or  bled 

Whose  sh.T,dow,  as  it  swept  the  spray, 

Though  quench'd  the  vit.al  glow. 

Scatter'd  the  moonlight's  smiles  .away. 

Their  mem'ry  lights  a  flame,  instead, 

Soon  as  the  mariners  saw  that  throng 

Which,  ev'n  from  out  the  narrow  bed 

From  tlie  cliff  gazing,  young  and  old, 

Of  death  its  beams  shall  throw. 

Sudden  they  slack'd  their  sail  and  song, 

Thou  art  not  dead — thou  art  not  dead  I 

And,  wliile  tlieir  pinn.ace  idly  roU'd 

No,  dearest  Harmodius,  no. 

On  the  liglit  surge,  these  tidings  told : — 

Thy  name,  by  mpiads  sung  and  s-oid, 

'Twas  from  an  isle  of  mournful  name. 

From  age  to  age  shall  go. 

Fiom  Missolonglii,  last  they  came — 

Long  as  the  oak  and  ivy  wed. 

Sad  Missolonglii,  sorrowing  yet 

As  bees  shall  haunt  Hymettus'  head, 

O'er  him,  the  noblest  Star  of  Fame 

Or  Helle's  w.aters  flow. 

That  e'er  in  life's  young  glory  set ! — 

Thou  art  not  dead — thou  art  not  dead ! 

.■Vnd  now  were  on  fheii-  mournful  w.ay, 

No,  dearest  Harmodius,  no. 

Wafting  the  news  through  Helle's  isles ; — 

News  that  would  cloud  ev'n  Freedom's  r.ay, 

And  sadden  V/ct'ry  'mid  her  smiles. 

Their  tale  thus  told,  and  heard,  with  p.iin, 

'Mong  those  who  lingered  list'ning  there, — 

Out  spread  the  galUot's  wings  again ; 

List'ning,  with  ear  and  eye,  as  long 

And,  as  she  sped  lier  swift  career, 

As  breath  of  night  could  tow'rds  them  heat 

Again  lliat  Hymn  rose  on  the  ear— 

A  murmur  of  that  mournful  song,— 

15 


lU 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


A  few  there  were,  in  wiioin  tlie  lay 

Back  to  the  scene  such  smiles  should  grace 

Had  caird  up  feelings  far  too  sad 

These  wand'ring  nymphs  their  path  retrace, 

To  pass  with  the  brief  strain  away, 

And  reach  the  spot,  with  rapture  new, 

Or  turn  at  once  to  theme  more  glad ; 

Just  as  the  veils  asunder  flew. 

And  who,  in  mood  untuned  to  meet 

And  a  fresh  vision  burst  to  view. 

The  light  laugh  of  the  happier  train, 

VVanderd  to  seek  some  moonlight  seat 

There,  by  her  o%\'n  bright  Attic  flood. 

Where  tliey  might  rest,  in  converse  sweet. 

The  blue-eyed  Queen  of  Wisdom  stood  ; — • 

Till  vanish'd  smiles  should  come  again. 

Not  as  she  haunts  the  sage's  dreams. 

With  brow  unveil'd,  divine,  severe ; 

And  seldom  e'er  hath  noon  of  night 

But  soften'd,  as  on  bards  she  beams. 

To  sadness  lent  more  soothing  light. 

When  fresh  from  Poesy's  high  sphere, 

On  one  side,  in  the  dark  blue  sky. 

A  music,  not  her  own,  she  brings, 

Lonely  and  radiant,  was  the  eye 

And,  through  the  veil  whicli  Fancy  flii.gs 

Of  Jove  himself,  while,  on  the  other, 

O'er  her  stern  features,  gently  sings. 

'Mong  tiny  stars  that  round  her  gleam'd, 

The  young  moon,  like  the  Roman  mother 

But  who  is  he — that  in-chin  nigh, 

Among  her  living  "jewels,"  beam'd. 

With  quiver  on  the  rose-trees  hung. 

Wlio  seems  just  dropp'd  from  yonder  sky. 

Touch'd  i)y  the  lovely  scenes  around. 

And  stands  to  watch  that  maid,  with  eye 

A  pensive  maid — one  who,  though  youn-f. 

So  full  of  thought,  for  one  so  young?— 

Had  known  what  'twas  to  see  unwound 

That  child — but,  silence !  lend  thine  ear. 

The  ties  by  which  her  heart  had  clung — 

And  thus  in  song  tlic  t.ale  thou'lt  hear: — 

Waken'd  her  soft  tambouni's  sound. 

And  to  its  faint  accords  thus  sung : — 

SONG. 

SONG. 

As  Love,  one  summer  eve,  was  straying. 

Calm  as,  beneath  its  mother's  eyes, 

Who  should  ho  see,  at  that  soft  hour, 

In  sleep  the  smiling  infant  Ynjj, 

But  young  Minerva,  gravely  playing 

So,  watch'd  by  all  the  stars  of  night. 

Her  flute  within  an  olive  bow'r. 

Yon  landscape  sleeps  in  light. 

I  need  not  s.ay,  'lis  Love's  opinion 

And  while  the  night-brocze  dies  .away. 

Tliat,  grave  or  merry,  good  or  ill, 

Like  relics  of  some  faded  strain, 

The  sex  all  bow  to  his  dominion. 

Lo\ed  voices,  lost  for  many  a  day. 

As  woman  will  bo  woman  still. 

Seem  whisp'ring  round  again. 

Oh  youth  !  oh  Love!  yc  dreams,  that  shed 

Though  seldom  yet  the  boy  hath  giv'n 

Such  glory  once — wliero  are  yo  fled? 

To  learned  dames  his  smiles  or  sighs, 

I'lire  ray  of  light  that,  down  the  sky. 
Art  pointing,  like  an  angel's  wand. 

As  if  to  guide  to  realms  that  lie 
In  that  bright  sea  ()cynnd: 

Who  knows  but,  in  nomn  brigliter  deep 
Than  cv'n  that  tra  upiil,  moonlit  m.iin. 

So  handsome  Pallas  look'd,  that  cv'n. 
Love  quite  forgot  the  maid  was  wise. 

Besides,  a  youth  of  his  discenihig 
Knew  well  that,  by  a  shady  rill, 

At  sunset  hour,  whatc'er  her  learning, 
A  woman  will  be  woman  slill. 

Some  land  may  lip,  where  those  who  weep 

Iter  llule  he  praised  in  lenns  ecstatic, — 

Sh.all  wake  to  smi'c  ngiiin ! 

Wishing  it  dumh,  nor  cared  how  so  m  ;— 

For  Wisdom's  notes,  howe'er  chromatic. 

To  Love  seem  .nlways  out  of  tune. 

Willi  cheeks  that  had  regnin'd  tieir  power 

But  long  .iH  he  found  face  to  flatter. 

And  play  of  8mile<-- — and  cicli  bright  cyn, 

The  nymph  found  brealli  to  shake  imd  Ihril) 

Like  vidlctM  iifler  morning's  shower. 

As,  weak  or  wi.e — it  doesn't  mailer — 

The  krigUtcr  for  <lio  team  gone  by, 

W<.m  ill,  il  heart,  is  witman  slill. 

EVENINGS  IN  GREECE. 


Ho 


uove  changed  his  ph\n,  with  warmth  exclaiming, 

"  How  rosy  was  her  lip's  soft  dye  I" 
And  mui'h  that  flute,  the  flatt'rer,  blaming. 

For  twisting  lips  so  sweet  awry. 
Tlie  nyinijh  look'd  down,  Ijehcld  her  features, 

Uellecled  in  the  passing  rill, 
And  started,  shock'd — fur,  ah,  ye  creatures ! 

Ev'n  when  divine,  you're  women  still. 

Quid;  from  the  lips  it  made  so  odious. 

That  graceless  flute  the  Goddess  took. 
And,  while  yet  fill'd  with  breath  melodious. 

Flung  it  into  tlie  glassy  brook; 
Where,  as  its  vocal  life  was  fleeting 

Adown  the  current,  faint  and  shrill, 
Twas  heard  in  plaintive  tone  repeating, 

"  Woman,  alas,  vain  woman  still !" 


An  mterval  of  dark  repose — 

Such  as  the  summer  lightning  knows, 

'Twixt  flash  and  flash,  as  still  more  bright 
The  quick  revealment  comes  and  goes, 

Op'ning  each  time  the  veils  of  night. 

To  show,  within,  a  world  of  light — 
Such  pause,  so  brief,  now  pass'd  between 
This  last  gay  vision  and  the  scene. 
Which  now  its  depth  of  light  disclosed. 

A  bow'r  it  seem'd,  an  Indian  bow'r. 
Within  whose  shade  a  nymph  reposed. 

Sleeping  aw.ay  noon's  sunny  hour — 
Lovely  as  she,  the  Sprite,  who  weaves 
Her  mansion  of  sweet  Durva  leaves. 
And  there,  .as  Indian  legends  say, 
Dreams  the  long  summer  hours  away. 
And  mark,  how  charm'd  this  sleeper  seems 
With  some  hid  fancy — she,  too,  dreams ! 
Oh  for  a  wizard's  art  to  tell 

The  wonders  th.at  now  bless  her  sight! 
'Tis  done — a  truer,  holier  spell 
Tian  e'er  from  wizard's  lip  yet  fell 

Thus  brings  her  \  ision  all  to  light : — 


s  r,  N  G. 

"  Who  comes  so  gracefully 

"  Gliding  along, 
"  While  tlie  blue  rivulet 

"  Sleeps  to  her  song ; 
"  Song,  richly  vying 
"  With  the  faint  sighing 
"  Whicli  swans,  in  dying, 

"Sweetly  prolong?" 


So  sung  the  shepherd-boy 
By  the  sti-eam's  side, 

Watching  that  fairy  boat 
Down  the  flood  glide, 

Like  a  bird  winging, 

Tln-ougli  the  waves  bringing 

That  Syren,  singing 
To  the  hush'd  tide. 

"  Stay,"  said  the  shepherd-boy, 

"  Fairy-boat,  st.ay, 
"  Linger,  sweet  minstrelsy, 

"  Linger,  a  d.ay." 
But  v.ain  liis  pleading. 
Past  him,  unheeding. 
Song  and  boat,  speeding, 

Glided  away. 

So  to  our  youtliful  eyes 
Joy  and  hope  shone ; 

So,  while  we  gazed  on  them. 
Fast  they  flew  on ; — 

Like  flow'rs,  declining 

Ev'n  in  the  twiniag. 

One  moment  shining. 
And,  the  next,  gone! 


Soon  as  the  imagined  dream  went  by. 
Uprose  the  nymph,  with  anxious  eye 
Turn'd  to  the  clouds,  as  though  some  boon 

She  waited  from  tli.at  sun-bright  dome. 
And  marvell'd  that  it  came  not  soon 

As  her  young  thoughts  would  h.ave  it  coma. 

But  joy  is  in  her  glance! — the  wing 

Of  a  white  bird  is  seen  above ; 
And  oh,  if  round  his  neck  he  bring 

Tlie  long-wish'd  tidings  from  her  love. 
Not  half  so  precious  in  her  eyes 

Ev'n  that  high-omen'd  bird"  would  be, 
Who  dooms  the  brow  o'er  which  he  flies 

To  wear  a  crown  of  Royalty. 

She  had,  herself,  last  evening,  sent 

A  winged  messenger,  whose  flight 
Through  the  clear,  roseate  element. 

She  watoh'd  till,  less'ning  out  of  sight. 
Far  to  the  golden  West  it  went, 
Wafting  to  him,  her  distant  love, 

A  missive  in  that  language  wrought 
WTiich  flow'rs  can  speak,  when  aptly  wove, 

Each  hue  a  word,  e.ach  leaf  a  thought 


IIG 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


And  now — oh  speed  of  pinion,  kno^ii 

To  Love's  light  messengers  alone ! — 

Ere  yet  another  ev'ning  takes 

Its  farewell  of  tlie  golden  lakes, 

She  sees  anotlier  envoy  fly, 

With  the  wisli'd  answer,  througli  the  sky. 


SONG. 


Welcome,  sweet  bird,  through  the  sunny  air  wing- 
in?, 

Swift  h.ast  thou  come  o'er  tlie  far-shining  sea, 
1  jke  Seba's  dove,  on  thy  snowy  neck  bringing 

Love's  written  vows  from  my  lover  to  me. 
Oh,  in  thy  absence,  what  hours  did  I  number ! — 

Saying  oft,  "  Idle  bird,  how  could  he  rest  ?" 
But  thou  art  come  at  last,  take  now  thy  slumber. 

And  lull  thee  in  dreams  of  all  thou  lov'st  host. 

Yet  dost  tliou  drooii — even  now  while  I  utter 

Love's  happy  welcome,  thy  pulse  dies  away ; 
Cheer  tliee,  my  bird — were  it  life's  ebbing  flutter, 

This  fondling  bosom  should  woo  it  to  stay. 
But  no — thou'rt  dying — thy  last  t.osk  is  over — 

Farewell,  sweet  martyr  to  Love  and  to  me ! 
The  smiles  thou  hast  waken'd  by  news  from  my 
lover, 

Will  now  all  be  turn'd  into  weeping  for  thee. 


While  thus  the  scene  of  song  (their  last 
For  tlie  sweet  summer  season)  pass'd, 
A  few  presiding  nymphs,  wlmse  care 

W.iteli'd  over  all,  invisibly. 
As  do  those  guiirdian  sprites  of  air, 

Whose  watch  we  feel,  but  cannot  see. 
Had  fiom  the  circle — scarcely  miss'd, 

Kre  they  were  sparkling  there  again — 
Glided,  like  fairies,  to  a.ssist 

Tiieir  h.andmaids  on  the  moonlight  plain. 
Where,  hid  by  intercepting  shade 

From  the  stray  glance  of  curious  eyes, 
A  feast  of  fruits  and  wines  was  laid — 

Soon  to  sliino  out,  n  glad  surprise ! 

And  now  the  moon,  licr  ark  of  light 

Slcering  tlirougli  Ileav'n,  as  though  she  bore 
In  safety,  through  that  deep  of  night, 
HpiritH  of  earth,  the  good,  the  bright, 

To  some  remote  immortal  slioro, 
Had  half-way  sped  lier  glorious  way, 

When,  round  reclined  on  hillocks  preen. 
In  group",  beneath  Hint  tranrpiil  ray, 

The  Zeans  at  llioir  featt  were  Bccn. 


Gay  was  the  picture^-ev'ry  maid 
Whom  late  the  lighted  scene  display'd. 
Still  in  her  fancy  garb  array'd ; — 
The  Arabian  pilgrim,  smiling  here 

Beside  the  nymph  of  India's  sky ; 
While  there  the  ilainiote  mount.iincer 
Whisper'd  in  young  ]\Iinerv.a's  ear, 

And  urchin  Love  stood  laughing  by, 

Meantime  the  elders  round  the  board, 

By  mirth  and  wit  themselves  made  young.. 

High  cups  of  juice  Zacynthian  pourd. 

And,  while  the  flask  went  round,  thus  sung 


SONO. 


Ur  with  the  sparkling  brimmer. 

Up  to  the  crystal  rim ; 
Lot  not  a  moonbeam  glimmer 

'Twixt  the  flood  and  brim. 
When  hath  the  world  set  eyes  on 

Aught  to  match  this  light, 
Which,  o'er  our  cup's  horizon, 

Dawns  in  bumpers  bright? 

Truth  in  a  deep  well  lieth — 

So  the  wise  aver: 
But  Truth  the  fact  denietli— 

Water  suits  not  her. 
No,  her  abode's  in  brimmers. 

Like  this  mighty  cup — 
Waiting  till  we,  good  swimmers, 

Dive  to  bring  her  up. 


Thus  circled  round  tlio  song  of  glee, 
And  all  was  tuneful  mirth  the  while, 
Save  on  the  cheeks  of  some,  whose  smiley 

As  lix'd  they  gaze  upon  the  sea. 

Turns  into  pjilencss  suddenly! 

Wliat  see  they  there?  a  bright  bine  light 
That,  like  a  meteor,  gliding  o'er 

'i'hc  distant  wave,  grows  on  the  sight, 
-As  though  'twere  wing'd  to  Zea's  shore. 

To  some,  'mmig  tliorr  w  ho  came  to  gaze, 

It  seem'd  (ho  night-light,  far  away. 
Of  some  lone  fislicr,  by  the  biaz?  ' 

Of  pine  torch,  hiring  on  his  prey; 
While  others,  as,  'twixt  awe  and  mirth, 

They  breathed  the  blest  I'anaya's"  narao. 
Vow'd  that  such  light  was  not  of  earth, 

But  of  that  drear  ill-oracn'd  flnmc, 


EVENINGS  IN  GREECE. 


117 


Which  niarhiers  «co  on  sail  or  mast, 
When  Death  ia  c;niing  in  the  blast. 
While  marv'ling'  Uiua  tliey  stood,  a  maid, 

Wlio  sat  apart,  with  downcast  eye, 
!Nor  yet  had,  like  the  rest,  survoy'd 

Tliat  coinintr  lijfht  which  now  was  nigh. 
Soon  as  it  met  liei-  sight,  with  cry 

Of  pain-iikc  joy,  "  'Tis  he !  'tis  he !" 
Lend  she  exchiim'J,  and,  hm-rying  by 

The  assembled  throng,  rusli'd  tow'rds  the  sea. 

At  burst  so  wild,  alarm'd,  amazed, 

All  stood,  like  statues,  mute,  and  gazed 

Into  each  other's  eyes,  to  seek 

What  meant  such  mood,  in  maid  so  meek  1 

Till  now,  the  talc  was  known  to  few, 
But  now  from  lip  to  lip  it  flew : — 
A  youth,  the  flower  of  all  the  band, 

Who  late  had  left  this  sunny  shore, 
Wlien  last  he  kiss'd  that  maiden's  hand, 

Ling'ring,  to  kiss  it  o'er  and  o'er. 
By  liis  sad  brow,  too  plainly  told 

Th'  ill-omen'd  thought  which  cross'd  him  then. 
That  once  those  hands  should  loose  their  hold. 

They  ne'er  would  meet  on  earth  again ! 
Tn  vain  his  mistress,  sad  as  he. 
But  with  a  heart  from  Self  as  free 
As  gen'rous  woman's  only  is, 
Veil'd  her  own  fears  to  banish  his ; — 
Witli  frank  rebuke,  but  still  more  vain, 

Did  a  rough  warrior,  who  stood  by. 
Call  to  his  mind  this  martial  strain. 

His  fiivorite  once,  ere  Beauty's  eye 

Had  taught  his  soldier-heart  to  sigli : — 


SONG. 


M.\Kcii !  nor  heed  those  arms  that  hold  thee. 

Though  so  fondjy  close  they  come; 
Closer  still  will  they  enfold  tliee. 

When  thou  bring'st  fresh  laurels  home. 
Dost  thou  dote  on  woman's  brow? 

Dost  thou  live  but  in  her  breath? 
March ! — one  hour  of  victory  now 

Wins  thee  woman's  smile  till  death. 

Oil,  wl'.at  bliss,  when  war  is  over, 
Beauty's  long-miss'd  smile  to  meet, 

And,  when  wreaths  our  temples  cover. 
Lay  them  shining  at  her  feet ! 

V^^lo  would  not,  that  hour  to  reach, 
Breathe  out  life's  expiring  sigh,— 


Proud  as  waves  that  on  the  beach 
Lay  their  war-crests  dowr.,  and  die  ? 

There !  I  see  thy  soul  is  burning — 

She  herself,  wlio  clasps  thee  so, 
Paints,  cv'n  now,  thy  glad  returning, 

And,  while  clasping,  bids  thee  go. 
One  deep  sigh,  to  passion  given. 

One  last  glowing  tear,  and  then — 
March ! — nor  rest  thy  sword,  till  Heaven 

Brings  thee  to  those  arms  again 


Even  then,  ere  loth  their  hands  could  part, 

A  promise  the  youth  gave,  which  bore 
Some  balm  unto  the  maiden's  heart. 

That,  soon  as  the  fierce  fight  was  o'sr, 
To  home  he'd  speed,  if  safe  and  free — 

N.ay,  ev'n  if  dying,  still  would  come. 
So  the  blest  word  of  "  Victory !" 

Might  be  the  last  he'd  breathe  at  home, 
"  By  day,"  he  cried,  "  thou'lt  know  my  bark 
"But,  should  I  come  through  midnight  dark. 
"  A  blue  light  on  the  prow  shall  tell 
'•  That  Greece  hath  won,  and  all  is  well !" 

Fondly  the  maiden,  every  night. 
Had  stolen  to  seek  that  promised  light; 
Nor  long  her  eyes  had  now  been  turn'd 
From  watching,  when  the  signal  burn'd. 
Signal  of  joy — for  her,  for  all — 

Fleetly  the  boat  now  nears  the  land, 
While  voices,  from  the  shore-edge,  call 

For  tidings  of  the  long-wish'd  band. 

Oh  the  blest  hour,  when  those  who've  been 
Through  peril's  paths  by  land  or  sea, 

Lock'd  in  our  arms  again  are  seen 
Smiling  in  glad  security ; 

When  heart  to  heart  we  fondly  strain, 
Questioning  quickly  o'er  and  o'er — ■ 

Then  hold  them  off,  to  gaze  again. 
And  ask,  though  answer'd  oft  before. 
If  they,  indeed,  are  ours  once  more  ? 

Such  is  the  scene,  so  full  of  joy, 
Wliich  welcomes  now  this  warrior-boy, 
As  fivthers,  sisters,  friends  all  run 
Bounding  to  m.eet  him — all  but  one. 
Who,  slowest  on  his  neck  to  fall. 
Is  yet  the  happiest  of  them  all. 

And  now  behold  him,  circled  round 
With  beaming  faces,  at  that  board. 


lis 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Wliile  cups,  with  laurel  foliage  crown'd, 
^Vre  to  the  coming'  warriors  pour'J, — 
Coming,  as  he,  their  herald,  told. 
With  blades  from  \icfry  scarce  yet  cold, 
With  hearts  untoueh'd  by  jMoslcm  steel, 
And  wounds  that  home's  sweet  breath  will  heal. 

"  Ere  morn,"  said  he, — and,  while  he  spoke, 

Turn"d  to  the  east,  where,  clear,  and  pale, 
Tlie  star  of  dawn  already  broke — 

'•  We'll  greet,  on  yonder  wave,  their  sail !" 
Then,  wherefore  part  ?  all,  all  agree 

To  w;ut  them  here,  beneatli  this  bower  ; 
And  thus,  while  ev'n  amidst  their  glee, 
E:ich  eye  is  turn'd  to  watch  the  sea, 

WitJi  song  they  cheer  the  anxious  hour. 


'  Tis  the  Vine  !  'tis  the  Vine  !"  said  the  cup-loving 
boy, 

As  he  saw  it  spring  bright  from  the  earth. 
And  call'd  the  young  Genii  of  Wit,  Love,  and  Joy, 

To  witness  and  hallow  its  birth. 
Tlie  fruit  was  full-grown,  like  a  ruby  it  flamed. 

Till  the  sunbeam  that  kiss'd  it  look'd  pale  : 
«  Tis  the  Vine !   'tis  the  Vine '."  cv'ry  Spirit  cx- 
ehum'd, 

»  Hail,  h-i;  to  the  Wino-tree,  all  hail  I" 


First,  fleet  as  a  bird,  to  the  summons  Wit  flew, 
While  a  light  on  tlie  vine-leaves  there  broke, 

In  flashes  so  quick  and  so  brilliant,  all  knew 
'Twas  the  light  from  his  lips  as  he  spoke. 

"  Bright  tree !  let  thy  nectar  but  cheer  me,"  ho 
cried, 
"  And  the  fount  of  Wit  never  can  fail :" 

"  'Tis  the  Vine !  'tis  tlie  Vine !"  hills  and  valleys 
reply, 

"Hail,  hail  to  the  Wine-tree,  all  hail  1" 

Next,  Love,  as  he  lean'd  o'er  the  plant  to  admire 

Each  tendril  and  cluster  it  wore, 
From  liis  rosy  mouth  sent  such  a  breath  of  desire, 

As  made  the  tree  tremble  all  o'er. 
Oh,  never  did  flow'r  of  the  earth,  sen,  or  sky. 

Such  a  soul-giving  odor  inhale  : 
« 'Tis  the  Vine  !  'tis  the  Vine  !"  all  re-echo  the  cry 

"  Hail,  hail  to  the  Wine-lrce,  all  hail !" 

Last,  Joy,  without  whom  even  Love  and  Wit  die, 

Came  to  crown  the  bright  hour  with  his  ray ; 
And  scarce  had   that  mirth-waking  tree  met  his 
eye, 

When  a  laugh  spoke  what  Joy  could  not  say ; — 
A  laugh  of  the  heart,  which  was  echoed  around 

Till,  like  music,  it  swell'd  on  the  gale ; 
"  'Tis  the  Vine  !  'tis  the  Vine  !"  laughing  nayriens 
resound, 

"  Hail,  hiiil  to  the  Wine-tree,  all  hwl !" 


EVENINGS  IN  GEEECE. 


119 


NOTES. 


(1)  "Neriim  Oieanacr.  In  Cypnia  it  rt'tiiina  its  nncii^nt 
name,  Rhocludaphne,  and  the  Cypriots  adorn  their  churches 
frilh  th»!  llowers  on  (cast-days.''^— Journal  of  Dr.  SiOthorpc, 
IValpoWs  Turkey. 

(2)  Ibid. 

(3)  Loniccra  CaprilbUum,  used  by  the  girls  of  Palmos  for 
giirlnnds. 

(4)  Ciiscuta  europa^a.  "From  tho  twisting  and  twining  of 
the  stems,  it  is  compared  by  tlie  Greeks  to  the  dishevelled  hair 
of  the  Nereids."— ;Kfl//;j/t*'5  Turkey, 

(5)  "  The  produce  of  the  island  in  these  acorns  alone 
amounts  annually  to  fifteen  thousand  qiiintitls."— C'/arAf'^ 
Travels. 

(6)  Now  Santa  Maura— the  island,  from  whoso  cliffs  Sappho 
'.eapcd  into  the  sea. 

(7)  "The  precipice,  which  is  fearfully  dizzy,  is  about  one 
hundred  and  fourteen  feet  from  the  water,  which  is  of  a  pro- 
found depth,  as  appears  from  the  dark-blue  color  and  the  eddy 
that  plays  round  the  pointed  and  projecting  rocks." — Ooodis- 
soil's  Ionian  fslcs. 

(8)  See  Mr.  Coodisson's  very  interesting  descriptiuu  of  all 
these  circumstances. 

(9)  I  have  attempted,  in  these  four  lines,  to  give  some  idea 
of  that  beautiful  fragment  of  Sappho,  beginning  Glykcia  mater, 
which  j'epresents  so  truly  (as  Warton  remarks)  "the  languor 
and  listlessness  of  a  person  deeply  in  love." 

(10^  This  word  is  defrauded  here,  I  suspect,  of  a  syllable ; 
Dr.  Clarke,  if  I  recollect  right,  makes  it  "  Calaluika." 

vll)  "  I  saw  above  thirty  parties  engaged  in  dancing  tho  Ko- 
maika  upon  the  sand  ;  in  some  of  these  groups,  tho  girl  who 
letl  them  chased  the  retreating  wave.'' — Dovfftas  on  the  Modern 
Greeks. 

(12)  '■•  III  dancing  the  Komaika  (says  ^Ir.  Douglas)  they  begin 
in  slow  and  solemn  step  till  they  have  gained  the  time,  but  by 
degrees  the  air  becomes  more  sprightly;  the  conductress  of 
the  dauce  sonieliuieg  setting  to  her  partner,  sometimes  dartiiig 
before  the  rest,  and  leading  them  through  the  most  rapid  rev- 
olutions; sometimes  crossing  under  the  hands,  which  are  held 
up  to  let  her  pass,  and  giving  as  much  liveliness  and  intricacy 
na  she  can  to  the  llgiu-es,  into  which  she  conducts  her  compan- 
ions, while  their  business  is  to  lollow  her  in  all  her  move- 
nionls,  without  breaking  tlie  chain,  or  losing  the  measure." 

(13)  For  a  description  of  the  Pyrrhic  Dance,  seo  Do  Guys, 
&e.— It  appears  from  Apuleics  (,Uh.  x.)  that  this  war-dance 
was,  among  the  ancients,  sometimes  performed  by  females. 

(M)  Seo  tho  eofitume  of  the  Greek  women  of  Natolia  in  Cas- 
lellan^n  Mertirs  tics  Ot/iomaus, 

(iri)  The  sword  was  the  weapon  chiefly  used  in  this  dance. 

(IC)  Homer,  II.  ii.  753. 

1 17)  It  is  said  that  I.eonidas  and  his  companions  employed 
themselves,  on  the  eve  of  the  battle,  in  music  and  tJ'O  gymnas- 
tic e.\ercisea  of  their  country. 

(18)  "This  morning  we  paid  our  visit  to  the  Cave  of  Tropho- 
iiina,  and  the  Fountains  of  Memory  and  Oblivion,  just  upon  the 
water  of  Ilercyna,  which  flows  through  8tni)endous  rocks." — 
lt'illiam^''s  Travels  in  Orccce. 

I  \9)  This  superstitious  custom  of  the  Tliessalians  exists  also, 
u  Ficlfo  i*eUa  Vallc  tells  us,  among;  the  Persians. 


(20)  An  ancient  cily  of  '/ea,  tho  walls  of  which  were  of 
marble.  Its  remains  (says  Clarke)  "extend  from  the  shore, 
quite  into  a  valley  watered  by  the  streams  of  a  fountain, 
whence  loulis  received  its  name." 

(21)  Zca  was  the  birthplace  of  this  poet,  whoso  verses  arc  bj 
Catullus  called  "tears." 

(22)  These  "Songs  of  the  Well,"  as  they  were  called  among 
the  ancients,  still  exist  in  i^reece.  Jjc  Guys  IcMs  us  that  he 
has  seen  "the  young  women  in  Prince's  Island,  assembled  in 
the  evening  at  a  public  well,  suddenly  strike  up  a  dance,  while 
others  sung  in  concert  to  them." 

(23)  "The  inhabitants  of  Syra,  both  ancient  and  modern, 
may  be  considered  as  Ihe  worshippers  of  water.  The  old  foun- 
tain, at  which  the  nymphs  of  the  island  assembled  in  the  ear- 
liest ages,  exists  in  its  original  state  ;  the  same  rendezvous  as  It 
was  formerly,  whether  of  love  and  gallantr>-,  or  of  gossiping 
and  tale-telling.  It  is  near  to  the  town,  and  the  most  limpid 
water  gushes  continually  from  the  solid  rock.  It  is  regarded 
by  the  inhabitants  with  a  degree  of  religious  veneration  ;  and 
they  preserve  a  tradition,  that  the  pilgrims  of  old  time,  in  theii 
way  to  Deloa,  resorted  hither  for  purification."— C/arAc. 

(24)  "  Qualis  in  Eurot.-E  ripis,  ant  per  juga  Cynthl 

Exercet  Diana  chores." — J'irgU. 

(25)  One  of  tho  titles  of  the  Virgin :—". Maria  illuminatrix, 
Bivo  Stella  Maris." — Tsidor. 

(20)  "Violet-crowned  Athens."— r/ndar. 

(27)  The  whole  of  this  scene  was  suggested  by  Pliny's  account 
of  the  artist  Pausias  and  his  mistress  Gljrera,  lib.  xxxv.  c.  40. 

(28)  The  traveller  Shaw  mentions  a  beautiful  rill  in  Barbary, 
which  is  received  into  a  large  basin,  called  Shrub  wee  krub^ 
"  Di  ink  and  away," — there  being  great  danger  of  meeting  with 
thieves  and  assassins  in  such  places. 

(29)  The  Arabian  shepherd  has  a  peculiar  ceremony  in 
weaning  the  young  camel:  when  the  proper  time  arrives,  he 
turns  the  camel  towards  the  rising  star,  Canopiia,  and  says, 
"  Do  you  see  Canopus?  from  this  moment  you  taste  not  another 
drop  of  milk." — Richardson. 

(30)  "\Mioever  returns  from  a  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  hanga 
this  plant  (the  mitre-shaped  Aloe)  over  his  street-door,  as  a 
token  of  his  having  performed  this  holy  journey." — Hassch 
quist. 

(31)  Tliis  form  of  notice  to  the  caravans  to  prepare  foi 
marching,  w4s  applied  by  Ilafiz  to  the  necessity  of  relinquish- 
ing the  pleasures  of  this  world,  and  preparing  for  death:— 
"For  me  what  room  is  there  for  pleasure  in  the  bower  of 
Beauty,  when  every  moment  the  bell  makes  proclamation, 
'Bind  on  your  bui'dens?' " 

(32)  Tiie  watchmen,  in  the  camp  of  the  caravans,  go  their 
rounds,  crj'ing  one  after  another,  "God  is  one,"  &.C.,  &:c, 

(33)  "It  was  customary,"  says  Irwin,  "to  light  up  flres  on 
tho  mountains,  within  view  of  Cosseir,  to  give  notice  of  th5 
approach  of  the  caravans  that  came  from  the  Nile." 

(34)  . virginibus  bacchata  Laconis 

Taygcta. —  Virgil. 

(35)  See,  for  an  account  of  this  dance.  De  Guy's  Travels. 

(36)  The  Unma. 

(37)  The  name  wbiih  the  Greeks  give  to  the  Virgin  Maf, 


THE    FUDGE    FAMILY. 


I,   THE  FUDGES  IN   PAIUS. 


Li  Leggi  della  Mascliera  ricliicdono  che  una  persona  mucherata  uon  eju  salutata  per  uome  da  iino  ctiu  la  conoscc  iu&)g  ftda 
il  Buc  Ira  vest  iinenlo. — Castigliong. 


MOORE'S  niEFACE. 


In  what  manner  tlic  following  Epistles  came  into 
my  luuids,  it  is  not  necessary  for  the  public  to  know. 
It  will  be  seen  by  Mr.  Fudge's  Second  Letter,  that 
lie  's  one  of  lliosc  jjenllenien  whose  Secret  Services 
in  Ireland,  under  the  mild  ministry  of  my  Lord 
Casti.ereagii,  have  been  !>o  amply  and  grate- 
fully remunerated.  Like  his  friend  and  associate, 
Tho.iias  Rev.nolds,  Esq.,  he  had  retired  upon  tlic 
reward  of  his  honest  industry;  but  has  lately  been 
induced  to  api)ear  a^ain  in  active  lite,  and  s'lperin- 
tcnd  the  training  of  that  Dclatnriaii  Cohiirt,  which 
Lord  SiDMOUTii,  in  his  wisdom  and  benevolence, 
h;m  organized. 

Whether  Mr  Fudge,  himself,  has  yet  made  any 
discoveries  does  not  appear  from  the  following 
pages.  But  much  may  be  expected  from  a  person 
of  his  zeal  and  sagacity,  and,  indeed,  to  him,  Ijord 
SiD.vouTii,  and  the  Greenl.and-bound  ships,  the 
eyes  of  all  lovers  of  discoveries  arc  now  most  an.v- 
iously  directed. 

I  regret  much  that  I  have  been  obliged  to  omit 
Mr.  BoK  Fudge's  Third  Letter,  concluding  the  ad- 
X'cntures  of  his  Day  with  the  Dinner,  Opera,  &e., 
&c. ; — but,  in  conKcquenee  of  some  remarks  upon 
Marinette's  thin  drapery,  which,  il  was  thought, 
migni  give  uiTcncc  to  ccrtnin  wcb-mcaning  ])cr!ions, 
Uip  onnnwript  was  <M-nt  back  to  Paris  for  his  revi- 


sion,  and  hud  not  returned  when  tlie  last  sheet  \\:\^ 
put  to  press. 

It  will  not,  I  hope,  be  tliought  presumptuous,  il 
I  take  this  opportunily  of  complaining  of  a  very  se- 
rious injustice  I  have  sutlered  from  the  public.  Dr. 
King  wrote  a  treatise  to  prove  that  Be.ntley  "was 
not  the  author  of  his  own  book,"  and  a  similar  ab- 
suixlity  has  been  asserted  of  me,  in  almost  all  the 
bcst-infcirnRMl  literary  circles.  With  the  name  of 
the  real  author  staring  them  in  the  face,  they  have 
yet  per.sisled  in  attributing  my  works  to  other  peo- 
ple; and  the  fame  of  the  Twopenny  I'ost-Bag — 
such  as  it  is — having  hovered  doubtfully  over  va- 
rious persons,  has  at  last  settled  upon  the  head  of 
ft  certain  little  gentleman,  who  wears  it,  I  under- 
sUmd,  as  complacently  as  if  it  actually  belonged  to 
him. 

I  can  only  add,  that  if  any  lady  or  gentleman, 
curious  in  such  matters,  will  tako  the  trouble  of 
calling  at  my  lodgings,  245  Piccadilly,  I  shall  iiave 
the  hoiu)r  of  .assuring  tlicm,  in  proiiriu  pcrsd^ui, 
that  I  am — bis,  or  her. 

Very  obedient 

y\nd  very  Ininible  Servant, 
THOMAS  BROWN,  TUB  YOUNGER. 

^l>rU  17,  IBUL 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PAlilS. 


121 


THE    FUDGES    IN    TARIS. 


LETTER  L 

rSOM    MISS    BIDDY    FUDGE    TO    MISS    DOROTl.Y    ,    OF 

OLOXIilLTY,    IN    IRELAND. 

Amiens. 

Dear  Doll,  while  the  tails  of  our  horses  are  plait- 
ing, 
The  trunks  tying  on,  and  Papa,  at  the  door, 
Into  very  bad  French  is,  as  usual,  translating 
His  English  resolve  not  to  give  a  sou  more, 
I  sit  down  to  write  you  a  line — only  think! — 
A  letter  from  France,  with  P'rencli  pens  and  French 

ink, 
flow  delightful !  though,  would  you  believe  it,  my 

dear? 
I  have  seen  nothing  yet  very  wonderful  here ; 
Mo  adventure,  no  sentiment,  far  as  we've  come, 
7>dl  the  corn-fields  and  trees  quite  as  dull  as  at 

home ; 
lud  hul  for  the  post-boy,  his  boots  and  Ids  queue, 
/  im^tA  just  as  well  be  at  Clonkilty  with  you ! 
In  vain,  at  Dessein's,  did  I  take  from  my  trunk 
Tliat  nivii.e  fellow,  Sterne,  and  foil  reading  "  The 

Monk ;" 
In  vain  did  I  think  of  his  charming  Dead  Ass, 
And  renittii.ber  the  crust  and  the  wallet — alas ! 
No  monks  can  be  had  now  for  love  or  for  money, 
(All  owing,  Vi.  says,  to  that  infidel  Boney  ;) 
And,  though  o,^e  little  Neddy  we  saw  in  our  drive 
Out  of  classi<!a;  Nampont,  the  beast  was  alive ! 

Hy  the  by,  though,  at  Cclais,  Papa  had  a  touch 
Of  romance  on  the  pier,  which  affected  me  much. 
At  the  sight  of  that  spot,  where  our  darling  Dix- 

HUIT 

Set  the  first  of  his  o  a-ii  dear  legitimate  feet,' 
(Jlodell'd  out  so  c>;aot!y,  and — God  bless  the  mark ! 
'Tis  a  foot,  Dolly,  von'iy  so  Grand  a  Monarque,) 
lie   exclaim"d,   "Oh,  mon   Roi!"   and,  with   tear- 
dropping  eye. 
Stood  to  gaze  on  the  spot — while  some  Jacobin, 

nigh, 
Mutter  d  out  with  a  shrug,  (what  an  insolent  thing!) 
"  Ma  foi,  he  be  right — 'tis  de  Englishman's  King; 
And  d;it  i^rns  pied  de  cochon — bcgar,  me  vil  say 
IMt  de  'oot  look  mosh  better,  if  (urn'd  toder  wav." 
16 


Tliere's  the  pillar,  too — Lord !  I  had  nearly  forgot— 
What  a  charming  idea! — raised  close  to  the  spot; 
The  mode  being  now,  (as  you've  heard,  I  suppose,) 
To  build  tombs  over  legs,"  and  raise  pillars  to  toes. 

This  is  all  that's  occurr'd  sentimental  as  yet; 
Except,  indeed,  some   little   flow'r-nymplis  we'vs 

met, 
Who  disturb  one's  romance  with  pecuniary  views, 
Flinging  flow'rs  in  your  path,  and  then — bawling 

for  sous ! 
And  some  picturesque  beggars,  whose  multitudes 

seem 
To  recall  the  good  days  of  the  ancien  regime, 
All  as  ragged  and  brisk,  you'll  be  happy  to  learn, 
And  as  thin  as   tliey  were  in  the  time  of  dear 

Sterne. 

Our  party  consists  (in  a  neat  Calais  job) 

Of  Papa  and  myself,  Jlr.  Connor  and  Bob. 

You  remember  how  sheepish  Bob  look'd  at  Kil- 

randy, 
But,  Lord!  he's  quite  altcr'd — they've  made  him  a 

Dandy ; 
A  thing,  you  know,  whiskcr'd,  great-coated,  and 

laced, 
Like  an  hour-glass,  exceedingly  small  in  the  waist : 
Quite  a  new  sort  of  creatures,  unknown  yet  to 

scholars, 
With  heads,  so  imraoveably  stuck  in  shu't-coUars, 
That  seats,  like  our  music-stools,  soon  must  be 

found  them. 
To  twirl,  when  the  creatures   may  wish  to  look 

round  them. 
In  short,  dear,  "  a  Dandy"  describes  what  I  mean. 
And  Bob's  far  the  best  of  the  genus  I've  seen  : 
An  improving  young  man,  fond  of  learning,  ambi- 
tious. 
And  goes  now  to  Paris'fo  study  French  dishes, 
Wliose   names  —  think,   how   quick !    he    already 

knows  pat, 
A  la  braise,  petits  pdUs,  and — what  d'ye  call  that 
Tliey  inflict  on  potatoes  ? — oh !  mallre  d^holel — 
I  assure  you,  dear  Dollt,  he  knows  them  as  well 
As  if  nothing  else  all  his  life  he  had  eat. 
Though  a  bit  of  them  Bobby  has  never  touch'd 

yet; 


122 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


But  just  knows  the  names  of  Freiieli  dishes  and 

cooks, 
As  dear  Pa  knows  the  titles  of  authors  and  books. 

As  to  Pa,  what  d'ye  think? — mind,  it's  all  enire 
nous. 

But  you  kjiov.-,  love,  I  never  keep  secrets  from 
you — 

Why,  he's  writing  a  booiv — what  I  a  tale  ?  a  ro- 
mance : 

^0,  ye  gods,  would  it  were ! — ^but  his  Travels  in 
France ; 

At  the  special  desii-e  (ho  let  out  t'other  day) 

Of  his  great  friend  and  patron,  my  Lord  Castle- 

EEAGH, 

Who  said,  '•  My  dear  Fudge" — I  forget  the  exact 

words. 
And,  it's  strange,  no  one  ever  remembers  my  Lord's ; 
But  'twas  something  to  say  that,  as  all  must  allow 
A  good  orthodox  work  is  much  wanting  just  now, 
To  expound  to  the  world  the  new — thiiigumniie — 

science. 
Found  out  by  tlic — what's-its-name — Holy  Alliance, 
And  prove  to  mankind  that  their  rights  are  but 

folly, 
Their  freedom   a  joke,  (which   it  is,  you   know, 

Dolly,) 
"  There's  none,"  said  his  Lordship,  "  if  /  may  be 

judge, 
Half  so  fit  for  this  great  undertaking  as  Fudge  !" 

The  matter's  soon  settled — Pa  flies  to  the  Row, 
(_Thc  first  stage  your  tourists  now  usually  go,) 
Settles  ail  for  his  quarto — :idvertiscnients,  praises — 
Starts  post  from  the  door,  with  his  tablets — French 

j)hrases — 
"  Scott's  Visit,"  of  course — in  short,  ev'ry  thing  he 

lins 
An  author  can  want,  except  words  and  ideas : — 
And,  lo!  the  first  thing,  in  the  spring  of  the  year. 
Is  PiiiL.  Fudge  at  the  front  of  a  Quarto,  my  dear! 

But,  bless  mc,  my  paper's  near  out,  so  I'd  better 
Draw  fast  to  u  close : — this  exceeding  long  letter 
Vou  owe  to  a  d/jeuner  d  la  fourchetle. 
Which  BoBBT  would  have,  and  is  hard  at  it  ye!. — 
What's  next?  oh,  the  tutor,  the  last  of  the  jiarly, 
Vouiig  CoNSoit : — they  say  he's  so  like  BoNArAiiTE, 
I  lilt  nose  and  his  chin — which  Papa  rather  dreads. 
An  the  Bourbons,  you  know,  are  suppressing  all 

hcnds 
That  resemble  old  Nap's,  and  who  knows  but  their 

honors 
May  think,  in  their  fright,  of  Bupp-cssing  poor  Co»- 

hor's  ? 


Au  reste,  (as  we  say,)  the  young  lad's  well  cnougn. 
Only  talks  much  of  Athens,  Rome,  virtue,  and  stuiT; 
A  third  cousin  of  ours,  by  the  way — poor  as  Job, 

(Though  of  royal  descent  by  the  side  of  Mamma,) 
And  for  charity  made  private  tutor  to  Bob  ; — 

Enire  nous,  too,  a  Papist^how  lib'ral  of  Pa ! 

This  is  all,  dear, — forgive  me  for  breaking  off  thus. 
But  Bob's  dtjeiiner's  done,  and  Papa's  in  a  fuss. 

B.  F. 

P.  S. 

How  provoking  of  Pa !  he  will  not  let  me  stop 
Just  to  run  in  and  rummage  some  milliner's  shop; 
And  my  dibul  in  Paris,  I  blush  to  tliink  on  it. 
Must  now,  Doll,  be  made  in  a  hideous  low  bonnet 
But  Paris,  dear  Paris! — oh,  there  will  be  joy. 
And  romance,  .ai'd  high  bonnets,  and  Madame  Ls 
Roi!' 


LETTER  IL 

FUOM    rillL.    FUnGK,   ESQ.,    TO    TUK    LOEfl    VISOODaT 
CASTLEBEAGB. 

PariB. 

At  length,  my  Lord,  I  have  tlie  bliss 
To  date  to  you  a  line  from  this 
"Demoralized"  metropolis; 
\\'here,  by  plebeians  low  and  .scurvy. 
The  tlironc  was  tnrn'd  finite  to))sy-turvy, 
And  Kingship  tumbled  from  its  seat, 
"  Stood  prostrate"  at  the  people's  feet; 
Where  (still  to  use  your  Lordship's  tropes) 
The  level  of  obedience  slopes 
Upward  and  downward,  .-is  the  stream 
Of  hi/dra  faction  hicks  the  beam'.* 
Wliorc  the  poor  Palace  cliangcs  masters 

Quicker  than  a  snake  its  skin, 
And  Louis  is  roll'd  out  on  castors, 

While  Boney's  borne  on  shoulders  in: — 
But  where,  in  every  change,  no  doubt, 

One  special  good  your  Lordship  Ir.'icca, — 
That  'tis  the  Kittys  alone  turn  out. 

The  Ministers  slill  kci'|i  their  places. 

How  oft,  dear  Viscount  Castlekeaoh, 
I've  thought  of  thee  upon  the  way, 
As  in  my  job  (what  place  could  bo 
More  apt  to  wake  a  Ihonght  of  thee?) — 
Or,  oflencr  far,  when  gravely  silting 
Upon  my  dicky,  (as  is  fitting 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PARIS. 


123 


For  liiiii  who  ivTitos  a  Tour,  Uiat  ho 
May  more  of  men  and  maimers  see,) 
I've  thought  of  tliee  and  of  thy  glories, 
Thou  guest  of  Kings,  and  King  of  Tones ! 
Redeeting  how  thy  fame  has  grown 

And  spread,  beyond  man's  usual  share, 
At  home,  abroad,  till  thou  art  linown 

Like  Major  Semple,  everywhere  ! 
And  marv'ling  willi  what  powers  of  breath 
Your  Lordship,  Iiaving  speecli'd  to  death 
Some  hundreds  of  your  fellow-men, 
Next  speech'd  to  Sov'reigns'  ears, — and  when 
All  Sov'reigns  else  were  dozed,  at  last 
Speeeh'd  down  the  Sov'reign'  of  Belfast. 
Oil !  mid  tlie  praises  and  the  tropliies 
Thou  gain'st  from  Morosophs  and  Sopliis ; 
Mid  all  the  tributes  to  thy  fame, 

There's  one  thou  shouldst  be  chiefly  pleased  at — 
That  Ireland  gives  her  snufF  thy  name. 

And  Castleseagh's  the  thing  now  sneezed  at! 

But  hold,  my  pen  ! — a  truce  to  praising — 

Though  ev'n  your  Lordship  will  allovt' 
Tlie  theme's  temptations  are  amazing ; 

But  time  and  ink  run  short,  and  now, 
(As  thou  wouldst  say,  my  guide  and  teacher 

In  these  gay  metaphorio  fringes, 
I  must  embark  into  the  feature 

On  which  this  letter  chiefly  hinges;) — ' 
My  Book,  the  Book  that  is  to  prove — 
And  ivlll,  (so  help  ye  Sprites  above. 
That  sit  on  clouds,  as  grave  as  judges. 
Watching  the  labors  of  the  Fudges  !) 
Will  prove  that  all  the  world,  at  present, 
Is  in  a  state  extremely  pleasant ; 
Tliat  Kurope — thanks  to  royal  swords 

And  bay'nets,  and  tlie  Duke  coinmandinir — 
Enjoys  a  peace  which,  like  the  Lord's, 

Passeth  all  human  understanding: 
That  France  prefers  her  go-cart  King 

To  such  a  coward  scamp  as  Boney  ; 
Though  round,  with  each  a  leading-string, 

There  standeth  many  a  Royal  crony, 
For  fear  the  chubby,  tott'ring  thing 

Should  fall,  if  left  there  loneij-poncij ; — 
That  England,  too,  the  more  her  debts, 
The  more  she  spends,  the  richer  gets; 
And  that  the  Irish,  gratefuJ  nation ! 

Remember  when  by  thee  reign'd  over. 
And  bless  thee  for  their  flagellation 

As  Heloisa  did  her  lover ! — ' 
That  Poland,  left  for  Russia's  lunch 

Upon  the  sideboard,  snug  reposes: 
While  Saxjny's  as  pleased  as  Punch, 

And  Norway  "  on  a  bed  of  roses !" 


That,  as  for  some  few  million  souls. 

Transferr'd  by  contract,  bless  the  clods! 
If  half  were  strangled — Spaniards,  Poles, 

And  Frcnclunen — 'twouldn't  make  much  odo 
So  Europe's  goodly  Royal  ones, 
Sit  easy  on  their  sacred  thrones; 
So  Ferdinand  embroiders  gayly,' 
And  Louis  eats  his  salmi,  daily ; 
So  time  is  left  to  Emperor  Sandy 
To  be  half  Cxsnr  and  half  Dundy; 
And  George  the  Regent  (who'd  forget 
That  doughtiest  chieftain  of  the  set?) 
Hath  wherewithal  for  trinkets  new. 

For  dragons,  after  Chinese  models, 
And  chambers  where  Duke  Ho  and  Soo, 

Might  come  and  nine  times  knock  their  noddle 
All  this  my  Quarto  '11  prove — mucli  more 
Than  Quarto  ever  proved  before : 
In  reas'ning  with  the  Post  I'll  vie, 
My  facts  the  Courier  shall  supply. 
My  jokes  Vansittakt,  Pole  my  sense, 
And  thou,  sweet  Lord,  my  eloquence ! 

My  Journal,  penn'd  by  fits  and  starts, 
On  Biddy's  back  or  Bobby's  shoulder, 

(My  son,  my  Lord,  a  youth  of  parts, 
Wlio  longs  to  be  a  small  place-holder,) 

Is — though  I  say't,  that  shouldn't  say — 

Extremely  good ;  and,  by  the  way, 

One  extract  from  it — only  one — 

To  show  its  spirit,  and  I've  done. 

"  Jul.  thirty-first. — Went,  after  snack, 

"  To  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Denny ; 
"  Sigh'd  o'er  the  Ivings  of  ages  back, 

"And — gave  the  old  Concierge  a  penny. 
"  (^Mem. — Must  see  Rheims,  mucli  famed,  'tis  aaid, 
"  For  making  Kings  and  gingerbread.) 
"  Was  shown  the  tomb  where  lay,  so  stately, 
"  A  little  Bourbon,  buried  lately, 
"  Thrice  high  and  puissant,  we  were  told, 
"  Though  only  twenty-four  hours  old  !' 
"  Hear  this,  thouglit  I,  ye  Jacobins : 
"  Ye  Burdetts,  tremble  in  your  skip^  ' 
"  If  Royalty,  but  aged  a  day, 
"  Can  boast  such  high  and  puissant  sway, 
"  What  impious  hand  its  pow'r  would  fix, 
"  Full  fledged  and  wigg'd"  at  fifty-six !" 

Tlie  argument's  quite  new,  you  see, 
And  proves  exactly  Q.  E.  D. 
So  now,  \vith  duty  to  the  Regent. 
I  am,  dear  Lord, 

Vour  most  obedient, 

P.  F 


124 


MOOEE'S  WOkKS. 


Hulel  Breleuit,  Rue  Riioli. 

Neat  -odgings — rather  dear  for  me ; 

But  Biddy  said  she  tliouglit  'twould  look 

Genteeler  thus  to  date  my  Book ; 

And  Biddy's  right — besides,  it  curries 

Some  favor  with  our  friends  at  Murray's, 

Who  scorn  what  any  man  can  say, 

That  dates  from  Rue  St-Honore !" 


LETTER  IIL 

FBOM    im.   BOB    FUDGE   TO   filCILVED 


Oh  Dick  I  you  may  talk  of  your  writing  and  read- 
ing. 

Your  Logic  and  Greek,  but  tlicre's  nothing  like 
feeding ; 

And  this  is  the  place  for  it,  Dicky,  you  dog. 

Of  all  places  on  earth — the  head-quarters  of  Prog ! 

Talk  of  England — her  famed  Magna  Charta,  I 
gwear,  is 

A  humbug,  a  flam,  to  the  Carte'"  at  old  Very's; 

And  as  for  your  Juries — who  would  not  set  o'er  'em 

A  Jury  of  Tasters,"  with  woodcocks  before  'em  ? 

Give  Carxwrigiit  his  Parliaments,  fresh  every 
year; 

But  those  friends  of  short  Commons  would  never 
do  here; 

And,  let  Ro.millt  speak  as  he  will  on  the  (juestion. 

No  Digest  of  Law's  like  the  laws  of  digestion ! 

By  the  by,  Dick,  /  fatten — but  li'importe  for  that, 
'Tis  the  mode — your  Legitimates  always  get  fat. 
There's  the  Regent,  tiiere's  Louis — and  Boney 

tried  too. 
Hut,  though  somewhat  imperial  in  paunch, 'twouldn't 

do:— 
He  improved,  indeed,  iiuuh  in  tliis  point,  wlieii  he 

wed, 
But  he  ne'er  grew  right  royally  fit  in  lite  head. 

Dick,  Dick,  what  a  place  is  tliis  Paris ! — but  stay — 
As  my  raptures  may  bore  you,  I'll  just  sketch  a 

Day, 
As  we  pass  it,  myself  and  some  comrades  I've  got, 
All   thorough-bred   Gnostics,  who   know  what  is 

what. 

Aflfr  dreaming  some   hours  of  the   laud  of  Co- 
cnlgiif," 
That  Klysium  of  ;ill  tli.'it  UfrianJ  and  nice, 
Where  for  liiiil  they  have  hun-linns,  and  claret  for 
rnlii, 
And  the  skatcm  i-i  winter  show  off  on  crpam-icc; 


Where  so  ready  all  nature  its  cookery  yields, 
Macaroni  au  parmesan  grows  in  the  fields ; 
Little  birds  fly  nbout  with  the  true  pheasant  taint. 
And  the  geese  ai-e  all  born  with  a  liver  complaint !" 
I  rise — put  on  neckcloth — stift",  tight,  as  can  be — 
For  a  lad  who  goes  into  the  world.  Dick,  like  me. 
Should  have  liis  neck  tied  up,  you  know — there's 

no  doubt  of  it — 
Almost  as  tight  as  some  lads  who  go  out  of  it. 
With  whiskers   well   oil'd,   and   with   boots   that 

"  hold  up 
"  Tlie  mirror  to  nature" — so  bright  you  could  sup 
Oft"  tlie  leather  like   china;    with  coat,  too,  that 

draws 
On  the  tailor,  who  suffers,  a  martyr's  applause ! 
With  head  bridled  up,  like  a  four-in-Iiand  leader. 
And  stays — devil's  in  them — too  tiglit  for  a  feeder, 
I  strut  to  the  old  Cafe  Hardy,  which  yet 
Beats  the  field  at  a  dejeuner  ii  la  foitrchcttc. 
There,  Dick,  what  a  breakfast!  oh,  not  like  your 

ghost 
Of  a  breakfast  in  England,  your  cursed  tea  .and 

to.ast;'" 
But  a  sideboard,  you  dog,  where  one's  eye  roves 

about. 
Like  a  Turk's  in  the  Haram,  and  thence  singles  out 
One  pate  of  larks,  to  tune  up  the  throat. 
One's  small  limbs  of  chickens,  done  en  papillote. 
One's  erudite  cutlets,  dress'd  all  w.ays  but  plain. 
Or  one's  kidneys — imagine,  Dick — done  with  cham- 
pagne ! 
Then,  some  gl.asses  of  Beaunc,  to  dilulo — or,  may- 
hap, 
Chamhcrtin"  which   vou  l;now's  the  pet  tijiple  of 

Nap, 
And  whicli  D.ad,  by  the  by,  tliat  legitimate  sliiklor, 
Much  scruples  to  t.aste,  but  I'm  not  so  partic'lar. — 
Your  collee  comes  next,  by  prescription :  and  then; 

Dick,  's 
The  coffee's  ne'er-failing  and  glorious  appendix, 
(If  books  had  but  such,  my  old  Grecian,  depend  on't, 
I'd  swallow  ev'n  Watkins',  for  .sake  of  the  end  on't,) 
A  neat  glass  ol'  pa rfail-a mo ur,  which  one  sips 
Just  as  if  bollled  velvet"  tipp'd  over  one's  lips. 
This  repast  being  ended,  and  paid  for — (huw  odd! 
Till  a  mail's  used  to  paying,  there's  somctliing  so 
queer  iii't!) — 
The  sun  now  well  out,  and  the  girls  all  abro.id, 
And  the  world  enough  air'd  for  us,  Nobs,  to  ap- 
pear in't, 
We  lounge  up  llie  Boulevards,  wliere — oh,  Dick, 

the  phizzes, 
'I'lie  turii-oul.s,  we  meet — what  a  nation  of  qnizzesl 
Here  toddles  along  some  old  figure  of  fun, 
With  a  coat  you  might  dale  .Anno  Domini  1  ; 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PAKIS. 


125 


"ii  l:u',ed  li;it,  worsted  stockings,  and — noble   old 

soul ! — 
A  fine  ribbon  and  cross  in  liis  best  button-liole; 
Just  such  as  our  Pklnxe,  wlio  nor  reason  nor  fun 

dreads, 
Tnllicts.  without  e/'n  a  court-martial,  on  hundreds." 
Here  trips  a  grisetle,  witli  a  fond,  roguish  eye, 
(Rather  eatable  things  these  griseltes  by  the  by ;) 
And  there  an  old  demoiselle,  almost  as  fond. 
In  a  silk  that  has   stood  since   the  lime  of  llie 

P'ronde. 
Tlicre  goes   a  French  Dandy — ah,  Dick!    unlike 

some  ones 
We've  seen  about  White's — the  Mounseers  are 

but  rum  ones ; 
Sucli  hats! — fit  ♦or  monkeys — I'd  back  Mrs.  Dra- 
per 
To  cut  neater  weather-boards  out  of  brown  paper: 
And  coats — how  I  wish,  if  it  wouldn't  distress  'em. 
They'd  club  for  old  Brummell,  from  Calais,  to 

dress  'em  ! 
The  collar  sticks  out  from  the  neck  sucli  a  space, 
That  you'd  swear  'twas  tlie  plan  of  this  head- 
lopping  nation, 
To  leave  there  behind  them  a  snug  little  place 

For  the  head  to  drop  into,  on  decapitation. 
In  short,  what  with  mountebanks,  counts,  and  fri- 

seurs. 
Some  mummers  by  trade,  and  the  rest  amateurs — 
Wliat  with  captains  in  new  jockey-boots  and  silk 
breeches. 
Old  dustmen  witli  swinging  great  opcni-hats, 
And  shoeblacks  reclining  by  statues  in  niches. 
There  never  was  seen  such  a  race  of  Jack  Sprats ! 

From  the  Boulevards — but  hearken  ! — yes — as  I'm 

a  sinner. 
The  clock  is  just  striking  the  half-hour  to  dinner; 
So  no  more  at  present — short  time  for  adorning — 
My  Day  must  be  finish'd  some  other  fine  morning. 
Now,  hey  for  old  Beauvilliees'""  larder,  my  boy ! 
And,  once  there,  if  the  Goddess  of  Beauty  and  Joy 
Were  to  write  "  Come  and  kiss  me,  dear  Bob  !"  I'd 

not  budge — 
Not  a  step,  Dick,  as  sure  as  my  n.ime  is 

R.  Fudge. 


LETTER  IV. 

FROU    PHELIM    CONNOR    TO 


"  Return  !" — no,  never,  while  the  \vith'ring  hand 
Of  bisrot  power  is  on  that  hapless  land; 


Wliile,  for  the  faith  my  fathers  held  to  God, 
Ev'n  in  the  fieli's  where  free  those  fathers  trod, 
I  am  proscribed,  and — like  the  spot  left  bare 
In  Israel's  halls,  to  tell  the  proud  and  fair 
Amidst  tlieir  mirth,  that  Slav'ry  had  been  there'*-- 
On  all  I  love,  home,  parents,  friends,     trace 
The  mournful  mark  of  bondage  and  dugrace ! 
No! — let  them  stay,  who  in  tlieir  country's  pangs 
See  naught  but  food  for  factions  and  harangues ; 
Wlio  yearly  kneel  before  their  m.-isters'  doors. 
And  hawk  their  wrongs,  as  beggars  do  their  sores : 
Still  let  your==       *  *  *  * 

Still  hope  and  suffer,  all  who  can ! — but  I, 
Who  durst  not  hope,  and  cannot  bear,  must  flv. 

But  whither?— everywhere  the  scourge  pursue.^ — 
Turn  where  lie  will,  the  wretched  wand'rer  views. 
In  the  bright,  broken  hopes  of  all  his  race. 
Countless  reflections  of  th'  Oppressor's  face. 
Everywhere  gallant  hearts,  and  spirits  true, 
Are  served  up  victims  to  the  vile  and  few; 
While  England,  everywhere — the  general  foe 
Of  Truth  and  Freedom,  wheresoe'er  they  glow — 
Is  first,  when  tyrants  strike,  to  aid  the  blow. 

Oh,  England !  could  such  poor  revenge  jitone 
For  wrongs,  that  well  might  claim  the  deadliest  one ; 
Were  it  a  vengeance,  sweet  enough  to  sate 
The  wretcli  who  flies  from  thy  intolerant  hate. 
To  hear  his  curses  on  such  barb'rous  sway 
Echoed,  where'er  he  bends  his  cheerless  way ; — 
Could  this  content  him,  every  lip  he  meets 
Teems   for   his   vengeance   with    such   poisonoiia 

sweets ; 
Were  this  his  lux'ry,  never  is  thy  name 
Pronounced,  but  he  dolh  banquet  on  thy  shame; 
Hears  maledictions  ring  from  every  side 
Upon  that  grasping  power,  th.it  selfish  pride, 
Which  vaunts  its  own, and  scorns  all  rights  beside; 
Tliat  low  and  desp'rate  envy,  which  to  blast 
A  neiglibor's  blessings,  risks  the  few  thou  hast ; — 
That  monster.  Self,  too  gross  to  be  conceal'd, 
Which  ever  lurks  behind  thy  profier'd  shield:— 
That  faithless  craft,  which,  in  thy  hour  of  need. 
Can  court  the  slave,  can  swear  he  shall  be  freed, 
Yet  basely  spurns  him,  when  thy  point  is  gain'd. 
Back  to  his  masters,  ready  gagg'd  and  chain'd ! 
Worthy  associate  of  that  band  of  Kings, 
That  royal,  ^a^'ning  flock,  whose  vampire  wings 
O'er  sleeping  Europe  treacherously  brood. 
And  fan  her  into  dreams  of  promised  good. 
Of  hope,  of  freedom — but  to  drain  her  blood! 
If  thus  to  hear  thee  branded  be  a  bliss 
That  Vengeance  loves,  there's  yet  more  sweet  than 

this. 


126 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


That  'hvas  an  Irish  head,  an  Irish  heart. 
Made  tliee  the  fiill'n  and  tarnish'd  thing  thou  art ; 
That,  as  the  centaui-"'  gave  th'  infected  vest 
In  wliich  he  died,  to  rack  liis  conqu'ror's  breast, 
We  sent  thee  Castlereagh  : — as  heaps  of  dead 
Have  shiin  their  slayers  by  the  pest  they  spread. 
So  hath  our  land  breathed  out,  thy  fame  to  dim. 
Thy  strength  to  waste,  and  rot  thee,  soul  and  limb 

Her  worst  infections  all  condensed  in  liim ! 
****** 

^Vhen  will  the  world  shake  off  sueli  yokes?   oh, 

when 
Will  that  redeeming  day  shine  out  on  men, 
That  shall  behold  them  rise,  erect  and  free 
As  Heav'n  and  Nature  meant  mankind  should  be ! 
Wlien  Reason  shall  no  longer  blindly  bow 
To  the  vile  pagod  things,  that  o'er  her  brow. 
Like  him  of  Jagliernaut,  drive  trampling  now ; 
Nor  Conquest  dare  to  desolate  God's  earth; 
Nor  drunken  Vict'ry,  with  a  Nero's  mirth. 
Strike  her  lewd  harp  amidst  a  people's  groans; — 
But,  built  on  love,  the  world's  exalted  thrones 
Shall  to  the  virtuous  and  the  wise  be  given — 
Those  briglit,  tliose  sole  Legitimates  of  Heaven ! 

When,  will  this  be? — or,  oh!  is  it,  in  trutli, 
But  one  of  those  sweet,  day-break  dreams  of  youth, 
In  which  the  Soul,  as  round  her  morning  springs, 
"Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  sees  such  dazzling  things ! 
And  must  the  hope,  as  vain  as  it  is  bright. 
Be  all  resign'd? — and  are  theij  only  right, 
Who  siiy  this  world  of  thinking  souls  was  made 
To  be  by  Kings  parlition'd,  truck'd,  and  weigh'd 
[n  scales  that,  ever  since  the  world  begun, 
Have  counted  millions  but  as  dust  to  one? 
Arc  they  tlie  only  wise,  who  laugh  to  scorn 
The  rights,  the  freedom  to  which  man  was  born  1 
Who  ***** 

■^  *  *  *  *  * 

Who,  proud  to  kiss  each  scp'ratc  rod  of  pow'r. 
Bless,  while  he  reigns,  the  minion  of  the  hour; 
Worship  each  would-be  god,  that  o'er  them  moves. 
And  take  the  thund'ring  of  his  brass  for  Jove's! 
If  this  be  wisdom,  then  farewell,  my  books, 
l'";irewcll,  ye  shrines  of  old,  ye  classic  brooks, 
Whii-li  fed  my  soul  with  currents,  pure  and  fair. 
Of  living  Truth,  that  now  must  stagnate  there ! — 
Instead  of  themes  that  touch  the  lyre  with  light. 
Instead  of  Greece,  and  her  immortal  fight 
Kor  Liberty,  which  once  awaked  my  stringg, 
Wclcomo  the  Cirand  Conspiracy  of  Kings, 
The  Ili^'h  I^'giliniates,  the  Holy  Hand, 
Who,  lioldcr  tv'n  than  He  of  Sparta's  land, 
Agninut  whiile  inillionH,  panling  to  be  free, 
Would  guard  the  pass  of  righUline  tyranny. 


Instead  of  liim,  th'  Athenian  bard,  whose  blado 
Had  stood  the  onset  wliich  his  pen  portray'd, 
Welcome     ***** 
****** 

And,  'stead  of  Aristides — woe  tlic  day 

Such    names   should   mingle! — welcome  Castle 

REAGH ! 

Here  bre.ak  we  off,  at  this  unhallow'd  name,^* 
Like  priests  of  old,  when  words  ill-omen'd  came. 
My  next  sh.ill  tell  thee,  bitterly  shM  tell, 
Thoughts  th.1t  *  *  *  • 

****** 

Thoughts  that — could  patience  hold — 'twere  wis* 

far 
To  leave  still  hid  and  burning  where  thcv  are. 


LETTER  V. 

FROM    MISS    BIDDV    FUDGE   TO    MISS    DOaOTUY   . 

What  a  time  since  I  wrote  ! — I'm  a  s.id,  naughty 

girl— 
For,  though,  like  a  teetotum,  I'm  all  in  a  twu'l ; — 
Yet  ev'n  (as  you  wittily  say)  a  teetotum 
Between  all  its  twirls  gives  a  kilcr  to  note  'em. 
J'ut,  Lord,  such   a  place!  and  then,  Dolly,  my 

dresses. 
My  gowns,  so  divine! — there's   no   language   ex- 
presses, 
Except  just  the  /ico  words  "  supcrbe,"  "  m.ignifique," 
The  trimmings  of  that  which  I  had  home  la.st  week  ! 
It   is   caird — I   forget  —  il   la  —  somclliing   which 

sounded 
Like  alicampane — but,  in  truth,  I'm  confounded 
And  bolhcr'd,  my  dear,  'twixt  that  troublesome 

boy's 
(Bob's)  cookery  language,  and  IMadamc  Le  Roi's  ; 
What  with  fillets  of  roses,  and  fillets  of  veal. 
Things  gtirni  with  lace,  and  things  garni  with  eel, 
One's  hair  and  one's  cutlets  both  en  papillotc. 
And  a  thousand  more  things  I  shall  ne'er  h.ivo  by 

rote, 
I  can  scarce  tell  the  dilT'rence,  at  least  as  to  jihraso 
Between  beef  fl  la  I'sijchi-  and  curls  d  la  braise. — 
But,   in   short,   dear,   I'm    liiek'd    out   quite   i   la 

Franfaise, 
With  my  bonnet — so  beautiful! — high  np  and  po- 
king. 
Like  things  that  are   |uit  to  keep  chimneys  from 
smoking. 

Where  .<:/i(i//  I  begin  with  the  endless  delights 
Of  this  liden  of  milliners,  monkeys,  and  sighl»— 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PAEIS. 


127 


This  dear  busy  place,  whore  there's  nolhiiig  trans- 
acting 
But  dressing  and  dinneriiig,  dancing  and  acting? 
Imprimis,  the  Opera — mercy,  my  ears ! 

Brother  Bobby's   remark,  t'other   night,  was   a 
(rue  one ; — 
"Tliis  mvU  be  the  music,"  said  lie,  "  of  the  spears, 
"  For  I'm  cursed  if  cacli  note  of  it  doesn't  run 
tlirough  one !" 
Pa  says  (and  you  linow,  love,  !iis  Boole's  to  make 

out 
'Tvvas  the  Jacobins  brought  ev'ry  mischief  about) 
That  this  passion  for  roaring  has  come  in  of  late. 
Since  the  rabble  all  tried  for  a  voice  in  the  State. — 
Wluit  a  frightful  idea,  one's  mind  to  o'erwhelra ! 
What  a  chorus,  dear  Dollt,  would  soon  be  let 
loose  of  it, 
If,  when  of  age,  every  man  in  the  realm 
Had  a  voice  like  old  Lais,"'  and  chose  to  make 
use  of  it ! 
No — never  was  known  in  this  riotous  sphere 
Such  a  breach  of  the  peace  as  their  singing,  my 

dear. 
So  bad,  too,  you'd  swear  that  tlie  God  of  both  arts. 

Of  Music  and  Physic,  had  taken  a  frolic 
For  setting  a  loud  fit  of  asthma  in  parts. 

And  compo.?ing  a  fine  rumbling  base  to  a  colic ! 

But,  the  dancing — ah  !  parlez-moi,  Dolly,  de  I'a — 
There,  indeed,  is  a  treat  that  charms  all  but  Papa. 
Such  beauty — such  grace — oh   ye   sylphs  of  ro- 
mance ! 
Fly,  lly  to  TiTAKiA,  and  ask  her  if  she  has 
One  light-footed  nymph  in  her  train,  that  can  dance 

Like  divine  Bigottini  and  sweet  FANrrv  Bias  ! 
Fanny   Bias   in   Flora  —  dear  creature!  —  you'd 
swear, 
When  her  delicate  feet  in  the  dance  twinkle 
round, 
That  her  steps  are  of  light,  that  her  home  is  the 
air, 
And    she   only  par   complaisance    touclies    the 
ground. 
And  when  Bigottini  in  Psyche  dishevels 

Her  black  flowing  hair,  and  by  demons  is  driven, 
Oh !  who  does  not  envy  those  rude  little  devils. 
That  hold  her  and  hug  her,  and  keep  her  from 
heaven  ? 
Then,  the  music — so  softly  its  cadences  die, 
So  divinely — oh,  Dolly  !  between  you  and  I, 
It's  as  well  for  my  peace  that  there's  nobody  nigh 
To  make  love  to  me  then — you've  a  soul,  and  can 

judge 
What  a  crisis  'twould  be  for  your  friend  BrDDT 
Fudge ! 


The  next  phice  (which  Bobby  h;is  near  lost  Ma 

heart  in) 
They  call  it  the  Play-house — I  think — of  St.  Mar- 
tin y" 
Quite  cliarming — and  very  religious — what  folly 
To  say  that  the  French  are  not  pious,  dear  Dolly, 
When  here  one  beholds,  so  correctly  and  rightly. 
The  Testament  turn'd  into  melo-dranies  nightly  f 
And,  doubtless,  so  fond  they're  of  scriptural  facts, 
They  will  soon  get  the  Pentateuch  up  in  five  acts 
Here  Daniel,  in  pantomime,^'  bids  bold  defiance 
To  Nebuchadnezzar  and  all  his  sfuff'd  lions, 
While   pretty  young   Israelites   dance   round   the 

Propliet, 
In  very  thin  clothing,  and  but  little  of  it; — 
Here  Begrand,""  who  shines  in  this  scriptural  path. 

As  the  lovely  Susanna,  without  ev'n  a  relic 
Of  drapery  round  her,  comes  out  of  the  bath 

In  a  manner  that.  Bob  says,  is  quite  Eve-angelic .' 
But  in  short,  dear,  'twould  take  me  a  month  to  re- 
cite 
All  the  exquisite  places  we're  at,  day  and  night; 
And,  besides,  ere  I  finish,  I  think  you'll  be  glad 
Just  to  hear  one  delightful  adventure  I've  had. 

Last  night,  at  the  Beaujon,'"  a  place  w'here — I  doubt 
If  its  charms  I  can  paint — there  are  cars,  that  set 

out 
From  a  liglited  pavilion,  high  up  in  the  air. 
And   rattle   you   down,  Doll — you   hardly  know 

where. 
These  vehicles,  mind  me,  in  which  you  go  through 
This  delightfully  dangerous  journey,  hold  two. 
Some  cavalier  asks,  with  humility,  whether 

You'll  venture  down  with  him — you  smUe — 'tis 

a  match ; 
In  an  instant  you're  seated,  and  down  both  together 
Go    thund'ring,  as  if    you   went  post    to    old 

scratch  P' 
Well,  it  was  but  last  night,  as  I  stood  and  remark'd 
On  the  looks  and  odd  ways  of  the  girls  who  em- 

bark'd. 
The  impatience  of  some  for  the  perilous  flight. 
The  forced  giggle  of  others,  'twixt  pleasure  and 

fright, — 
That  there  came  up — imagine,  dear  Doll,  if  you 

can 
A  fine  sallow,  sublime,  sort  of  Werter-faced  man. 
With  mustachios  that  gave  (what  we  read  of  so 

oft) 
The  dear  Corsair  expression,  half  savage,  half  soft. 
As  hyaenas  in  love  may  be  fancied  to  look,  or 
A  something  between  Aeelard  and  old  Blucher 
Up  he  came,  Doll,  tc  me,  and  uncov'ring  his  head, 
(Rather  bald,  but  <(>  warlike!)   in  b.id  English  saidj 


128 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


"  Ah !  DiT  dear — if  ila'mselle  vil  be  so  very  good — 
Just  for  von  littel  course'' — though  I  scarce  under- 
stood 
What  he  wish'd  me  to  do,  I  said,  thank  him,  I  would. 
I)ir  we  set — and,  thougli  faith,  dear,  I  hardly  knew 
wlicther 

My  head  or  my  heels  were  the  uppermost  tlien, 
For  'twas  lilje  heav'n  and  earth,  Dolly,  coming 
together, — 

Yet,  spite  of  the  danger,  ViC  dared  it  again. 
And  oh !  as  I  gazed  on  the  features  and  air 

Of  the  man,  wlio  for  me  all  this  peril  defied, 
I  could  fancy  almost  he  and  I  were  a  pair 

Of  unhappy  young  lovers,  who  thus,  side  by  side. 
Were  taking,  instead  of  rope,  pistol,  or  dagger,  a 
Desperate  dash  down  the  falls  of  Niagara ! 

This  achieved,  through  the  gardens'^  we  saunter'd 

about, 

Saw  the  fireworks,  e.\claim'd  "  raagnifique !"  .at 

each  cracker, 

.\nd,  when  'twas  all  o'er,  the  dear  man  saw  us  out 

With  the  air,  I  will  say,  of  a  Prince,  to  oar  fiacre. 

Now,   hear  me — this   stranger — it   may   be   mere 

folly— 
But  tcho  do  you  think  we  all  think  it  is,  Dolly  ? 
Why,  bless  you,  no  less  than  the  great  King  of 

I'russia, 
Who's  here  now  incog." — he,  who   made  such  a 

fuss,  you 
Remember,  in  London,  witli  Blucheu  and  1'la- 

TOFF, 

When  Sal  was  near  kissing  old  Blucher's  cravat 

off! 
Pa  says  he's  come  liere  to  look  after  his  money, 
(Not  t.iking  things  now  as  he  used  under  Bonev,) 
Which  suits  with  our  friend,  for  Bob  saw  him, .ho 

swore, 
Looking  sharp  to  tlic  silver  received  at  the  door. 
Besides,  loo,  tliey  say  that  his  grief  for  )iis  Queen 
(Wliich  was  plain  in  this  sweet  fellow's  face  to  be 

Bcen) 
Refjuircs  such  a  sthnulnnt  dose  as  this  car  is, 
Used  llircfi  times  a  day  wilh  young  ladies  in  I'aris. 
Some  Doctor,  indeed,  haw  declared  that  such  grief 
KluMild — uidesH  'Iwoulil  to  utter  despairing  its 

fully  push — 
Fly  to  the  Benujon,  and  there  seek  relief 
By  rattling,  as  Bod  says,  "like  hIioI  tliroiigh  a 

h.illy.bush," 

I  iniiit  now  bid  ndicu  ; — only  think,  Dollv,  think 
If  thiri  sh'iitlil  be  the  Kin^' — I  have  seareo  slept  a 
wink 


With  imagining  how  it  will  sound  m  the  papers 

And  how  all  tlie  Jlisses  my  good  luck  will  grudge, 
\Vlicn  they  read  that  Count  Rupp  k,  to  drive  away 
vapors, 
H.is  gone  down  the  Bcaujon  wilh  Miss  Biddt 
Fudge. 

Nota  Dene. — Papa's  almost  certain  'tis  he — 
For  he  knows  the  Legitimate  cut,  and  could  see. 
In  the  w.ay  he  went  poising  and  m.anagcd  to  tower 
So  erect  in  the  car,  the  true  Balance  of  Power. 


LETTER  VI. 

FROM    rillL.    FUDGE,    ESQ.,    TO    UIS    DROTHEIl    TIM    FlIDUX, 
ESQ.,    BARRISTER    AT    LAW. 

Yours  of  the  12th  received  just  now — 
Thanks  for  the  hint,  my  trusty  brother! 

'Tis  truly  pleasing  to  see  how 

We,  Fudges,  stiind  by  one  anotlier. 

But  never  fear — I  know  my  chap. 

And  he  knows  me  too — vcrhutn  sap. 

My  Lord  and  I  arc  kindred  sjiirits. 

Like  in  our  ways  as  two  young  ferrets; 

Both  fashion'd,  .as  that  supple  race  is, 

To  twist  into  all  sorts  of  places ; — 

Creatures  lengthy,  lean,  and  hungering 

Fond  of  blood  and  ii/n'OHMuongering. 

.\s  to  my  Book  in  91, 

Call'd  "  Down   with  Kings,  or.   Who'd   havG 
thought  it?" 
Bless  you,  the  Book's  long  dead  and  gone, — 

Not  ev'n  th' Attorney-General  bought  it. 
And,  though  some  few  seditious  tricks 
[  phiy'd  in  95  and  6, 
As  you  remind  me  in  your  letter. 
His  Lordship  likes  me  all  the  better; — 
Wo  proselytes,  that  como  with  mjvvs  full, 
Are,  as  he  says,  so  vastly  useful ! 

Reynolds  and  I — (you  know  To.il  Revno'.:*— 

Drinks  his  claret,  keeps  his  chaise — 
Lucky  the  dog  that  llrst  unkennels 

Traitors  and  Luddites  now-a-days; 
Or  who  can  help  to  bafj  a  few. 
When  SiDMouTit  wants  a  death  or  two  ;) 
Revxdi.ds  and  I,  and  some  few  more, 

/Ml  men,  like  us,  of  iiforiiialinn, 
i''rieiids,  whom  his  Lordship  keeps  in  store, 

As  t;m/pr-»aviors  nfthe  nation'^ — 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PARIS. 


129 


Have  form'd  a  Club  this  season,  wliere 
His  Lordsliip  sometimes  takes  the  cliair, 
And  gives  us  many  a  bright  oration 
m  praise  of  our  sublime  vocation  ; 
Tracing  it  up  to  great  ICing  Midas, 
Who,  though  in  fable  typified  as 
A  royal  Ass,  by  grace  divine 
And  right  of  ears,  most  asinine. 
Was  yet  no  more,  in  fact  historical, 

Than  an  exceedingly  well-bred  fjTant ; 
And  these,  las  ears,  but  allegorical, 

Cleaning  Informers,  kept  at  high  rent — "* 
Gem'men,  who  touch'd  the  Treasury  glist'nera. 
Like  us,  for  being  trusty  list'ners ; 
And  picking  up  each  tale  and  fragment. 
For  royal  Midas''*  Green  Bag  meant. 
"  And  wherefore,''  said  this  best  of  Peers, 
"Should  not  the  IIegent  too  have  ears,'" 
"  To  reach  as  far.  as  long  and  wide  as 
"Those  of  his  m'idel,  good  liing  Midas?" 
This  speech  was  thought  extremely  good, 
And  ("rare  for  hii'i)  was  understood — 
Instant  we  drank  "  The  Regent's  Ears," 
With  three  tirae-i  three  illustrious  clieers. 

Which  made  '.he  room  resound  like  thunder— 
"  Tlie  Regent'"  Ears,  and  may  he  ne'er 
"  From  foolish  iihame,  like  Midas,  wear 

"  Old  paltry  wigs  to  keep  them  under !"" 
This  touch  at  our  old  friends,  the  Whigs, 
Made  us  as  m'.'rry'  all  as  grigs. 

Ill  short,  (I'll  thank  you  not  to  mention 

Tliese  things  ag.iin,)  we  get  on  gayly; 
And  thanks  to  pension  and  Suspension, 

Our  little  Club  increases  daily. 
Castles,  and  Oliver,  and  such. 
Who  don't  as  yet  full  salary  touch. 
Nor  keep  their  chaise  and  pair,  nor  buy 
Houses  and  lands,  like  Tom  and  I, 
Of  course  don't  rank  with  us,  sahators,^' 
But  merely  serve  the  Club  as  waiters. 
Like  Knights,  too,  we've  our  collar  days, 
(For  us,  I  own,  an  awkward  phrase,) 
When,  in  our  new  costume  adorn'd, — 
The  Regent's  buiT-and-blue  coats  turned — 
We  have  the  honor  to  give  dinners 

To  the  chief  Rats  in  upper  .stations  ;" 
Your  Wemtss,  Vernons, — half-fledged  sinners, 

Wlio  shame  us  by  their  imitations ; 
Who  turn,  'tis  true — but  wh.at  of  th.at? 
Give  me  the  useful  peachhig  R.at : 
Aot  things  as  mute  as  Punch,  when  bought. 
Whose  wooden  heads  are  all  they've  brought; 
Who,  false  enough  to  shirk  their  friends, 

But  too  faint-hearted  to  betray, 
17 


Are,  after  all  their  twists  and  bends, 
But  souls  in  Limbo,  damn'd  half  way 

No,  no,  we  nobler  vermin  are 

A  genus  useful  as  we're  rare ; 

'Jlidst  all  the  things  miraculous 

Of  which  your  natural  histories  brag, 

The  rarest  must  be  Rats  like  us. 
Who  let  die  cat  out  of  the  bag. 

Yet  still  these  Tyros  in  tiic  cause 
Deserve,  I  own,  no  small  .applause; 
And  they're  by  us  received  and  treated 
With  all  due  honors — only  seated 
In  th'  inverse  scale  of  their  reward. 
The  merely  promised  next  my  Lord  ; 
Sm.all  pensions  then,  and  so  on,  down, 

Rat  after  rat,  they  graduate 
Through  job,  red  ribbon,  .and  silk  gown, 

To  Chane'llorship  and  Marquisate. 
This  serves  to  nurse  the  ratting  spirit ; 
The  less  the  bribe  the  more  the  merit. 

Our  music's  good  you  may  be  sure ; 
Jly  Lord,  you  know,  's  an  amateur — " 
Takes  every  part  with  perfect  ease. 

Though  to  the  Base  by  nature  suited 
And,  form'd  for  all,  as  best  may  please, 
For  whips  and  bolts,  or  chords  and  keys, 
Turns  from  his  victims  to  his  glees. 

And  has  them  both  well  executed." 
Hertford,  who,  though  no  R.at  himsell. 

Delights  in  all  sucli  liberal  arts, 
Drinks  largely  to  the  House  of  Guelph, 

And  superintends  the  Corni  parts. 
^Vllile  Canning,*-  who'd  hejlrst  by  choice 
Consents  to  take  an  under  voice ; 
And  Groves,"  who  well  that  sign.al  knowt 
Watclies  the  Volti  subiios." 

In  short,  as  Fve  .alre.ady  hinted, 

We  take,  of  late,  prodigiously ; 
But  as  our  Club  is  somewhat  stinted 

For  Gendemen,  like  Tom  and  me. 
We'll  take  it  kind  if  you'll  provide 
A  few  Squireens*'''  from  t'other  side  ; — - 
Some  of  those  loyal,  cunning  elves, 

(We  often  tell  the  tale  ^\^th  laughter,) 
Wlio  used  to  hide  the  pikes  themselves. 

Then  hang  the  fools  who  found  them  afte 
I  doubt  not  you  could  find  us,  too. 
Some  Orange  Parsons  th.at  might  do ; 
Among  the  rest,  we've  heard  of  one. 
The  Reverend — something — ILuiiLTCt, 
Who  stuff 'd  a  figure  of  himself 

(Delicious  fhouc-ht!)  and  lia.d  it  shot  at, 


130 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


To  bring  some  Papists  to  the  shelf, 

And  is  promoted  thence  by  him 

That  couWnt  othenrise  be  got  at — 

To  strut  in  robes,  like  thee,  my  Tlm  ! — 

If  Ae'll  but  johi  th'  Association, 

Who  shall  describe  the  pow'rs  of  face. 

We'll  vote  him  in  by  acclamation. 

Thy  well-feed  zeal  in  ev'ry  case, 

Or  wrong  or  right — but  ten  times  warmet 

And  now,  my  brother,  guide,  and  friend, 

(As  suits  tliy  calling)  in  the  former — 

This  somewhat  tedious  scrawl  must  end. 

Thy  glorious,  lawyer-like  deliglit 

I've  gone  into  tliis  long  detail, 

In  puzzling  all  that's  clear  and  right. 

Because  I  saw  your  nerves  were  shaken 

Which,  though  conspicuous  in  thy  youth. 

With  anxious  fears  lest  I  should  f;ul 

Improves  so  with  a  wig  and  band  on. 

In  this  new,  loyal,  course  I've  taken. 

Th.at  all  thy  pride's  to  waylay  Truth, 

But,  bless  your  heart  I  you  need  not  doubt — 

And  leave  her  not  a  leg  to  stand  on. 

We,  Fudges,  know  what  we're  about. 

Thy  patent,  prime,  morality, — 

Look  round,  and  say  if  you  can  see 

Thy  cases,  cited  from  the  Bible — 

A  much  more  thriving  family. 

Thy  candor,  when  it  falls  to  thee 

There's  Jack,  the  doctor — night  and  day 

To  help  in  trouncing  for  a  libel ; — 

Hundreds  of  p.aticnts  so  besiege  him, 

"  God  knows,  I,  from  my  soul,  profess 

You'd  swear  that  all  the  rich  and  gay 

"  To  h.ate  all  bigots  and  benighters ! 

Fell  sick  on  purpo.se  to  oblige  him. 

"  God  knows,  I  love,  to  cv'n  cxces.s. 

And  while  they  think,  the  precious  ninnies. 

"  The  .s.acred  Freedom  of  the  Press, 

He's  counting  o'er  their  pulse  so  steady. 

"3[y  only  aim's  to — crush  the  writers  " 

The  rogue  but  counts  how  many  guineas 

These  are  the  virtues,  Ti.M,  th.at  draw 

He's  fobb'd,  for  that  day's  work,  already. 

The  briefs  into  thy  bag  so  fast ; 

I'll  ne'er  forget  th'  old  maid's  alarm. 

And  these,  oh  Tir.i — if  Law  be  Law — 

When,  feeling  thus  Jliss  Sukey  Flirt,  he 

Will  raise  thee  to  tlie  Bench  at  la;  t. 

Said,  as  lie  dropp'd  her  shrivell'd  arm. 

"  Damn'd  bad  this  morning — only  thirty  !" 

I  blush  to  see  this  letter's  length — 

But  'twas  my  wish  to  prove  to  thee 

Your  dowagers,  too,  every  one. 

How  full  of  hope,  and  wealth,  and  strength, 

So  gen'rous  arc,  when  they  call  him  in, 

Are  all  our  precious  family. 

Th.it  he  might  now  retire  upon 

.\nd,  should  affairs  go  on  as  pleasant 

The  rheumatisms  of  tlirec  old  women. 

As,  th.ank  tlie  Fates,  they  do  at  present — 

Then,  whatsoe'er  your  ailments  are, 

Sliould  we  but  still  enjoy  the  sway 

He  can  so  learnedly  explain  ye  'um — 

Of  SinMouTK  and  of  Casilepeagii, 

Your  cold,  of  course,  is  a  catarrh, 

I  hope,  ere  long,  to  see  the  day 

Your  head.ache  is  a  hemi-cranium  : — 

When  England's  wisest  statesmen,  judges. 

His  skill,  too,  in  young  ladies'  lungs. 

Lawyers,  peers,  will  all  be — Fvdges  ! 

The  grace  with  which,  most  mild  of  men, 

He  begs  them  to  put  out  their  tongues, 

Good-by — my  paper's  out  so  neariy, 

Then  bids  them — put  them  in  again: 

I've  only  room  for                         Yours  sincerely. 

In  short,  there's  nothing  now  like  Jack! — 

Take  nil  your  doctors  great  and  small. 

Of  present  times  and  ages  back. 

Dear  Doctor  Fudge  is  worth  them  all. 

LETTKR  VII. 

So  much  for  pliysic — then,  in  law  too. 

Counsellor  Tim,  to  thee  we  bow ; 

Bi;F0itE  we  sketdi  the  I'le.-ifnt — let  us  cast 

Not  one  of  us  gives  more  ecl.-it  to 

A  few,  short,  ra])id  glances  to  the  Past. 

Tir  immortal  name  of  Fudge  Ih.an  thou. 

Not  to  expatiate  on  the  art 

When  he,  who  had  defied  all  Kurope's  strength, 

With  which  yon  jilay'd  the  patriot's  part. 

Beneath  his  own  weak  rashness  sunk  at  length;— 

Till  soinelhing  good  and  snug  should  offer; — 

When,  loosed,  as  if  by  magic,  from  a  ch.iin 

Like  one,  who,  by  the  way  he  acts 

That  Nceni'il  like  (''ale's,  the  worid  was  ft-"'e  again, 

Tir  ciiliffhl'iiinfr  part  of  oandlc-sniitTcr, 

Ami  Knropc  caw,  rejoicing  in  the  sight, 

Tlic  mniiagcr'M  ktcn  eye  .iilr.iclM, 

The  i-.iii.sc  of  Kings,  /■(.!•  iiiu-r.  the  causo  iif  Ri^'hl; ^ 

THE  FUDGES  IN  PAllIS. 


131 


I'hen  was,  indeed,  an  hoiu-  of  joy  to  tliose 
Who  sigh'd  for  justice — liberty — repose, 
And  lioped  tlie  fall  of  one  great  vulture's  nest 
Would  ring  its  vvaniiiig  round,  and  scare  the  rest. 
All  then  was  bright  with  promise; — Kings  began 
To  own  a  sympathy  with  sulV'riiig  Man, 
And  Man  was  grateful !  Patriots  of  the  South 
Caught  wisJiim  from  a  Cossack  Emperors  mouth, 
And  heard,  like  accents  thaw'd  in  Northern  air, 
Unwonted  words  of  freedom  burst  forth  there  ! 

Who  did  not  hope,  in  that  triunipliant  time. 
When  monarchs,  after  years  of  spoil  and  crime. 
Met  round  the  shrine  of  Peace,  and.  Heav'n  look'd 

on, — 
Who  did  not  hope  the  lust  of  spoil  was  gone  ; 
That  that  rapacious  spirit,  which  had  play'd 
The  game  of  Pilnitz  o'er  so  oft,  was  laid ; 
And  Europe's  Rulers,  conscious  of  the  past. 
Would  blush,  and  deviate  into  right  at  last? 
But  no — the  hearts,  that  nursed  a  hope  so  fair. 
Had  yet  to  learn  what  men  on  thrones  can  dare ; 
Had  yet  to  know,  of  all  earth's  rav'ning  things, 
The  only  quite  untameable  are  Kings  I 
Scarce  had  they  met,  when,  to  its  nature  true. 
The  instinct  of  their  race  broke  out  anew; 
Promises,  treaties,  charters,  all  were  vain. 
And  "  Rapine !  rapine  !"  was  the  cry  again. 
How  quick  they  carved  their  victims,  and  liow  well. 
Let  Sa.vony,  let  injured  Genoa  tell ; — 
I,et  all  the  human  stock  that,  day  by  d.ay. 
Was,  at  that  Royal  slave-mart,  truck'd  away, — 
The  million  souls  that,  in  the  face  of  heaven. 
Were  split  to  fractions,"  bartcr'd,  sold,  or  given 
To  swell  some  despot  Power,  too  huge  before. 
And  weigh  down  Europe  with  one  Mammoth  more. 
How  safe  the  faith  of  Kings  let  France  decide; — 
Her  charter  broken,  ere  its  ink  had  dried — 
Her  Press  enthrall'd — her  Reason  mock'd  again 
With  all  the  monkery  it  had  spurn'd  in  vain ; 
Her  crown  disgraced  by  one,  who  dared  to  own 
He  thank'd  not  France  but  England  for  Ids  throne ; 
Her  triumphs  cast  into  the  sliade  by  those. 
Who  had  grown  old  among  her  bitterest  foes. 
And  now  return'd,  beneath  her  eonqu'rors'  shields. 
Unblushing  slaves!  to  claim  her  heroes'  tields; 
To  tread  down  every  trophy  of  her  fame. 
And  cu:-se  that  glory  which  to  them  was  shame! 
Let  these — let  all  the  damning  deeds,  that  tlien. 
Were  dared  through  Europe,  my  aloud  to  men. 
With  voice  like  that  of  crashing  ice  that  rings 
Round  Alpine  huts,  the  pertldy  of  Kings ; 
And  toll  the  world,  when  hawks  shall  harmless  bear 
The.  shrinking  do\e,  when  wolves  shall  learn  to 

spare 


The  helpless  victim  for  whose  blood  Ihey  lusted. 
Then,  and  then  only,  monarchs  may  be  trusted. 

It  could  not  Last — these  horrors  could  not  last — 
France  would  herself  have  ris'n,  in  might,  to  cast 
Th'  insulters  off — and  oh  !  that  then,  as  now, 
Chain'd  to  some  distant  islet's  rocky  brow, 
NAroLEO.N  ne'er  had  come  to  force,  to  blight, 
Ere  half  matured,  a  cau.sc  so  proudly  bright ; — 
To  palsy  patriot  hearts  with  doubt  and  shame, 
And  write  on  Freedom's  flag  a  despot's  name ; — 
To  rush  into  the  lists,  una.sk'd,  alone. 
And  make  the  stake  of  all  the  game  of  one  ! 
Then  would  the  world  have  seen  again  what  pow'r 
A  people  can  put  forth  in  Freedom's  hour; 
Then  would  the  fire  of  France  once  more  have 

blazed ; — 
For  every  single  sword,  reluctant  raised 
In  the  stale  cause  of  an  oppressive  throne, 
Millions  would  then  have  leap'd  forth  in  her  own, 
And  never,  never  had  th'  unholy  stain 
Of  Bourbon  feet  disgraced  her  shores  again. 

But  fate  decreed  not  south'  Imperial  Bird, 
That,  in  his  neighboring  cage,  unfcar'd,  unstu-r'd, 
Had  seem'd  to  sleep  with  head  beneath  his  winsj, 
Yet  watch'd  the  moment  for  a  daring  spring; — 
W^ell  might  he  watch,  when  deeds  were  done,  Uiat 

made 
His  own  transgressions  whiten  in  their  shade  ; 
Well  might  he  hope  a  world,  thus  trampled  o'er 
By  clumsy  tyrants,  would  be  his  once  more : — 
Forth  from  his  cage  the  eagle  burst  to  light, 
From  steeple  on  to  steeple"  wing'd  his  flight, 
With  calm  and  easy  grandeur,  to  that  throne 
From  which  a  Royal  craven  just  had  flomi ; 
And  resting  there,  as  in  his  eyry,  furl'd 
Those  wings,  whose  very  rustling  shook  the  world! 

What  was  your  fury  tlien,  ye  crown'J  arraj', 
V/hose  feast  of  spoil,  whose  plund'ring  holiday 
Was  thus  broke  up,  in  all  its  gi-eedy  mirth, 
By  one  bold  chieftain's  stamp  on  Gallic  eartli ! 
Fierce  was  the  cry,  and  fulminant  the  ban, — 
"  Assassinate,  who  will — enchain,  who  can, 
"  The  vile,  the  faithless,  outlaw'd,  low-born  man !" 
"  Faithless  !" — and  this  from  you — from  ipii,  for- 
sooth, 
Ye  pious  Kings,  pure  paragons  of  truth. 
Whose  honesty  all  knew,  for  all  had  fried ; 
Whose  true  Swiss  zeal  had  served  on  every  side  : 
Whose  fame  for  breaking  faith  so  long  was  known, 
Well  might  ye  claim  the  craft  as  all  your  own, 
And  lash  your  lordly  tails,  and  fume  to  see 
Such  low-born  apes  of  Royal  perlidy ! 


132 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Yes — ^yes — to  you  alone  did  it  bcloiig 
To  sin  for  ever,  and  yet  ne'er  do  wrong — 
The  frauds,  the  lies  of  Lords  legitimate 
Are  but  fine  policy,  deep  strolies  of  state ; 
But  let  some  upstart  dare  to  soar  so  high 
111  Kingly  craft,  and  "  outlaw"  is  the  cry ! 
What,  though  long  years  of  mutual  treachery 
Had  peopled  full  your  diplomatic  shelves 
With  ghosts   of  treaties,   murder'd  'mong  your- 
selves ; 
Though  each  by  turns  was  knave  and  dupe — what 

then  1 
A  Holy  League  would  set  all  straight  again ; 
Like  Juno's  virtue,  which  a  dip  or  two 
In  some  blest  fountain  made  as  good  as  new  I" 
Most  faithful  Russia — faithful  to  whoe'er 
Could  plunder  best,  and  give  him  amplest  share ; 
Who,  ev'n  wlien  vanquish'd,  sure  to  gain  his  ends. 
For  want  of  foes  to  rob,  made  free  with /rienrfs," 
And,  deepening  still  by  amiable  gradations. 
When  foes  were  stripp'd  of  all,  then  fleeced  rela- 
tions !" 
Most  mild  and  saintly  Prussia — stccp'd  to  tli'  ears 
In  persecuted  Poland's  blood  and  tears. 
And  now,  with  all  her  harpy  wings  outspread 
O'er  scvcr'd  Saxony's  devoted  head  I 
Pure  Austria  too — whose  hist'ry  naught  repeats 
But  broken  leagues  and  subsidized  defeats ; 
Whose  faith,  as  Prince,  extinguisli'd  Venice  shows. 
Whose  faith,  as  man,  a  widow'd  daughter  knows ! 
And  thou,  oh  England — who,  though  once  as  shy 
As  cloister'd  maids,  of  shame  or  perfidy. 
Art  now  broke  in,  and,  thanks  to  Castlereagh, 
In  all  that's  worst  and  falsest  lead'.st  the  way! 

Such  WHS  the  i)ure  divan,  whose  pens  and  wits 
Tir  escape  from  KIba  frightcn'd  into  fits  ; 
Such  were  the  s-iiiits,  who  dooni'd  Napoleon's  life. 
In  virtuous  frenzy  to  tli'  assassin's  knife. 
Disgusting  ^ew ! — lo/io  would  not  gladly  fly 
To  open,  downright,  bold-faced  tyranny. 
To  honest  guilt,  that  dares  do  all  but  lie, 
From  the  false,  juggling  craft  of  men  like  these. 
Their  canting  crimes  and  varnish'd  villanies; 
These  Holy  Leaguers,  who  then  loudest  boast 
Of  faith   and  honor,  when   they've   stain'd   tliein 

most ; 
From  whoHo  allcclion  men  should  shrink  as  loath 
As  from  their  hate,  for  they'll  be  Ih^cced  by  both ; 
Who,  cv'n  while  pliind'ring,  forge  Ucligioii's  name 
To  frank  their  spoil,  and,  without  fear  or  sliaiiie. 
Cull  down  the  Holy  Trinity"  to  bless 
Partition  leagues  and  decdji  of  devilislmcsa ! 
But  hold — enough — goon  would  this  hwcI!  of  rage 
O'crflow  the  boundaries  of  inv  scanty  page  ; — 


So,  here  I  pause — farewell — another  day. 
Return  we  to  those  Lords  of  pray'r  and  prey. 
Whose  loathsome  cant,  whose  frauds  by  right  divine, 
Deserve  a  lash — oh  !  weightier  far  than  mine  ! 


LETTER  Yin. 


FROM    MK.    BOB    FUDGE    TO    EICHAUD 


-,    ESQ 


Dear  Dick,  while  old  Donaldson's"  mending  my 

stays, — 
Wliich  I  kTtew  would  go  smash  willi  me  one  oi 

these  days. 
And,  at  yesterday's  dinner,  when,  full  to  tlie  throttle 
We  lads  had  begun  our  dessert  w'ith  a  bottle 
Of  neat  old  Constanti.i,  on  mij  leaning  back 
Just  to  order  another,  by  Jove,  I  went  crack ! — 
Or,  as  honest  Tom  said,  in  his  nautical  phrase, 
"  D — n  my  eyes,  Bob,  in  doubling  the  Cape  you've 

miss'd  stays.'''" 
So,  of  course,  as  no  gentleman's  seen  out  without 

them. 
They're  now  at  the  Schneider's" — and,  while  he's 

about  them, 
Here  goes  for  a  letter,  post-haste,  neck  and  crop. 
Let  us  see — in  my  last  I  was — where  did  I  stop  ? 
Oh,  I  know — at  the  Boulevards,  as  motley  a  road  as 

Man  ever  would  wish  a  day's  lounging  upon ; 
With  its  cafes  and  gardens,  hotels  and  pagodas, 

Its  founts,  and  old  Counts  sipping  beer  in  the  sun . 
With  its  houses  of  all  architectures  you  please. 
From  tlio  Grecian  and  (iothic,  Duk,  down  by  de- 
grees 
To  the  pure  Hottentot,  or  the  Brighton  (Miinese; 
Where  in  temples  antique  you  may  breakfast  oi 

dinner  it. 
Lunch  at  a  mosque,  and  sec  Punch  from  a  minaret 
Then,  Dick,  the  mixture  of  bonnets  and  bow'rs, 
Of  foliage  and  fripp'ry,./?"c;T.s-  and  llow'rs, 
fireen-groecrs,  green  gardens — one  hardly  knows 

whether 
'Tis  country  or  town,  they're  so  mess'd  nj)  together! 
And  there,  If  one  loves  the  romantic,  one  sees 
Jew  clothes-men,  like   shepherds,  rccliiu'd   under 

treses ; 
Or  QnidnuncH,  on. Sunday,  just    IVcnIi    ('mm    the 

barber's, 
Kiijoying  their  news  and  fironriltc"'  in  Ihnse  arbors; 
While  gayly  their  wigs,  like  the  tendiiN, are  ciirling 
And  foiinlH  of  red  currnnUjuico'"'  round  them  aru 

purling. 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PAEIS. 


133 


Here,  Dick,  ;inii  in  ann  as  we  cliattering  stray, 
And  receive  a  few  civil  "  God-ileins"  by  the  way, — 
For,  'tis    odd,   these    mounseers, — tliougli    we've 
wasted  our  wealtli 
And  our  strength,  till  we've  thrown  ourselves 
into  a  phthisic. 
To  cram  down  their  throats  an  old  King  for  their 
health. 
As  we  whip  little  children  tc   make  tl.em  take 
physic ; — 
Yet,  spite  of  our  good-natured  money  and  slaughter, 
They  hate  us  as  Beelzebub  hates  holy  water ! 
But  who  the  deuce  cares,  Dick,  as  long  as  they 

nourish  us 
Neatly  as  now,  and  good  cookery  flourishes — 
Long  as,  by  bay'nets  protected,  we,  Natties, 
May  have  our  full  fling  at  their  salmis  and  pdl^s  J 
And,  truly,  I  always  declared  'twould  be  pity 
To  burn  to  the  ground  such  a  choice-feeding  city. 
Had  Dad  but  his  way,  he'd  have  long  ago  blown 
The  whole  batch  to  old  Nick — and  the  people,  I 

own. 
If  for  no  other  cause  than  tlieir  cursed  monkey  looks. 
Well  deserve  a  blow-up — but  then,  damn  it,  their 

Cooks ! 
As  to  Marshals,  and  Statesmen,  and  all  their  whole 

lineage. 
For  aught  that  /  care,  you  may  knock  them  to 

spinage  ; 
But  think,  Dick,  their  Cooks — what  a  loss  to  man- 
kind ! 
What  a  void  in  the  world  would  their  art  leave  be- 
hind ! 
Tlieir  chronometer   spits — their   intense  salaman- 
ders— 
Their  ovens — their  pots,  that  can  soften  old  ganders, 
All  vanish'd  for  over — their  miracles  o'er. 
And  the  Marmile  Perpetuelle''''  bubbling  no  more! 
Forbid  it,  forbid  it,  ye  Holy  Allies ! 

Take   whatever   ye   foncy — take    statues,   take 
money — 
But  leave  them,  oh  leave  them,  their  Perigueux  pies, 
Their   glorious    goose-livers,   and    high-pickled 
tunny !" 
Though  many,  I  own,  are  the  evils  they've  brought 
us, 
Though  Royalty's  here  on  her  very  last  legs, 
Yet,  who  can  help  loving  the  land  that  has  taught  us 
SLx  hundred  and  eighty-five  ways  to  dress  eggs  ?^' 

You  see,  Dick,  in  spite  of  their  cries  of  "  God-dam," 

Coquin  Anglais,"  et  cset'ra — how  gen'rous  I  am ! 
And  now,  (to  return,  once  again,  to  my  "  Day," 
Which  will  take  us  all  night  to  get  through  in  this 
way,) 


From  the  Boulevards  we  saunter  through  many  a 

street. 
Crack  jokes  on  the  natives — mine,  all  very  neat — 
Leave  the  Signs  of  the  Times  to  political  fops. 
And  find  twice  as  much  fun  in  the  Signs  of  the 

Shops ; — 
Here,  a  Louis  Dix-huit — there.,  a  Martinmas  goose, 
(Much  in  vogue  since  your  eagles  are  gone  out  of 

use) — 
Henri  Quatres  in  shoals,  and  of  Gods  a  gi-eat  many 
But  Saints  arc  the  most  on  hard  duty  of  any : — 
St.  Tony,  who  used  all  temptations  to  spurn, 
//ere  hangs  o'er  a  beer-shop,  and  tempts  in  his  turn 
While  there  St.  Venecia""  sits  hemming  and  frilling 

her 
Holy  mouchoir  o'er  the  door  of  some  milliner; — 
Saint  Austin's  the  "  outward  and  visible  sign 
"  Of  an  inward"  cheap  dinner,  and  pint  of  small 

wine ; 
While  St.  Denys  hangs  out  o'er  some  hatter  of 

ton, 
And  jjossessing,  good  bishop,  no  head  of  his  own,"' 
Takes  an  int'rest  in  Dandies,  who've  got — next  to 

none  ! 
Tlien  we  stare  into  sliops — read  the  evening's  af- 

fiehes — - 
Or,  if  some,  who're  Lotharios  in  feeding,  should 

wish 
Just  to  flirt  with  a  luncheon,  (a  devilish  bad  trick. 
As  it  takes  off  the  bloom  of  one's  appetite,  Dick.) 
To   the  Passage  des — what  d'ye  call't — dcs  Pano- 
ramas'^'' 
We  quicken  our  pace,  and  there  heartily  cram  as 
Seducing  young  pdtis,  as  ever  could  cozen 
One  out  of  one's  appetite,  down  by  the  dozen. 
We  vary,  of  course — pctits  p&tis  do  oyie  day, 
The  next  we've  our  lunch  with  the  Gaufrier  Hol- 

landais," 
Tliat  popular  artist,  who  brings  out,  like  Scott, 
His  deliglitful  productions  so  quick,  hot  and  liot ; 
Not  the  worse  for  the  exquisite  comment  that  fol- 

lows, — 
Divine  maresquino,  which — Lord,  how  one   swal- 

lows ! 

Once  more,  then,  we  saunter  forth  after  our  snack,  or 
Subscribe  a  few  francs  for  the  price  oi^  fiacre. 
And  drive  far  away  to  the  old  Jlontagnes  Russes, 
Where  we  find  a  few  twirls  in  the  car  of  much  use 
To  regcn'rate  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  us  sinners. 
Who've  lapsed  into  snacks — the  perdition  of  din- 
ners, 
And  here,  Dick — in  answer  to  one  of  your  queries. 
About  which  we.  Gourmands,  have  had  much 
discussion — 


134 


MOOEE^S  WOKKS. 


Fve  tried  all  these  mountains,  Swiss,  French,  and 
Ruggieri's, 
And  think,  for  digestion,^*  there's  none  like  the 
Russian ; 
So  equal  the  motion — so  gentle,  tliough  fleet — 

It,  in  short,  such  a  light  and  salubrious  scamper  is. 
That  take  whom  you  please — ^take  old  Louis  Dix- 

HUIT, 

And  stuff  him — ay,  up  to  the  neek — with  stew'd 

lampreys," 
So  wholesome  tliese  Mounts,  such  a  solvent  I've 

found  them, 
That,  let  me  but  rattle  tlie  Monarch  well  down  them. 
The  fiend.  Indigestion,  would  fly  far  away, 
\nd  the  regicide  lampreys"  be  foil'd  of  their  prey  I 

Such  Dick,  are  the  classical  sports  that  content  us. 

Till  five  o'clock  brings  on  that  hour  so  moment- 
ous,"' 

That  epoch but  woa  1 — my  lad — here  comes  the 

Schneider, 

And,  curse  him,  has  made  the  stays  three  inches 
wider — 

Too  wide  by  an  inch  and  a  half — what  a  Guy  ! 

But,  no  matter — 'twill  all  be  set  right  by-and-by. 

As  we've  Massixot's"  eloquent  carle  to  eat  still  up, 

An  inch  and  a  half's  but  a  trifle  to  fill  up. 

So — not  to  lose  time,  Dick, — here  goes  for  the  task ; 

Au  revoir,  my  old  boy — of  the  gods  I  but  ask, 

That  my  life,  like  "the  Leap  of  llie  German,'"" 
may  be, 

"Dh  lit  i  la  table,  de  la  table  an  lit  i" 

R.  F. 


LETTER  IX. 

FEOM   rUlL.   FUDGE,  ESQ.,  TO  THE   LOIII)   VISCOUNT 
CASTLEBEAGU. 

Mv  Lord,  tir  Instructions,  brought  to-day, 
"  I  HJiall  in  nil  my  best  obey." 

Your  Lordship  talks  ami  writes  .so  sensibly! 
And — whatsoe'er  some  wags  may  say — 

Oh  I  not  at  all  incomprehensibly. 
1  feel  th'  inquiries  in  your  letter 

About  my  licallh  and  French  most  flattering; 
Tliank  ye,  my  French,  though  soinowliat  better, 

1m,  on  the  whole,  but  weak  and  smattering : — 
Nothinif,  of  course,  that  can  compare 
With  lii<t  who  made  the  CoiigresB  stare, 
(A  certain  Lord  wc  need  not  name,) 

Wlio  rv'n  in  French,  would  have  his  trope, 


And  talk  of  '•  bdtir  un  systeme 

'•  Sur  Viquilibre  do  TEuropc  !" 
Sweet  metaphor! — and  then  th'  Epistle, 
Which  bid  tlie  Saxon  King  go  wiiistle, — 
Tiiat  tender  letter  to  "  Mou  Prince,"" 
Which  show'd  alike  thy  French  and  sense  ;  — 
Oh  no,  my  Lord — there's  none  can  do 
Or  say  vn-EngUsh  things  like  you  ; 
And,  if  the  schemes  that  fill  thy  breast 

Could  but  a  vent  congenial  seek. 
And  use  the  tongue  tluit  suits  them  best, 

What  charming  Turkish  wouldst  thou  speak ! 
But  as  for  nu,  a  Fronehless  grub. 

At  Congress  never  born  to  stammer. 
Nor  learn  like  thee,  my  Lord,  to  snub 

Fall'n  Monarclis,  out  of  Ciia'.me.a.ud"s  grammar- 
Bless  you,  you  do  not,  cannot  know 
Hovv'  far  a  little  French  will  go ; 
For  all  one's  stock,  one  need  but  draw 

On  some  half  dozen  words  like  these — 
Comme  (;a — par-Id — la-has — ah  ha  '. 

They'll  take  you  all  through  France  «illi  case. 

Your  Lordsliij)'s  praises  of  the  scraps 

I  sent  yon  from  my  Journal  lately, 
(Enveloping  a  few  laced  caps 

For  Lady  C.,)  delight  me  greatly. 
Her  flatt'ring  speech — "  wliat  pretty  things 

"One  finds  in  Mr.  Fudge's  pages!" 
Is  praise  which  (as  some  poet  sings) 

Would  pay  one  for  the  toils  of  ages. 

Thus  fiatter'd,  I  presume  to  send 
A  few  more  extracts  by  a  friend ; 
And  I  should  hope  they'll  be  no  less 
Approved  of  than  my  last  MS. — 
The  former  ones,  I  fear,  were  creased. 

As  Biddy  round  tlie  caps  wnnld  ]iin  them! 
But  lliesc  will  come  to  hand,  at  least 

Unruinplcd,  fur  there's  nolhing  in  them. 

Extractt  from  Mr.  I'udyc's  Journal,  atldrcsscd  to 
Lord  C. 

Auk.  10. 
Went  to  llie  JIad-house — saw  Ilie  man,'' 

Wlio  thinks,  jioor  wretch,  lliat,  while  llie  Fiend 
Of  Discord  here  full  riot  ran, 

lie,  like  the  rost,  wa.s  guillotined ; — 
But  that  when,  under  Boni:v'.s  reign, 

(A  more  discreet,  thongli  quite  as  strong  one,) 
The  heads  were  all  restored  again, 

lie,  in  the  scramble,  got  a  unmg  one. 
Accordingly,  ho  still  cries  out 

This  strange  head  fits  him  most  iniple.isanlly ; 
And  alwnyit  runs,  poor  devil,  about 

Ini|iiiring  for  his  own  incessantly  I 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PAEIS. 


135 


\VliUo  to  his  case  :i.  te:ir  I  dropp'd, 

And  sauntor'd  lioine,  thought  I — ye  gods! 
How  many  heads  miglit  thus  bo  swojip'd. 

And  after  all,  not  make  much  odds! 
For  instance,  there's  Vansittart's  head — 
("Tani  c«rum""  it  may  well  be  said) 
If  by  some  curious  chance  it  came 

To  settle  on  Bill  Soames's"  shoulders, 
Th'  effect  would  turn  out  much  the  same 

On  all  respectable  cash-holders  : 
Except  that  while,  in  its  new  socket. 

The  head  was  planning  schemes  to  win 
A  zig-zag  way  into  one's  pocket, 

The  hands  would  plunge  directly  in. 

Good  Viscount  Sidmouth,  too,  instead 
Of  his  own  grave,  respected  head, 
Might  wear  (for  aught  I  see  that  bars_) 

Old  Lady  Wilhelmwa  Frump's — 
So  while  the  hand  sign'd  Circulars, 

The  head  might  lisp  out,  "What  is  trumps?'' 
The  Regent's  brains  could  we  transfer 
To  some  robust  man-milliner. 
The  shop,  tlie  shears,  the  lace,  and  ribbon 
Would  go,  I  doubt  not,  quite  as  glib  on  ; 
And,  vice  ve'-sd.,  take  the  pains 
To  give  the  Prince  the  shopman's  brams. 
One  only  change  from  thence  would  flow. 
Ribbons  would  not  be  wasted  so. 

'Twas  thus  I  ponder'd  on,  my  Lord ; 

And,  ev'n  at  night,  when  hud  in  bed, 
I  found  myself,  before  I  snored. 

Thus  chopping,  swopping  head  for  head. 
At  length  I  thought,  fantastic  elf! 
JIow  such  a  change  would  suit  myself. 
'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  one  by  one, 

Willi  various  pericraniums  saddled, 
At  last  I  tried  your  Lordsliip's  on. 

And  then  I  grow  completely  addled — 
Forgot  all  other  heads,  od  rot  'em ! 
And  slept,  and  dreamt  that  I  was — Bottom 

Walk'd  out  with  daughter  Bid — was  shown 
The  house  of  Commons,  and  the  Throne, 
Whose  velvet  cushion's  just  the  same" 
Natoleon  sat  on — -what  a  shame  ! 
Oh,  can  we  wonder,  best  of  speechers, 

When  Louis  seated  thus  we  see, 
That  France's  "  fundamental  features" 

Are  much  the  same  they  used  to  be ! 
However, — God  preserve  the  Throne, 

And  cushion  too — and  keep  tliem  free 
From  accidents,  which  have  been  known 

To  happen  ev'n  to  Royalty  V 


Aug.  ta 

Read,  at  a  stall  (for  oft  one  pops 

On  something  at  these  stalls  and  shops. 

That  does  to  quote,  and  gives  one's  Book 

A  classical  and  knowing  look. — 

Indeed  I've  found,  in  Latin,  lately, 

A  course  of  stalls  improves  me  greatly) — 

'Twas  thus  I  read,  that,  in  the  East, 

A  monarch's /a^'s  a  serious  matter; 
And  once  in  ev'ry  year,  at  least. 

He's  weigh'd — to  see  if  he  gets  fatter :' 
Then,  ;f  a  pound  or  two  he  be 
Increased,  there's  quite  a  jubilee!" 

Suppose,  my  Lord — and  far  from  me 
To  treat  such  things  with  levity — 
But  just  suppose  the  Regent's  weight 
Were  made  thus  an  affair  of  state ; 
And,  ev'ry  sessions,  at  the  close, — 

'Stead  of  a  speech,  which  all  can  see,  is 
Heavy  and  dull  enough,  God  knows — 

We  were  to  try  how  heavy  he  is. 
Much  would  it  glad  all  hearts  to  hear 

That,  while  the  Nation's  Revenue 
Ijoses  so  many  pounds  a  year, 

The  Prince,  God  bless  him  !  gains  a  few. 

With  bales  of  muslin,  chintzes,  spices, 

I  see  the  Easterns  weigh  then-  Kings; — 
But,  for  the  Regent,  my  advice  is, 

We  should  throw  in  much  heavier  things : 
For  instance 's  quarto  volumes. 

Which,  though  not  spices,  servo  to  wrap  tht.ni; 
Dominie  Stoddaet's  Daily  columns, 

"Prodigious!" — in,  of  course,  we'd  clap  them— 
Letters,  that  Cartwright's"  pen  indites, 

In  which,  with  logical  confusion. 
The  Major  like  a  Minor  writes. 

And  never  comes  to  a  Conclusion : — 
Lord  Somees'  pamphlet — or  his  head — 
(Ah,  that  were  worth  its  weight  in  lead!) 
Along  with  which  we  in  may  wliip,  sly. 
The  Speeches  of  Sir  John  Cos  Hippeslt; 
That  Baronet  of  many  words, 
\Vlio  loves  so,  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
To  whisper  Bishops — and  so  nigh 

Unto  their  wigs  in  whisp'ring  goes. 
That  you  may  always  know  him  by 

A  patch  of  powder  on  his  nose ! — 
If  this  won't  do,  we  in  must  cram 
The  "  Reasons"  of  Lord  Buckingham  ; 
(A  Book  his  Lordship  means  to  write. 

Entitled  "Reasons  for  my  Ratting:") 
Or,  should  these  prove  too  small  and  light, 

His  rump's  a  host  — we'll  bundle  thai  in' 


136 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


And,  still  sliould  all  these  masses  M\ 
Co  turn  the  Regi:xt's  ponderous  scale, 
tVTiy  then,  my  Lord,  in  heaven's  name. 

Pitch  in,  without  reserve  or  stint, 
riie  whole  of  Eaglet's  beauteous  Dame — 

If  that  won't  raise  him,  devil's  in't ! 


Aug.  31. 


Consulted  Murphy's  Tacitcs 

Abont  those  famous  spies  at  Rome,"' 

Wliom  certain  \Vliigs — to  make  a  fuss — 

Describe  as  much  resembling-  us,'" 
Informing  gentlemen,  at  home. 

But,  bless  the  fools,  they  can't  be  serious, 

To  say  Lord  Sidmouth's  like  TrBERius ! 

What  I  lie,  the  Peer,  that  injures  no  man. 

Like  that  severe,  blood-thirsty  Roman  1 — 

Tis  true,  the  Tyrant  lent  an  ear  to 

All  sorts  of  spies — so  doth  the  Peer,  too. 

'Tis  true  my  Lord's  Elect  tell  fibs. 

Aid  deal  in  perjury — dUlo  Tib's. 

Tis  true,  the  tyrant  screen'd  and  hid 

Ills  rogues  from  justice" — ditto  Sid. 

Tis  true  the  Peer  is  grave  and  glib 

At  moral  speeches — ditto  Tib.'' 

Tis  true,  the  feats  the  Tyrant  did 

Were  in  his  dotage — ditto  Sid. 

So  far,  I  own,  the  parallel 
Twi,\t  Tin  and  Sid  goes  vastly  well ; 
But  tliere  arc  points  in  Tib  that  strike 
My  humble  mind  as  inurh  more  like 
Yourself,  my  dearest  Lord,  or  him. 
Of  th'  India  Board — that  soul  of  whim ! 
Like  him,  TinERius  loved  his  joke," 

On  matters,  too,  where  few  can  bear  one ; 
E.  ff.  a  man,  cut  up,  or  broke 

Upon  the  wheel — a  devilish  fair  one! 
Vour  common  fracfures,  wounds,  and  fits, 
Are  nothing  to  such  wholesale  wits; 
But,  let  the  sufT'rer  gasp  for  life. 

The  joke  is  then  worth  any  money 
Anil,  if  he  writhe  beneath  a  knife, — 

Oh  dear,  that's  Homething  quite  too  funny. 
In  this  respect,  my  Lord,  you  sco 
The  Roman  wag  and  ours  agree  : 

Now  ns  to  ijour  resemblance — mum — 

This  |i.'irallcl  wc  need  not  follow  ;*' 
I'liduifh  'lis,  in  Ireland,  said  by  some 

Your  Lordship  bents  TinEuius  hollow; 
Wliipn,  chains — but  tliCMc  are  things  too  Hcrioil 

For  ine  to  mention  or  discuss  ; 
Wiipnc'or  your  LordNliip  iictH  Tinnnii)!' 

I':r:..  Ft  min's  part  UTarilus! 


Sep  I  u. 
Was  thinking,  had  Lord  Sid.moutji  got 
Any  good  decent  sort  of  Plot 
Against  tlie  winter-time — If  no*, 
Alas,  alas,  our  ruin's  fated ; 
All  done  up,  and  spijlicaled .' 
Ministers  and  all  their  vassals, 
Down  from  Castlekeagh  to  Casti.es, — 
Unless  we  can  kick  up  a  riot, 
Ne'er  can  hope  for  peace  or  quiet ! 
What's  to  be  done  ! — Spa-Fields  was  clever ; 

But  even  that  brought  gibes  and  mockings 
Upon  our  heads — so,  viem. — must  never 

Keep  ammunition  in  old  stockings ; 
For  fear  some  wag  should  in  his  cursed  head 
Take  it  to  say  our  force  was  trorsled. 
Mem.  too — w'lien  Sid  an  army  raises, 
It  must  not  be  "  incog."  like  Bai/es's  : 
Nor  must  the  General  be  a  hobbling 
Professor  of  the  art  of  cobbling  ; 
Lest  men,  who  perpetrate  such  puns, 

Should  say,  with  Jacobinic  grin. 
He  felt,  from  sokiiig  Wcllinglo7is,'' 

A  Wellingtons  great  soul  within  1 
Nor  must  an  old  Apothecary 

Go  take  the  Tower,  for  lack  of  pence. 
With  (what  these  wags  would  call,  so  merry) 

Physical  force  and  vial-cncc ! 
No — no — our  Plot,  my  Lord,  must  be 
Next  time  contrived  more  skilfully. 
John  Bull,  I  grieve  to  say,  is  growing 
So  Iroublcsoniely  sharp  and  knowing. 
So  wise — in  short,  so  J.icol)in — 
'Tis  monstrous  hard  to  lake  him  in. 

'  Sept  ( 
Heard  of  tlic  fate  of  our  Ambassador 

In  China,  and  was  sorely  nettled  ; 
But  think,  my  Lord,  we  shuuld  not  pass  it  o'« 

Till  all  this  matter's  fairly  settled ; 
And  here's  the  mode  occurs  to  mc: — 
As  none  of  our  Nobility, 
Though  for  their  own  most  gracious  King, 
(They  would  kiss  hands,  or — any  thing.) 
Can  be  persuaded  to  go  through 
This  f^ircc-like  trick  of  the  Ko-loii ; 
And  as  these  Mandarins  wont  bend. 

Without  some  mumming  c.vhibilion, 
Suppose,  my'  Lord,  yon  were  to  send 

Gkimaldi  to  them  on  a  mission  : 
As  Iirirtiio,  Jor.  could  play  his  part. 
And  if,  in  diploiualir  art, 
The  "  viilu)  sciollo""  's  meriliiriiius, 
Let  Joe  hut  grin,  he  has  it,  glorious! 
A  title  for  liini's  easily  made ; 

And,  by-tlic-by,  one  ''liristmas  time, 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PARIS. 


137 


If  I  reiiierMbcr  vifjliti  lie  pliiy'd 

Lord  JMoHLKY  in  some  pantomime  ; — ■" 
As  Earl  of  jMokmcv  tlicn  gazette  liim, 
If  tudier  Earl  of  Morley'H  let  liim. 
'And  vvliy  sliould  not  tlic  world  be  bless'd 
With  tivo  such  stars,  Jor  East  and  West  ?) 
Then,  when  before  tlie  Yellow  Screen 

He's  brourrht — and,  sure,  the  very  essence 
Of  eticjuette  would  be  that  scene 

Of  Joe  in  the  Celestial  Presence ! — 
He  thus  should  say: — "Duke  Ho  and  Soo, 
"I'll  play  what  tricks  you  please  for  you, 
"  If  you'll,  in  turn,  but  do  for  me 
"  A  few  small  tricks  you  now  shall  see. 
"  If  I  consult  your  Emperor's  liking, 
"  At  least  you'll  do  the  same  for  my  King.'' 
He  then  should  give  them  nine  such  grins. 
As  would  astound  ev'n  Mandarins ; 
And  throw  such  somersets  before 

The  picture  of  King  George  (God  bless  him  !) 
As,  should  Duke  Ho  but  try  them  o'er. 

Would,  by  Confucius,  much  distress  him ! 

I  start  this  merely  as  a  hint. 
But  think  you'll  find  some  wisdom  in't ; 
And,  should  you  follow  up  the  job. 
My  son,  my  Lord,  (you  knoia  poor  Bob,) 
Would  in  the  suite  be  glad  to  go 
And  lielp  his  Excellency,  Joe  ; — 
At  least,  like  noble  Amherst's  son, 
The  lad  will  do  to  practise  on.'^ 


LETTER  X. 

FUOM    Miss    BIDDY    FUDGE   TO    MISS    DOROTHY   . 

Well,  it  isn't  the  King,  after  all,  my  dear  creature ! 
But  dovLt  you  go  laugh,  now — there's  nothing  to 

quiz  in't — 
For  grandeur  of  air  and  for  grimness  of  feature. 
He  might  be  a  King,  Doll,  though,  hang  him, 

he  isn't. 
At  first,  I  felt  hurt,  for  I  wish'd  it,  I  own, 
[f  for  no  other  cause  but  to  vex  Jliss  M.ilone, — 
(The   great   heiress,   you   know,   of  Shandangan, 

who's  here, 
Sliowing  off  with  such  airs,  and  a  real  Cashmere,^' 
While  mine's  but  a  p.altry  old  r.abbit-skin,  dear !) 
But  Pa  says,  on  deeply  consid'ring  the  thing, 
I  am  just  as  well  pleased  it  should  not  be  the 

King;  ^^ 


"As  I  think  for  my  Biddv,  so  gentille  ani  jolie, 
"  Whose  charms   may  their  price  in   an  honest 

way  fetrh. 
"  That  a  Brandenburgli" — (what  is  a  Bniudenburgh, 

Dolly  ?)— 
"  Would  be,  after  all,  no  such  very  great  catch. 
"If  the  Regent  indeed,"  added  he,  looking  sly — 
(You  remember  that  comical  squint  of  his  eye) — 
But  I  stopp'd  him  with  "  La,  Pa,  how  can  you  say  so, 
"When  the  Regent  loves  none  but  old  women,  you 

know!" 
Whicli  is  fact,  my  dear  Dolly — we,  girls  of  eigh- 
teen. 
And  so  slim — Lord,  he'd  think   us  not  fit  to  be 

seen  ; 
And  would  like  us  much  better  as  old — ay,  .as  old 
As  that  Countess  of  Desmond,  of  whom  I've  been 

told 
Tli.at  she  lived  to  iiincli  more  than  a  hundred  and 

ten. 
And  was  kiU'd  by  a  fall  from  a  cherry-tree  then  ! 
What  a  frisky  old  girl !  but — to  come  to  my  lovtr, 
^Vlio,  though  not  a  King,  is  a  hero  I'll  swear, — 
You  sh.all  hear  all  that's  h.appen'd,  just  briefly  run 

over. 
Since  that  happy  night,  when  we  whisk'd  through 

tlie  air  I 

Let  me  see — 'twas  on  iS.afurday — yes,  Dolly,  yes — 
From  that  evening  I  date  tlie  first  dawn  of  my  bliss, 
\Vlien  we  both  r.attled  off  in  that  dear  little  car- 
riage. 
Whose  journey,  Bob  says,  is  so  lL!<e  Love  and  Mar- 
riage, 
"  Beginning  gay,  desperate,  dashing,  down-hilly, 
"And  ending  as  dull  as  a  six-inside  Dilly !"'° 
Well,  scarcely  a  wink  did  I  sleep  the  night  through ; 
And,  next  d.ay,  h.aving  scribbled  my  letter  to  you, 
With  a  heart  full  of  liope  this  sweet  fellow  to  meet, 
I  set  out  with  Papa,  to  see  Louis  Di.x-huit 
Make  his  bow  to  some  half  dozen  women  and  boys, 
Who  get  up  a  small  concert  of  Vive  le  Rois — 
And  how  vastly  genteeler,  my  dear,  even  this  is, 
Th.in  vnlgar  Pall-M.all's  oratorio  of  hisses! 
The  g.ardens  seem'd  full — so,  of  course,  we  walk'd 

o'er  'era, 
'Mong  orange-trees,  clipp'd  into  town-bred  deco. 

rum. 
And  daphnes,  and  vases,  and  many  a  statue, 
There  st.aring,  with  not  ev'n  a  stitch  on  them,  al 

you ! 
Tiie  ponds,  too,  we  view'd — stood  awhile  on  tlie 
brink 
To  contemplate  the  play  of  tlioso  prettv  gold 
fishes — 


138 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


"Lice  bullion"  says  mercUess  Bob,  "  which,  I  think, 
"  Would,  if  coin'd,  wiih  a  little  mini  sauce,  be 
delicious !"" 

But  wluiL,  DoLLT,  what,  is  the  gay  orange-grove, 

Or  gold  fishes,  to  her  that's  in  search  of  her  love  1 

In  vain  did  I  wildly  explore  every  chair 

WTiere  a  tiling  like  a  man  was — no  lover  sat  there ! 

In  vain  my  fond  eyes  did  1  eagerly  cast 

At  the  whiskers,  mustachios,  and  wigs  tliat  went 

past. 
To  obt;un,  if  I  could,  but  a  glance  at  that  curl, — 
A  glimpse  of  those  whiskers,  as  sacred,  my  girl, 
As  the  lock  that.  Pa  says,"  is  to  Mussulmen  giv'n. 
For  the   angel   to   hold   by   that   "  lugs  them   to 

heav'n !" 
Alas,  there  went  by  me  full  many  a  quiz. 
And  mustachios  in  plenty,  but  nothing  like  his! 
Disappointed,  I  found  myself  sigliing  out  "  well-a- 

day,"- 
Thought   of   the   words   of    Tom   Mooke's   Irish 

Jlclody, 
Something  about  the  "  green  spot  of  delight,"" 
(Which,  you  know.  Captain  Mackintosh  sung  to 

us  one  day :) 
Ah  DoLLT,  my  "  spot"  was  that  Saturday  night. 
And  its  verdure,  how  fleeting,  had  wither'd  by 

Sunday ! 

We  dined  at  a  tavern — La,  what  do  I  say  ? 

If  Bob  was  to  know! — a  Rcslaurateiir's,  dear; 
A'^hcre  your  pmperest  ladies  go  dine  every  day. 
And  drink  Burgundy  out  of  large  tumblers,  like 
beer. 
Fine  Bob  (for  lie's  really  grown  stiper-Rne) 

Condescended,  for  once,  to    make  one  of  tlic 
party ; 
Of  course,  though  but  three,  we  had  diiuier  for 
nine, 
And  in  spite  of  my  grief,  love,  I  own  I  ate  hearty. 
Indeed,  Doll,  I  know  not  how  'tis,  but,  in  grief, 
I  have  always  found  eating  a  wondrous  relief; 
And   Bob,  who's  in  love,  said  he   felt  the  same, 
qiiilc — 
"  My  sighs,"  sjiid  he,  "  ceased  with  the  first  glass 
1  drank  you; 
■*  The  lamb  made  me  tranquil,  the  puff's  made  mo 
light, 
"  And — now   tliat  all's   o'er — why,   I'm — pretty 
well,  thank  you !" 

To  my  great  annoyance,  we  sat  rather  Into ; 
For  Boiiiir  and  I'a  had  a  furious  debate 
About  Hinging  nnrl  cocAcry — llonBY,  of  course, 
Btnndin^  np  for  the  lallcr  Fine  Art  in  full  force;" 


And  Pa  saying,  "  God  only  knows  which  is  worst, 
"  The  French  Singers  or  Cooks,  but  1  wish  ua 
well  over  it — 

"  What  ■nith  old  Lais  and  Veky,  I'm  cursed 

"  If  my  head  or  my  stomacli  will  ever  recover  it !" 

'Twas  dark,  wlien  we   got  to  the  Boulevai'ds  to 
stroll, 
And  in  vain  did  I  look  'mong  the  street  Maca- 
ronis, 
When,  sudden  it  struck  me — last  hope  of  my  sou! — ■ 
That  some  angel  might  take  tlie  dear  man  to 
TORTONI'S  !" 

We  enter'd — and,  scarcely  had  Bob,  with  an  air, 

For  a  grappe  a  la  jardiniere  call'd  to  the  waiters 
When,  oh  Doll  !  I  saw  him — my  hero  was  there, 
(For  I  knew  his  white  small-clothes  and  brown 

leather  gaiters,) 
A  group  of  fair  statues  from  Greece  smiling  o'ei 

him," 
And  lots  of  red  currant-juice  sparkling  before  him! 
Oh,  Dolly,  these  heroes — what  creatures  they  are 
In  the  boudoir  the   same   as   in  fields   full   of 

slaughter ! 
As  cool  in  tlie  Beaujon's  preeipilous  car. 
As  when  safe  at  Tortoxi's,  o'er  iced  curran* 

water ! 
He  join'd  us — imagine,  dear  creature,  my  ecstasy — 
Joiii'd  by  the  man  I'd  have  broken  ten   necks  to 

see ! 
Bon  wish'd  to  treat  him  with  Punch  a  la  glace. 
But  the  sweet  fellow  swore  that  my  beauti;  my 

grace, 
And    my  jc-nc-sais-quoi   (thou    his   whiskers    he 

twirl'd) 
Were,  to  1dm,   "on  de  toj)  of  all   Punch   in   do 

vorlil."— 
How  pretty! — though  oft  (as  of  conrse,  it  must  be) 
Both  his  French  and  his  I'lnglish  are  Greek,  Doll, 

to  me. 
But,  in  short,  I  felt  happy  as  ever  fond  heart  did; 
And  happier  still,  when  'twas  fi.\'d,  ere  wc  parted, 
That,  if  the  next  day  .Khnnld  be  pastoral  weather, 
We  all  would  set  oil",  in  French  buggies,  logellicr. 
To  sec  Monlmorntcy — lli.it  place  which, you  know. 
Is    80    famous   for  cherries    and   Jkan    Jacques 

Rousseau. 
ilisc.ard  then  he  gave  us — the  name, rathercreased— 
But    'twas    Calicot — something — a    Colonel     at 

least ! 
After  which — sure  there  never  was  hero  mi  civil — he 
Saw  us  safe  home  to  onr  door  in  lliir  liivoli. 
Where  his  last  words,  as,  at  parling,  he  threw 
A  soft  look  o'er  liis  shoiildcrH,  were — "How  do 

you  do!"" 


TUE  i<'UDGES  IN  PAEIS. 


139 


But,   Loi'd, — lliere's   Papa   for   Ihe   post — I'm   so 

^o.\'d — 
Mont?nor'!ncy  must  now,  love,  be  kept  for  my  next. 
That  dear  Sunday  night! — I  was  charmingly  dross'd. 
And — St)  providential ! — was  looking  my  best; 
Such  a  sweet  muslin  gown,  with  a  flounce — and 

my  frills. 
You've  no  notion  how  rich — (tliough  Pa  has  by 

the  bills)— 
And  you'd  smile  had  you  seen,  where  we  sat  rather 

near, 
(Colonel  Calicot  eyeing  the  cainbric,  my  dear. 
Then   the  flow'rs  in  my  bonnet — but,  la,  it's   in 

vain — 
So,  good-by,  my  sweet  Doll — I  shall  soon  write 

again.  B.  F. 

Nota  bene — our  love  to  all  neiglibors  abaut — 
Your  Papa  in  particular — how  is  his  gouti 

P.S. — I've  ju^t  open'J  my  letter  to  say. 

In  your  next  you  must  tell  me,  (now  do,  Dolly, 

pray, 
For  I  l.jte  to  ask  Bob,  he's  so  re.ady  to  quiz,) 
What  >«»rt  of  a  thing,  dear,  a  Brandenburg  is. 


LETTER  XL 


KaOM    PHELIM    COXNOtt   TO  • 


Yfs,  'tvrEi  a  cause,  as  noble  and  as  great 

As  ever  hero  died  to  vindicate — 

A  Nation's  riglit  to  speak  a  Nation's  voice. 

And  own  no  power  but  of  the  Nation's  choice ! 

Such  was  the  gi-and,  the  glorious  cause  that  now 

Hung  trembling  on  Napoleon's  single  brow ; 

Such  the  sublime  arbitrament,  that  pour'd, 

In  patriot  eyes,  a  light  around  his  sword, 

A  hallowing  light,  whicli  never,  since  the  day 

Of  his  young  victories,  had  illumed  its  way! 

Oh,  'twas  not  then  the  time  for  tame  debates. 
Ye  men  of  Gaul,  when  chains  were  at  your  gates ; 
When  he,  who  late  had  fled  your  Chieftain's  eye. 
As  geese  from  eagles  on  Jlount  Taurus  fly,°° 
Denounced  against  tlie  land,  tliat  spurn'd  his  cliain. 
Myriads  of  swords  to  bind  it  fost  again — 
Myriads  of  fierce  invading  swords,  to  track 
Through  your  best  blood  his  path  of  vengeance 

back ; 
When  Europe's  Kings,  that  never  yet  combined 
But  (like  those  upper  Stars,  that,  when  conjoin'd, 
Slied  wai  and  pestilence)  to  scourge  mankind, 


Gather'd  around,  with  hosts  from  every  sliore. 

Hating  Napoleon  niucli,  but  Freedom  more, 

And,  in  that  coming  strife,  appall'd  to  se" 

The  world  yet  Icf  one  cliance  for  liberty! — 

No,  'twas  not  then  the  time  to  weave  a  net 

Of  bondage  around  your  Cliief;  to  curb  and  fret 

Your  veteran  war-horse,  pawing  for  tlie  fight, 

When  every  hope  was  in  his  speed  and  might — 

To  waste  the  hour  of  action  in  dispute. 

And  coolly   plan   how   freedom's    boughs   should 

shoot. 
When  your  Invader's  axe  was  at  the  root! 
No,  sacred  Liberty !  tliat  God,  who  throws 
Thy  liglit  around,  like  his  own  sunshine,  knows 
How  well  I  love  thee,  and  how  deeply  hate 
All  tyrants,  upstart  and  Legitimate — 
Yet,  in  that  hour,  were  France  my  native  land, 
I  would  have  follow'd,  with  quick  heart  and  hand. 
Napoleon,  Neko, — ay,  no  matter  whom — 
To  snatch  my  country  from  that  damning  doom. 
That  deadliest  curse  that  on  the  conquer'd  waits— 
A  Conqueror's  satrap,  throned  within  her  gates! 

True,  ho  was  false — despotic — all  you  please — 
Had  trampled  down  man's  holiest  liberties — 
Had,  by  a  genius,  form'd  for  nobler  things 
Than  lie  within  the  grasp  of  vulgar  Kings, 
But  raised  the  hopes  of  men — as  eaglets  fly 
With  tortoises  aloft  into  the  sky — 
To  dash  them  down  again  more  shatt'rmgly  ! 

All  this  I  own— but  still"  *  * 

****** 


LETTER  XIL 

FaOM   MISS   BIDIIY    FUDGE  TO    MISS    DOROTHY  . 

At  last,  Dolly, — thanks  to  a  potent  emetic. 
Which  Bobby  and  Pa,  witli  grimace  sympathetic, 
Have  swallow'd  this  morning  to  balance  the  bliss. 
Of  an  eel  matelote  and  a  bisque  d'ecrevisses — 
I've  a  morning  at  home  to  myself,  and  sit  down 
To  describe  you  our  heavenly  trip  out  of  town. 
How  agog  you  must  be  for  this  letter,  my  dear 
Lady  Jane,  in  the  novel,  less  languish'd  to  hear 
If  that  elegant  cornet  she  met  at  Lord  Neville's 
Was  actually  dying  with  love  or — blue  devils. 
But  Love,  Dolly,  Love  is  the  theme  I  pursue ; 
With  Blue  Devils,  thank  heav'n,  I  have  nothing  to 

do— 
Except,  indeed,  dear  Colonel  Calicot  spies 
Any  imps  of  that  color  in  certain  blue  eyes, 


.41/ 


MOOKE'S  WORKo. 


SVliich  he  stares  at  till  I,  Doll,  at  Ids  do  tlie  same; 

Tlien  he  simpers — I  blush — and  would  often  ex- 
claim, 

If  I  knew  but  the  French  for  it,  "Lord,  Sir,  for 
shame !" 

Well,  the  moriung  was  lovely — the  trees  in  full 

dress 
For  the  happy  occasion — ^tlie  sunsliine  express — 
Had  we  order'd  it,  dear,  of  tlie  best  poet  going, 
It  scarce  could  be  furnisli'd  more  golden  and  glow- 
ing, 
Though  late  when  we  started,  the  scent  of  the  air 
\V;i3  like  Gattie's  rose-water, — and,  bright,  here 

and  there, 
On  the  grass  an  odd  dew-drop  was  glittering  yet 
Like  my  aunt's  diamond  pin  on  her  green  tabblnet ! 
While  tlie  birds  seem'd  to  warble  as  bless'd  on  the 

boughs. 
As  ifeach  a  plumed  Calicot  had  for  her  spouse; 
And  the  grapes  were  all  blusliing  and  kissing  in 

rows. 
And — in  short,  need  I  tell  you,  wherever  one  goes 
With  the  creature  one  loves,  'tis  all  couleur  dc  rose; 
And,  all,  I  shall  ne'er,  lived  I  ever  so  long,  see 
A  day  sach  as  that  at  divine  Montmorency ! 

There  was  but  one  drawback — at  first  when  \\& 

started, 
The  Colonel  and  I  were  inhumanly  parted ; 
How  cruel — young  hearts  of  such  inoineiits  to  rob; 
He  went  in  Pa's  buggy,  and  I  went  with  Bob; 
And,  I  own,  I  felt  spitefully  jiappy  to  know 
That  Papa  and  his  comrade  agreed  but  so-so. 
For  the  Colonel,  it  seems,  is  a  stickler  of  Boney's — 
Served  wn'/Ahim  of  course — nay,  I'm  sure  they  were 

cronies. 
So  martial  his  features  !  dear  Doll,  you  can  trace 
Ulm,  Austerlitz,  Lodi,  as  plain  in  his  face 
As  you  do  on  that  pillar  of  glory  and  brass,"" 
Which  the  poor  Due  de  Beuri  must  hate  so  to 

pass! 
It  appears,  too,  he  made — as  most  foreigners  do — 
About  English  alVairs  an  odd  blunder  or  two, 
For  example — misled  by  the  names,  I  dare  say — 
lie  confounded  Jack  Castles  with  Lord  Castle- 

reagh; 
And — sure  hucIi  a  blunder  no  mortal  hit  ever  on — 
Fancied  the  presftU  I^ird  (Jamdes  the  cleier  one  ! 

iJut  poli'.icH  ne'er  were  the  sweet  fellow's  trade; 
Twas  for  war  and  the  ladies  my  Colonel  was  made. 
And,  oh,  had  you  heard,  an  together  we  walk'd 
Through   that  beautiful   forest,  how  Bwcotly   ho 
Uilk'd : 


And  liow  perfectly  well  he  appear'd,  Doll,  to  know 
All   t   s    life    and    adventures    of   Jean    Jacques 

Rousseau  ! — 
"  Twas  there,"  said  he — not  that  his  words  I  can 

state — 
'Twas  a  gibb'rish   that  Cupid  alone  could  trans- 
late ;— 
But  "  there,"  said  lie,  (pointing  where,  small  and 

remote, 
The  dear  Hermitage  rose,)  "  there    his  Julie   he 

wrote, — 
"  Upon  paper  gilt-edged,'"'  without  blot  or  erasure ; 
"  Then  sanded  it  over  with  silver  and  azure, 
"  And — oh,  what  will  genius  and  fancy  not  do  ? — 
"  Tied  the  leaves  up  together  witli  nompareUle  blue  !" 
What  a  trait  of  Rousseau!  what  a  crowd  of  emotions 
From  sand  and  blue  ribbons  are  conjured  up  here ! 
Alas,  that  a  man  of  such  exquisite'"^  notions 
Sliould  send  his  poor  brats  to  the  Foundling,  my 

dear ! 
'•  'Twas  here,  too,  perhaps,"  Colonel  Calicot  said — 
As  down  the  small  garden  he  pen>i\ely  led — 
(Though  once  I  could  see  his  sublime  foreliead 

wrinkle 
With  rage  not  to  find  there  the  loved  periwinkle)'"" 
"  'Twas  here  he  received  from  the  fair  D'Epinat, 
"  (Who  call'd  him  so  sweetly  her  Dear,""  every  day,) 
"That  dear  (lannel  petticoat,  pull'd  off  to  form 
"  A  waistcoat  to  keep  the  cnthusi:i-;t  warm  !""" 

Such, Doll,  were  il.c  sweet  recoUeclionswe  ])oiu!ci''d 
As,  full  of  romance,  tlirough  that  valley  we  wander"  d. 
The  flannel  (one's  train  of  ideas,  how  odd  it  is !) 
Led  us  to  talk  about  other  commodities. 
Cambric,  and  silk,  and — I  ne'er  shall  forget. 
For  the  sun  was  then  hasl'iiing  in  pomp  to  its  set. 
And  full  on  the  Colonel's  dark  whiskers  slione  down, 
When  ho  ask'd  me,  witli  eagerness, — who  made  my 

gown  ? 
The  question  confused  me — for,  Doll,  you  must 

know. 
And  I  otiifht  to  have  told  my  best  IVieiul  long  ago, 
That,  by  Pa's  strict  command,  I  no  longer  employ'"' 
That  enchanting  coutiirirrc,  Madame  l.v.  Roi ; 
Butnm  forced  now  to  have  Victorine,  who — dcuc 

take  her ! — 
It  seems  is,  at  present,  tlio  King's  miintiia-maker— 
I  mean  nf  his  parly — and,  though  much  the  smartest 
Le  Roi  is  condemn'd  as  a  rank  lloiiMparlisl."" 
Think,  Doi.L,   how   confouMclcd   I   look'd — so   wel) 

knowing 
The    Colonel's   opinion — my   checks   were    quite 

glowing ; 
I  stammcr'd  out  iiomothing — nay,  even  half  named 
The  Irgilimtilc  seinpstross,  when,  luinl,  lie  exclaim 'd. 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PARIS. 


141 


"  Yes,  yes,  by  the  stitcliing  'tis  phiiii  to  be  seen 
"It  was  made  by  tliat  Bourboiiite  b h,  Vic- 

TOniNE  !" 
What  a  word  for  a  liero ! — but  heroes  will  err 
And  I  tliought,  dear,  Fd  tell  you  iUinga  just  as  they 

were. 
Besides,  though  the  word   on  good  manners  in- 
trench, 
I  assure  you  'tis  not  half  so  shocking  in  French. 
But  this  cloud,  though  embarrassing,  soon  pass'd 

away, 
And  the  bliss  altogether,  the  dreams  of  that  d.ay, 
Tlie  tliouglits  that  arise,  when  sucli  dear  fellows 

woo  us — 
The  nnlhings  tliat  tlien,  love,  are  evertj  thing  to  us — 
That  quick  correspondence  of  glances  and  sighs, 
And  what  Bob  calls  the  "  Twopenny-post  of  the 

Eyes" — 
Ah,  Doll  !  though  I  knnw  you've  a  heart,  'tis  in  vain 
To  a  heart  so  unpractised  these  tilings  to  explain. 
They  can  only  be  felt,  in  their  fulness  divine, 
By  her  who  has  wander'd,  at  evcnmg's  decline. 
Through  a  valley  like  that,  with  a  Colonel  like  mine ! 

But  here  I  must  finish — for  Bob,  my  dear  Dolly, 
Whom  physic,  I  find,  always  makes  melancholy. 
Is  seized  with  a  fancy  for  churchyard  reflections ; 
And,  full  of  all  yesterday's  rich  recollections, 
Is  just  setting  off  for  Montmartre — "  for  there  is," 
Said  lie,  looking  solemn,  "  The  tomb  of  the  Vep.ys  ! 
"  Long,  long  have  I  wish'd,  as  a  votary  true, 

"O'er  the  grave  of  such  talents  to  utter  my  moans; 
"  And,  to-d.ay— as  my  stomach  is  not  in  good  cue 

"For  the  Jlesh  of  the  Verys — I'll  visit   their 
bonps .'" 
He  insists  upon  my  going  with  him — how  teasing ! 

This  letter,  however,  dear  Dolly,  shall  lie 
Unseal'd  in  my  draw'r,  that,  if  any  thing  pleasing 

Occurs  while  I'm  out,  I  may  tell  you — good-by. 

B.  F. 
Four  o'clock. 
Oh,  Dolly,  dear  Dolly,  I'm  ruin'd  for  ever — 
I  ne'er  shall  be  happy  again,  Dolly,  never! 
To  think  of  the  wretch — what  a  victim  was  I ! 
'Tis  too  much  to  endure — I  shall  die,  I  shall  die — 
Jly  brain's  in  a  fever — my  pulses  beat  quick — 
I  shall  die,  or,  at  least,  be  exceedingly  sick  ! 
Oh,  what  do  you  think?  after  all  my  romancing, 
BIy  visions  of  glory,  my  sighing,  my  glancing, 
riiis  Colonel — I  scarce  can  commit  it  to  paper — 
This  Colone.'s  no  more  than  a  vile  linen-draper ! ! 
Tis  true  as  I  live — I  h.ad  eoax'd  brother  Bob  so, 
(You'll  hardly  make  out  what  I'm  writing,  I  sob  so,) 
For  some  little  gift  on  my  birth-day — September 
The  thirtieth,  dear,  I'm  eighteen,  you  remember — 


That  Bob  to  a  shop  kindly  order'd  the  coach, 

(Ah,  little   I  thought  who  the  shopman   would 

prove,) 

To  bespeak  me  a  few  ol' those  ?nouchoirs  de  poche, 

Which,  in  hapjiier  hours,  I  have  sigli'd  for,  my  love, 

(The   most  beautiful  things — two   Napoleons  the 

price — 
And  one's  name  in  the  corner  enibroider'd  so  nice !) 
Well,  with  heart  full  of  pleasure,  I  cnter'd  tlu'  shop. 
But — ^ye    gods,   what    u    phanfora  ! — I   thouglit   I 

should  drop — 
There  he  stood,  my  dear  Dolly — no  room  for  a 
doubt — 
There,  behind  the  vile  counter,  these  eyes  saw 
him  st.and. 
With  a  piece  of  French  cambric,  before  him  roU'd 
out. 
And  that  horrid   yard-measure    upraised   in  his 
hand! 
Oh — Papa,  all  along,  knew  the  secret,  'tis  clear — 
'Twas  a  shopman  he  me.ant  by  a  "  Brandenburgh," 

dear! 
The  man,  whom  I  fondly  had  fancied  a  King, 

And,  when  thai  too  dcliglitful  illusion  was  past, 
As  a  hero  had  worshipp'd — vile,  treacherous  thing — 

To  turn  out  but  a  low  linen-draper  .at  last ! 
My  he.ad  swam  around — the  wretch  smiled,  I  believe 
But  his  smiling,  alas,  could  no  longer  deceive — 
I  fell   back  on   Bob — my  whole   heart  seem'd    t« 

wither — 
And,  pale  as  a  ghost,  I  was  carried  back  hither ! 
I  only  remember  that  Bob,  as  I  caught  him, 

With  cruel  fiieetiousness  said, "  Curse  the  Kiddy ! 
"  A  st.anch  Revolutionist  always  I've  thought  liim, 
"  But  now  I  find  out  he's  a  Counter  one,  Biddy  !" 

Only  think,  my  dear  creature,  if  this   should   be 

known 
To  that  s.auey,  satirical  thing,  JIiss  Malo.ne  ! 
Wliat  a  story  'twill  be  at  Sh.andang.an  for  ever ! 
What  laughs  and  wh.at  quizzing  she'll  have  with 
the  men ! 
It  will  spread  through  the  country — and  ne\'er,  on 
never 
Can  Biddy  be  seen  at  Kil  randy  again ! 
Farewell — ^I  shall  do  something  desp'rate,  I  fear — 
And,  ah !  if  my  fate  ever  reaches  your  ear 
One  tear  of  compassion  my  Doll  will  not  grudge 
To  her  poor — broken-hearted — young  friend, 

Biddy  Fudge 

Nota  bene — I  am  sure  you  will  hear,  with  delight, 
That  we're  going,  all  three,  to  see  Brunei  to-night, 
A  laugh  will  revive  me — and  kind  Mr.  Cox 
(Do  you  know  him  ?)  h.as  got  us  the  Governor's  box 


142 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


NOTES. 


(1)  To  coramemorate  the  landing  of  Louis  le  Desirfi  from 
England,  the  impression  of  his  fjot  is  marked  out  on  the  pier 
at  Calais,  and  a  pillar  with  an  inscription  raised  opposite  to 
Uie  spot. 

(2)  Ci-git  la  jnmbe  de,  &c.,  tc. 

(^)  A  celebrated  mantua-maker  In  Paris. 

(4)  This  excellent  imitation  of  the  noble  Lord's  style  shows 
how  deeply  Mr.  Fudge  must  have  studied  his  great  original. 
Irish  oratory,  indeed,  abounds  with  such  startling  peculiarities. 

Thus  the  eloquent  Counsellor  B ,  in  describing  some  hj-po- 

critic:il  pretender  to  charity,  said,  ''lie  put  his  hand  in  bis 
breeches-pocket,  like  a  crocodile,  and,"  tc,  &c. 

(5)  The  title  of  the  chief  magistrate  of  lielfast,  before  whom 
•"il  Lordship  (with  the  "studium  immune  loquendi"  attributed 
by  Ovid  to  that  ctiattering  and  rapacious  class  of  birds,  tlie 
pietj)  delivered  sinidry  long  and  self-gratulatory  orations,  on 
his  return  from  the  Continent.  It  was  at  one  of  these  Irish 
dinners  that  his  gallant  brother,  I^ord  S.,  proposed  the  health 
of  "The  best  cavalry  officer  in  Europe— the  Regent  I" 

<C>  Verbatim  from  one  of  the  noble  Viscount^s  Speeches— 
".^nd  now,  Sir,  I  must  embark  into  the  feature  on  which  this 
question  chielly  hinges.^* 

C7)  i'ce  her  Letters. 

(8)  It  would  bo  an  edifying  thing  to  write  a  history  of  the 
private  umusements  of  sovereigns,  tracing  them  down  from 
the  Hy-sticking  of  Domilian,  the  mole-catching  of  Artabonus, 
the  hog-miinicking  of  Parmenides,  the  horse-currying  of  Aretos, 
lo  the  pe(ticuat-(;nibroidering  of  Ferdinand,  and  Iho  patience- 
playing  of  the  Prince  Regent. 

(U)  So  doecrlbed  on  the  coffin:  "trcs-hautc  ct  ^uissanto 
Princesse,  oj^i^o  d^un  Jour.'* 

(10)  There  is  a  fulness  and  breadth  in  this  portrait  of  Roy- 
olty,  which  reminds  us  of  what  Pliny  says,  in  speaking  of 
Tn^an'ii  great  qualities:—"  nonnn  longt^  latnjuf  I'rincipem 
oflU'nUnt  ?" 

(\l)  Pec  the  Quarterly  Review  for  May,  I81G,  where  Mr. 
Ilubliouse  is  accused  of  having  written  his  book  "In  a  back 
^rcct  of  the  French  capital." 

(I2j  The  flill  of  Faro.— Viiry,  n  well-known  restaurateur. 

(13)  Mr.  Hob  nlludca  particularly,  I  preHume,  lo  thn  famous 
iiiry  I)'giinttil<Mir,  which  used  to  njwenililo  at  the  Ilnti-I  of  M. 
'•rlniiKl  d»  In  ICeynldre.  and  of  which  this  niudern  Arctiestrn- 
lus  has  given  nn  account  In  his  Almnnnch  doa  Gourmanda, 
elnf|iiit:inu  ann^'O,  p.  7S. 

(H)  Tlin  fnlr)'-land  of  cookery  and  gourmamlite  :  "  Pays,  oil 
leclol  oitVo  lea  vlimdea  loiitea  culles,  el  oii,  comme  on  parlOf 
Ina  hIoucIU^b  tiUDbenl  toutoa  r6tios.  Du  Latin,  coqui^rv."— 
U%tka*. 


(15)  The  process  by  which  the  liver  of  the  unfortunate  gooso 
is  enlarged,  in  order  to  produce  that  richest  of  all  duiuties,  the 
/()i>  ^05,  of  which  such  renowned  pdiis  ai-e  made  at  Strasbourg 
and  Toulouse,  is  thus  described  in  the  Cours  Gastronoviiquc : — 
"  On  deplume  I'estoraac  des  oies ;  on  attache  ensuite  ces  ani* 
maux  aux  chencts  d'une  cheminee,  et  on  les  iiourrit  devant  le 
feu.  La  caplivil6  et  la  chaleur  donnent  a  ees  ^ohitiles  ime 
maladie  hepatique,  qui  fait  gonller  lem*  fuic,"  &.C.,  p.  20G. 

(IG)  Is  Mr.  Bob  awai-e  that  his  contempt  for  tea  renders  him 
liable  to  a  charge  of  atheism?  Such,  at  least,  is  the  opinion 
cited  in  Christian,  Falstcr.  Amanitat.  Philog. — ^'Atheum  inter- 
pretabalur  bominem  ad  herbi  The  aversum."  He  would  not, 
1  think,  have  been  so  irreverent  to  this  beverage  of  scholars,  if 
he  bad  read  Peter  PetWs  Puem  in  praise  of  Tt-a,  addressed  to 
the  learned  Hnct — or  the  Epigraphe  which  Pcchlinus  wrote  for 
an  alt:u-  he  meant  to  dedicate  to  this  herb— or  the  Anacreontics 
of  PpAer  Francius,  in  which  he  calls  Tea  Qeaf,  Otrti',  dtaivav. 

The  following  passage  from  one  of  thQse  Anacreontics  will, 
I  have  no  doubt,  be  gratifying  to  all  true  Theists. 

Yes,  k't  Hebe,  ever  young. 

High  in  heav'n  her  nectar  hold, 
And  lo  Jovo's  immortal  throng 

Pour  the  tide  in  cups  of  gold — 
/V/  not  envy  heaven's  Princes, 

While,  with  snowy  hands,  ft)r  me, 
Kati;  the  china  tea-cuii  rinses, 

And  pours  out  her  best  Boheal 

(17)  The  favorite  wine  of  Napoleon. 

(18)  Veiours  en  boutcitle, 

(19)  It  was  said  by  Wlcqucfort,  more  than  &  hundred  yean 
ogo,  "  Le  Iloi  d'Augleterro  fait  aeul  plus  de  chevaliers  que  toua 
les  autres  Uols  de  luChrttientfi  ensemble."— What  would  he 
say  now  ? 

(30)  A  celebrated  restaurateiu*. 

(21)  "They  used  to  leave  a  yard  square  of  the  widl  of  the 
bouse  unplastered,  on  which  they  wrote,  in  large  letters,  either 
the  fori'-mentioufil  verse  of  the  Psahnisl,  ('  If  I  forget  liiee,  O 
Jerusalem,'  Atc.,)  or  the  words— 'Tlie  menu>ry  of  the  desola- 
tion.' " — I.eo  of  Modena. 

('22)  I  have  Ihought  It  prudent  to  omit  some  parts  of  Mr. 
Phelim  Connor's  letter.  He  is  evidently  an  Intemperate  yeung 
man,  and  haa  ossociiiti-d  with  his  cousins,  the  Fudges,  to  very 
little  purpose. 


(23) 


Membra  et  lU-rculeoa  loros 

I'rlt  bleu  Nt'Baca 

in<>,  ttle  victor  vincltur. 


Penic.  IfrrcuJ.  ty.t. 


(^•1)  The  latu  Lord  C.  of  Ireland  bad  a  curious  theory  abi>ut 
namca :— ho  held  that  uvrry  man  willi  three  names  was  a  Jaco- 
bin. Ills  InstanceH  in  Ireland  were  numerous;— vir.  Arclilbuld 
llamtllon  Rowan,  Theobald  Wolfe  Tone,  James  Napper  Tandy, 
Jolin  riillpol  Curran,  &.C.,  tec;  and  In  Ktiglnnd  he  iirodiireJ 
AS  examples  Cbarlea  Jamoa  Fux,  Richard  ltrlm«Iey  ^^herldan, 
John  Hnrno  Tnok*',  Francis  Hunlell  Jones,  &-,,  4.c. 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PAEIS. 


143 


rtii!  Romans  ciiiicd  sl  tliidl' "  homo  triiim  litcrjiruni." 

Tiin^  trium  litor.irum  homo 
Mo  vltuperaa?    Fur. 

Plautus,  Jiididiir.     Act  ii.  frccno  4. 

Dissaldeus  supposes  this  word  (Fur)  to  be  a  fflosscma : — that 
Is,  ho  thinks  ''Fur"  has  made  liis  escape  from  tlie  margin  into 
the  text. 

(25)  The  ohiust,  most  celebrated,  and  most  noisy  of  the  sing- 
ers at  the  French  Opera. 

(26)  The  Theatre  de  la  Porte  Pt.-Marlin,  which  was  built 
when  the  Opera  House  in  the  Palais  Royal  was  burnt  down,  in 
1781.— A  few  days  after  this  dreadful  fh-e,  which  lasted  more 
than  a  week,  and  in  which  several  persons  perished,  tho 
Parisian  e/en^aittcs  displayed  flame-colored  dresses,  *' couleur 
de  feu  d'Opd-ra  !" — JJulaure-,  Curiositds  de  Paris. 

(27)  "The  Old  Testament,"  says  the  theatrical  Critic  in  the 
Gazette  de  France,  "  is  a  mine  of  gold  for  the  managers  of  our 
small  play-houses.  A  multitude  crowd  round  the  Tlitiltre  de 
laGaiete  every  evening  to  see  the  Passage  of  the  Red  Sea." 

In  the  play-bill  of  one  of  these  sacred  melo-draines  at 
Vienna,  we  find  ■'  The  Voice  of  G — d,  by  M.  Schwartz." 

(28)  A  piece  very  popidar  last  year,  called  "Daniel,  ou  La 
Fosse  aux  Lions."  The  following  scene  will  give  an  idea  of 
the  daring  sublimity  of  these  Scriptural  pantomimes.  "Scene 
20. — La  fournaise  devient  un  berceau  de  nuages  azures,  au 
fond  duquel  est  un  groupe  de  nuages  plus  lumineiix,  et  au 
milieu  'Jehovah'  au  centre  d'uu  cei-cle  de  I'ayous  brillans,  qui 
annonce  la  presence  de  rEternel." 

(29)  Madame  B6grand,  a  finely-formed  woman,  who  acts  in 
"  Susanna  and  the  Elders," — "  I/Amour  et  la  Fulie,"  &c.,  &c. 

(30)  The  Promenades  Aeriennes,  or  French  Mountains. — 
Stse  a  description  of  this  singular  and  fantastic  place  of  amuse- 
ment in  a  pamphlet,  truly  worthy  of  it,  by  '^  F.  F.  CottereJ, 
M^decin,  Docteur  de  la  Faculty  de  Paris,"  &c.,  &c. 

(31)  According  to  Dr.  Cotterel  the  cars  go  at  the  rate  of  forty- 
eight  miles  an  hour. 

(32)  In  the  Caf6  attached  to  these  gardens  there  are  to  be  (as 
Doctor  Cotteral  informs  us)  "douze  ncgres,  tres-alertes,  qui 
contrasteront  par  IVbene  de  leur  peau  avec  le  teint  de  lis  et  de 
roses  de  nos  belles.  Les  glaces  et  Ics  sorbets,  servis  par  une 
main  bien  noire,  fera  davantage  ressartir  Talbatre  des  bras 
arrondis  de  celles-ci." — p.  22. 

(33)  His  Majesty,  who  was  at  P.iris  under  the  travelling 
name  of  Count  Ruppin,  is  known  to  have  gone  down  tho  Beau- 
jon  very  frequently. 

(34)  Lord  C.'s  tribute  to  the  character  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Rey- 
nolds, will  long  be  remembered  with  equal  credit  to  both. 

(35)  This  interpretation  of  the  fable  of  Midas's  ears  seems 
the  most  probable  of  any,  and  is  thus  stated  in  Hoffmann:— 
"Hac  allegoriO,  significatum,  Rlidatn,  utpote  tyraunum,  sub- 
auscultatores  diraittere  soHtum,  per  quos,  quaecunque  per 
oranem  rogionera  vel  fierent,  vel  dicerentur,  cognosceret, 
nimirum  illis  uteus  aurium  vice." 

(3(>)  Brossetle,  in  a  note  on  this  lino  of  Boileau, 

"  Midas,  le  Roi  Midas,  a  des  oreilles  d'Ane," 

tells  ns,  that  "  M.  Pcrrault  le  M^decin  ronlut  fairo  a  notre 
auteur  un  crime  dVtat  de  ce  vers,  comme  d'une  maligne  alhi- 
fiion  au  Roi."  I  trust,  however,  that  no  one  will  suspect  the 
Une  in  tho  text  of  any  such  indecorous  allusion. 


(37)  It  was  not  under  wigs,  but  ti.-iraa,  that  King  Miaaa  eri' 
dcavorod  to  conceal  these  appendages : 

Tempora  purpureis  tentat  volare  tiaris.— Ovid. 

The  Noble  Giver  of  the  toast,  however,  had  evidently,  with  hir 
usual  clearness,  confounded  King  Midas,  Mr.  I-iston,  and  tho 
Prince  Regent  together. 

(33)  Mr.  Fudge  and  his  friends  ought  to  go  by  this  name- 
as  the  man,  who,  some  years  since,  saved  the  late  Right  Hon. 
George  Rose  from  drowning,  was  ever  after  called  Salvator 
Rosa. 

(39)  Tliis  intimacy  between  the  Rats  and  Informers  is  just  aa 
it  should  be — "■  vere  dulce  sodalitium." 

(40)  His  Lordship,  during  one  of  the  busiest  periods  of  hia 
Ministerial  career,  took  lessons  three  times  a  week,  from  a 
celebrated  music-inastei*,  in  g!ee-singlng. 

(41)  How  amply  these  two  propensities  of  the  Noble  Lord 
would  have  been  gratified  among  that  ancient  p(!ople  of 
Etruria,  who,  as  Aristotle  tells  us,  used  to  whip  their  slavea 
once  a  year  to  the  sound  of  flutes  I 

(42)  This  Right  Hon.  Gentleman  ought  to  give  up  his  present 
alliance  with  Lord  C,  if  upon  no  other  princi])le  than  thai 
which  is  inculcated  in  the  foHuwlng  arrangement  between  trf* 
Ladies  of  Fashion : — 

Says  Clarinda,  "  though  tears  it  may  cost, 
It  is  time  we  should  pai-t,  my  dear  Sue  ; 

For  ynur  character's  totally  lost. 
And  /have  not  sufficient  for  (wo.'" 

(43)  The  rapidity  of  this  Noble  Lord's  transrorraaiion,  hi  ',h* 
same  instant.  Into  a  Lord  of  the  Bedcharaber  nnu  <.n  oppone^ 
of  the  Catholic  Claims,  was  truly  miraculous. 

(4-1)  Turn  instantly — a  frequent  d.u;ci/u*  \.r  iT'-s-.'-'bookB. 

(45)  The  Irish  diminutive  of  Squire^ 

(46)  "While  the  Congress  w-qm  reconstructing  Europe— not 
according  to  rights,  natural  alliances,  language,  habits,  or  laws  ; 
but  by  tables  of  finance,  whicu  divided  and  subdivided  her 
population  into  souls-,  dcmi'Situlsj  and  eveu/r(7c^0H5,  according 
to  a  scale  of  the  direct  dutlbo  or  taxes  which  could  be  levied 
by  the  acquiring  slate,"  &.»^.—Skclck  of  the  Militanj  and  Po- 
litical  Power  of  Russia.  Tlib  words  on  the  protocol  are  dmes-, 
demi-dmes,  &c. 

(47)  "  L'aigle  volera  de  clocher  en  clocber,  jusqu'aux  toura 
de  Notre-Dame." — Napoleon's  Proclamation  ou  landing  from 
Elba. 

(48)  Singulis  annis  in  quodam  Attic;c  foute  lota  virginitatem 
recuperasse  fingitur. 

(49)  At  the  peace  of  Tilsit,  where  he  abandoned  hia  ally 
Prussia,  to  France,  and  received  a  portion  of  her  tenilory. 

(50)  The  seiztu*e  of  Finland  from  his  relative  of  Sweden. 

(51)  The  usual  preamble  of  these  flagitious  compacts.  Ii: 
the  same  spirit,  Catherine,  after  the  dreadful  raassaci'e  of 
Warsaw,  ordered  a  solemn  '■thanksgiving  to  God  in  all  tho 
churches,  for  the  blessings  conferred  upon  the  Poles;"  and 
commanded  that  each  of  them  should  '"  swear  fidelity  and 
loyalty  to  her,  and  to  shed  in  her  defence  the  last  drop  of  their 
blood,  as  they  should  answer  for  it  to  God,  and  his  terrible 
judgment,  kissing  the  holy  word  and  cross  of  theii  Sttviorrr* 

(52)  An  English  tailor  at  Pans. 


144 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


(53)  A  ship  ia  said  to  mis3  stays,  when  she  does  not  obey  the 
belm  in  taddng. 

^54)  The  dandy  term  for  a  tailor 

(oo)  "  Lemonade  and  eau-de-g^roseille  are  measured  out  at 
every  corner  of  everj"  street,  from  fantastic  vessels,  jingling 
witli  bells,  to  thirsty  tradesmen  or  wearied  messengers."— 
See  I-ady  Morgan's  lively  description  of  the  streets  of  Paris,  in 
her  verj-  amusing  work  upon  France,  book  vi. 

(56)  These  gay,  portable  fountains,  from  which  the  groscille 
water  is  administered,  are  among  the  most  chai'acteristic  orna- 
ments of  Lbc  streets  of  Paris. 

(57)  "Cette  men'eilleuse  Marmile  Perptitaelle,  eur  le  feu 
depuis  pres  d'un  siecle  ;  qui  a  dunn6  le  jour  a  plus  de  300.00U 
chapons." — ALman.  de  Gourmands,  Uualriome  Aunte,  p.  152. 

(58)  Le  thon  marint,  one  of  the  most  favorite  and  indiges- 
tible hors-d'xuvrcs.  This  fish  is  taken  chiefly  in  the  Golfe  de 
Lyon.  "La  tfite  el  le  dessous  du  ventre  sont  les  parties  les , 
plus  recherchees  des  gourmets/' — Cours  Qastronomique^  p.  252. 

(59)  The  exact  number  mentioned  by  M.  de  la  Reyniere— 
"  On  connait  en  France  685  maniercs  diffcrentes  d'acconimoder 
let  oeufs ;  sans  compter  cclles  que  nos  savans  ima;^inent 
chaque  jour." 

(60)  Veronica,  the  Saint  of  tlic  Holy  Handkerchief,  is  also, 
under  the  name  of  Veuisse  or  Venecia,  the  tutelary  saint  of 
millinors. 

(61)  St.  Denys  walked  three  miles  after  his  head  was  cut  off. 
^e  mot  of  a  woman  of  wit  upon  this  legend  is  well  known : — 

'  Je  le  crois  bien  ;  en  pareil  cas,  il  n'y  a  que  le  premier  pas  qui 
coule." 

(G^  oar  the  Boulevards  Italicns. 

(63)  In  the  Palais  Royal ;  successor,  I  believe,  to  the  Flamand, 
10  lung  cclubralctl  for  the  moiilruz  uf  his  Gaufres. 

(&1>  Doctor  Ck)llerel  recommends,  for  this  purpose,  the 
Beaujon  or  l>eneh  Mountains,  and  calls  them  '*  uno  mi^dccine 
lUirienne,  couletir  de  rose  ;"  but  I  own  1  prefer  the  authority  of 
Mr.  Rob,  who  huouis,  from  tlie  following  note  found  iu  his  own 
haiidwritin;^,  to  have  studied  all  these  mountains  very  care- 
fully :  - 

Memoranda— The  Swiss  little  notice  deserves, 
While  the  fall  at  Rug^leri's  is  death  to  weak  nerves; 
And  (whate'er  Doctor  Colt'rel  inny  write  on  the  question) 
Tlie  turn  at  the  IJeaujrm's  too  shar|Tfor  digestion, 

I  doubt  whether  Mr.  Hob  is  quite  correct  in  accenting  the 
nccond  syllable  of  Ruggieri. 

'65;  A  dish  so  indigestible,  thai  a  late  novt-list,  at  the  oitd  of 
his  book,  could  Imagine  no  more  sumuiary  niude  of  getlinf< 
rid  uf  nil  bis  heroes  nnd  heroines  than  by  a  hearty  supper  of 
•tcwc<'.  lampreys. 

)fl6>  They  killed  Mi-iiry  I.  of  Fnglnnd  :— "n  food  (Hnya  Hume, 
gravely)  which  always  agrec^l  better  wKh  IiIh  palaU!  than  ]\\h 
couMltullon." 

t.am|treyn,  ind<*ed,  soem  to  have  been  alwnyo  n  favorite  dish 
with  l;injf»— whelher  from  some  conKiuiiallly  between  Ibmn 
snd  Ihiil  Hhh,  I  know  not;  but  /Jio  Canttun  lelln  un  that  Poltio 
fritleiH'd  hii  hunprrys  with  btnnnn  blood.  S(.  l.ouU  of  rraiire 
urn*  parllci.Iarly  fund  of  Ihum.— See  the  nnecdolo  of  Thnmns 
Aqiilniu  enttn;(  up  hiH  nir^esty's  lamprey,  In  a  noto  upon  Rahe- 
i««,  liv.  ||l.,chiip.S. 

(ftj)  Hud  Mr.  nob*B  DInnrr  Kplnlln  bcm  tnHerl'Hl,  [  wnn  prn- 
piu'>  d  ml*)  iiti  ibundanrn  uf  lenrncd  mn(l<'r  (u  lllui<lrnt<'  It,  fur 


which,  as,  indeed,  for  all  my  "  scientia  popina?,"  (Seneca,)  I  am 
indebted  to  a  friend  in  the  Dublin  University, — whoso  readinft 
formerly  lay  in  the  magic  line;  but,  in  consequence  of  thn 
Provost's  enlightened  alarm  at  such  studies,  he  has  taken  to 
the  authors  "(/f  re  cibaria'''  instead;  and  has  left  Bodin^  Remi- 
ffius,  Agrippa  and  his  little  dog  FUioluSi  for  .'Jpiciusy  AVkih*, 
and  that  most  learned  and  savory  Jesuit,  BiUengKrus. 

(68)  A  famous  restaurateur — now  Dununt. 

(69)  .^n  old  French  saying :—"  Faire  le  saut  de  TAllemand, 
du  lit  a  la  table  et  do  la  table  au  lit." 

(70)  The  celebrated  letter  to  Prince  Ilardenburgh,  (written, 
however,  I  believe,  originally  in  English,)  in  which  his  Lord- 
ship, profcssiuf;  to  see  "no  moral  or  political  objection"  to  the 
dismemberment  of  Saxony,  denounced  the  unfortunate  King 
as  "not  only  the  most  devoted,  but  the  most  favored  of  fiona- 
parte's  vassals." 

(71)  Tliis  extraordinary  madman  is,  I  believe,  in  the  Bicelre. 
He  imSLcines,  exactly  as  Mr.  Fud^e  states  il,  that,  when  the 
heads  of  those  who  had  been  guillotineii  were  restoied,  he 
by  mistake  got  some  other  person's  instead  of  his  own. 

(72;  Tam  curi  capitis. — Horat. 

(73)  A  celebrated  pifkj>ocket. 

(74)  The  only  change,  if  I  recollect  right,  is  the  substitution 
of  lilies  for  bees.  This  war  upon  the  boes  is,  of  course,  uni- 
versal;  "exilium  misfM-e  apibus,"  like  the  an^^ry  nymphs  in 
Virgil :— but  may  not  hcw  sicarms  arise  out  of  the  ricfims  of 
Legitimacy  yet  V 

(75)  I  am  afraid  that  -Mr.  Fudce  alliules  here  to  a  very  awk 
ward  accident,  which  is  well  known  to  have  happened  to  poor 
Louts  le  DesirO,  some  years  since,  al  one  of  the  Uegi-ul's  Fi^les. 
He  was  silting  next  our  gracious  Queen  at  the  time. 

(76)  "The  tliird  day  of  the  Feast  the  King  causeth  himself  to 
be  weighed  witii  great  care." — F.  licniirr''s  I'ouige  to  Sllr,^t^  &,c. 

(77)  **  I  remember,"  says  llerniei-,  "  thai  all  the  Omralis  ex- 
pressed great  joy  that  the  King  weighed  two  luiiinds  more  now 
than  the  year  preceding."— Another  a\Uhor  lejis  iw  that  **  Fat- 
ness, as  well  us  a  very  large  head,  is  cunsideii-il,  lluoughout 
India,  as  one  of  the  most  precious  gifts  of  hfuven.  ,\n  enor- 
mous akull  is  absolutely  revered,  nnd  the  happy  owuer  is 
looked  up  to  as  a  superior  being.  To  a  Prince  a  joulter  head 
is  invaluable." — Orientnt  Field  Sports, 

(7t*)  Major  Carlwriglit. 

(79)  The  luimc  of  the  first  worthy  who  sot  up  the  trade  of 
informer  at  Rome  (to  whom  our  Olivers  and  (.'luntleses  ought  tu 
erect  a  statue)  was  Romanus  Hitupo;  *'quL  rormam  viliu  inilt- 
(|uam  poHtca  cetebrem  minerlio  tempurum  cl  uudaci;D  honil- 
num  fecerunt." — Tacit.  Jlnnat.  i.  71. 

(80)  Thi-y  certainly  postnesHed  the  same  art  of  instiffniing 
their  vlclimn,  which  lhi»  Ib'porl  of  tbo  Secret  Contmillee  at- 
tribulen  to  Lord  Sidmouth'n  agents  :—'*jiof(Mji  (ways  Tacitus  o( 
one  of  Ihein)  liblitinum  ct  ni>ces!<llaluni,  quo  jditiibiia  iudteiia 
inlij^arety 

(HI)  "Nequn  Inmen  Id  Hereno  noxio  fuit,  ijurm  odium  /itifr- 
tieum  tHliorrm  facirbat.  Nam  ul  qiUB  dlstrlotlor  nccunator 
vflut  forronanetua  erat.''*~.^nnnl,  lib.  Iv.  36.— Or,  nj  It  Is  Iratm- 
Inteil  by  Mr.  Fuflgn'M  friend,  Murphy  :—**  This  <ln:liig  nccuier 
had  the  rumm  of  (ho  praplr^  and  the  jirotrrlion  of  the  Fihperor. 
Infurmrm,  In  propiirllon  an  they  rotie  in  »ntH,  hrrame  tnertd 
rhnractem." 


TIIK  KUDCJES  IN  PAKIS. 


145 


(82)  Murphy  even  coiifers  upon  one  of  his  speeches  the 
epithet  *'conslitutign:il."  Mr.  riMlL,'e  rnit^lit  linvo  added  to  liis 
parallel,  that  Tibciius  ww  a  ^ooa  private  chaructur: — "egre- 
Kiuin  villi  faniaque  yuwfld  priimtus.^'' 

(B3j   "  Ludibria  scriis  pertniscero  solitua." 

(84)  There  ia  one  point  of  resemblance  between  Tiberius 
and  liOrd  C.  which  Mr.  Fudge  miff/U  have  mentioned— "su^- 
pcnsa  semper  et  obscura  verba." 

l85)  Short  boots,  so  called. 

(86)  The  open  countenance^  recommended  by  Lord  Chester- 
field. 

(87)  Mr.  Fudcce  is  a  little  mistaken  here.  It  was  not  Gri- 
maldi,  but  some  very  inferior  performer,  who  played  this  part 
of  "  Lord  Morley"  in  the  pantomime, — so  much  to  the  horror 
of  the  distinguished  Earl  of  that  name.  The  expostulary 
letters  of  the  Noble  Earl  to  Mr.  Harris,  upon  this  vulgar  pro- 
fanation of  his  spick-and-span  now  title,  will,  I  trust,  some 
time  or  other,  be  given  to  the  world. 

(8rt)  See  Mr.  Ellis's  account  of  the  Embassy. 

(89)  See  Lady  Morgan's  "  France"  for  the  anecdote,  told  her 
by  Madame  de  Genlis,  of  the  young  gentleman  whose  love 
was  cuied  by  finding  that  his  mistress  wore  a  skawl  "  peau  de 
lapin." 

(9t))  Tlio  cars,  on  the  return,  arc  dragged  up  slowly  by  a 
chain. 

(91)  Mr.  Bcb  need  not  be  ashamed  of  his  cookery  jokes, 
when  he  is  kept  in  countenance  by  such  men  as  Cicero^  St. 
Augnstlne^  and  that  jovial  bishop,  Venantius  Fortunatus.  The 
pun  of  the  great  orator  upon  the*' Jus  Verrinum,"  which  he  calls 
bad  hog-broth^  from  a  play  upon  both  the  words,  is  well  known ; 
and  tlie  Sainfs  puns  upon  the  conversion  of  Lot's  wife  into 
salt,  are  equally  ingenious: — "In  salem  conversa  horainibus 
tidelibus  quoddam  pr;estitit  condimentum^  quo  sapiant  aliquid, 
unde  illud  caveatur  exemplum." — De  Civitat.  Dei,  lib.xvi.  cap. 
30. — The  jokes  of  the  pious  favorite  of  Queen  Uadagunda,  the 
convivial  Bishop  Vennntius.,  may  be  found  among  his  poems, 
in  some  lines  against  a  cook  who  had  robbed  him.  The  fol- 
lowing is  similar  to  Cicero's  pun  ; — 

Plus juscc//a  Coci  quam  meajuj-n  valent. 

See  his  poem?,  Corpus  Poetar,  Latin,  torn,  ii.,  p.  1732. — Of 
the  same  kind  was  Montmaur''s  joke,  when  a  dish  was  spilt 
over  him — *-summum  jus,  summa  injuria;"  and  the  same 
celebrated  p^irasite,  in  ordering  a  sole  to  be  placed  before  him, 
said, — 

Eligi  cui  dicas,  tu  mihi  sola  places. 

The  reader  mav  likewise  see,  among  a  good  deal  of  kitchen 
erudition,  the  learned  Lipsius's  jokes  on  cutting  up  a  capon 
in  his  Saturnal.  Sermon,  lib.  ii.,  cap.  2. 

(92)  For  this  scrap  of  knowledge  "  Pa"  was,  I  suspect,  in- 
debted to  a  note  upon  Volney's  Ruins ;  a  book  which  usually 
forms  part  of  a  Jacobin's  library,  aud  with  whicli  Mr.  Fudge 
must  have  been  well  acquainted  at  the  time  .when  he  wrote 
«is  *' Down  with  Kings,"  &c.  Tlie  note  in  Volney  is  as  fol- 
ows; — "  It  is  by  this  tuft  of  hair,  (on  the  crown  of  the  head,) 
worn  by  the  majority  of  Mussulmans,  that  the  Angel  of  the 
Torab  is  to  take  the  elect  and  carry  them  to  Paradise." 

(93^  The  young  lady,  whose  memory  is  not  very  CLrrect, 
nuat  allude,  I  think,  to  the  following  lines: — 

Oh  that  fairy  form  is  ne'er  forgot, 

Which  First  Love  traced  ; 
"^till  it  lingViug  haunts  the  greenest  spot 
^n  Memory's  waste  I 

19 


(04)  Cookery  has  been  dignified  by  the  researches  of  a  Bacon, 
(see  his  .Vrrtuni/  Ilistarij^  liiciipts,  &.C.,)  and  takea  its  station 
as  one  of  the  Fine  Arts  in  the  following  passage  of  Mr.  Duifald 
Stewart: — "Agreeably  to  this  view  of  the  subject,  Hweei  may 
be  said  to  be  intrinsically  jdeafting,  and  bitter  to  be  relatively 
pleasing ;  while  both  are,  in  many  cases,  equally  essential  to 
those  effects,  which,  in  the  art  of  cook-jry,  correspond  to  that 
composite  bcaulij,  which  it  is  the  object  of  the  painter  and  of 
the  poet  to  crOiit(i.'"—Philo.«opkical  Essays. 

(03)  A  fasliionable  cafi;  glacier  on  the  Italian  Bonk-vaidrt. 

(9G)  "  Von  eat  your  ice  at  Tortoni's,"  says  Mr.  Scott,  "  under 
a  Grecian  group." 

(97/ Not  an  unusual  niistake  with  fiirt-igners. 

(98)  See  ^lian,  lib-  v.,  cap.  29,— who  tells  us  that  these 
geese,  from  a  consciousness  of  their  own  loquacity,  always 
cross  Mount  Taurus  with  stones  in  their  bills,  to  prevent  any 
unlucky  cackle  from  betraying  them  to  the  eagles. 

(99)  Somebody  ^Fi>ntenelle,  I  believe)  has  said,  that  if  he 
had  his  hand  full  of  truths,  he  would  open  but  one  finger  at  a 
time  ;  and  the  same  sort  of  reserve  I  find  to  be  necessary  with 
respect  to  Mr.  Connor's  very  plain-spoken  letters.  The  re- 
mainder of  this  Epistle  is  so  full  of  unsafe  matter-of-fact,  that 
it  must,  for  the  present  at  least,  be  withheld  from  the  public. 

(100)  The  column  in  the  Place  Vendome. 

(101)  "  Employant  pour  cela  le  plus  beau  papier  (lore, 
86chant  Tecriture  avec  de  la  pondre  d'aznr  et  d'argent,  et 
cousant*  raes  cahiers  avec  de  la  nompareille  bleue".— A^a 
Confessions^  part  ii.,  11  v.  9. 

(lOii)  This  word  "exquisite,"  is  evidently  a  favorite  of  Miea 
Fudge's;  and  I  understand  she  was  not  a  little  angry  when  her 
brother  Bob  committed  a  pan  on  the  last  two  syllables  of  it  in 
the  following  couplet : — 

"I'd  fain  praise  your  Poem— but  tell  me,  how  is  it 
When  /  cry  out '  Exquisite,'  Echo  cries  '  quiz  it  ?'  " 

(103)  The  flower  which  Rousseau  brought  into  such  fashion 
among  the  Parieians,  by  exclaiming  one  day,  "  Ah,  voila  de  la 
pervenche  I" 

(104)  "^1/un  t)H7-5,  voihi  votro  asylo — et  vous,  nion  ours^  ne 
viendrez  vous  pas  aussi  ?" — &c.,  Alc. 

(105)  '-Un  jour,  qu'il  gelait  tres-fort,  en  ouvrant  un  paquet 
qu'elle  m'envoyait,  je  trouvai  un  petit  jupon  de  fianelle  d'An- 
gleterre,  qu'elle  me  marquait  avoir  porte,  et  dont  elle  voulait 
que  je  me  fisse  faire  un  gilet.  Ce  soin,  plus  qu'amical,  me 
pai-ut  si  tendre,  comme  si  elle  se  fut  d^pouillSe  pour  me  v6tir, 
que,  dans  mon  Amotion,  je  baisai  vingt  fois  en  pleurant  le 
billet  el  le  jupon." 

(lOG)  IMiss  Biddy's  notions  of  French  pronunciation  may  be 
perceived  in  the  rhymes  which  she  always  selects  for  **  Ee 
Roi:"* 

(107)  Le  Roi,  who  was  the  Cauturtere  of  the  Empress  Maria 
Louisa,  is  at  present,  of  course,  out  of  fashion,  and  is  succeeded 
in  her  station  by  the  Royalist  mantua-maker,  Victorine. 

(I'lS)  It  is  the  brother  of  the  present  excellent  resiauraieur 
who  lies  entombed  so  magnificently  in  the  Cimetiere  Monl- 
marlre.  The  inscription  on  the  column  at  the  head  of  the 
tomb  concludes  with  the  following  words  :— '  T^  utc  sa  vie  fut 
consacrtic  aux  arts  utiles.''^ 


THE    FUDGE    FAMILY. 


II.  THE  FUDGES  IN  ENGLAND. 


MOORE'S  PREFACE. 


The  name  of  tlie  country  town,  in  England — a 
well-known  fashionable  watering-place — in  wliich 
the  events  that  gave  rise  to  tlie  following  corre- 
spondence occurred,  is,  for  obvious  reasons,  sup- 
pressed. The  interest  attached,  however,  to  the 
facts  and  personages  of  the  story,  renders  it  inde- 
pendent of  all  time  and  place  ;  and  when  it  is  recol- 
lected that  the  whole  train  of  romantic  circumstances 


so  fully  unfolded  in  these  Letters  lias  passed  during 
tlie  short  period  which  has  now  elapsed  since  the 
great  Meetings  in  Exeter  Hall,  due  credit  will,  it  is 
hoped,  be  allowed  to  the  Editor  for  the  rajiidity 
with  which  he  has  brought  the  details  before  the 
Public;  wliile,  at  the  same  time,  any  errors  that 
may  have  been  the  result  of  such  haste  will,  lit 
trusts,  with  equal  consideration,  be  pardoned. 


THE  FUDGES  IN  ENGLAND. 


LETTER  I. 

rBOM     I'ATKICK     MAGAN,     ESQ.,     TO     THE     KEV.     IIICIIAED 
,    CUEATE   OF    ,    IN    UlELAND. 

Who  d'ye  think  we've  got  here  ? — quite  roform'd 
from  the  giddy. 
Fantastic  young  thing,  that  once  made  such  a 
noise — 
iVhy,   the   famous  Miss  Fudge — that  delectable 
Biddy, 
Wliom  you  and  I  saw  once  .it  Paris,  when  boys, 
III  the  full  blaze  of  bonnets,  and  ribbons,  and  airs — 
Such  a  thing  as  no  rainbow  liatli  colors  to  j>.iiiit; 
Ere  time  had  reduced  her  to  wrinkles  and  prayers. 
And  the  Flirt  found  a  decent  retreat  in  the  Saint. 
Poor  "  Pa"  hath  popp'd  olT — gone,  as  charily  judges, 
To  some  choice  Elysium  reserved  for  the  Fudges; 
And  Mi.ss,  with  a  fortune,  besides  expectations 
From  Homo  much  revered  and  mucli-paliticd  rela- 
tions, 


Now  wants  but  a  husband,  witli  requisites  meet, — 
Age  thirty,  or  thereabouts — stature  six  feet. 
And  warranted  godly — to  make  all  complete. 
Nota  Bene — a  Churchmnn  would  suit,  if  lie's  high. 
But  Socinians  or  Catholics  need  not  ajijily. 

What  s.ay  you,  Dick?  doesn't  this  tiMiipt  your  am- 
bition ? 
The  whole  wealth  of  Fudge,  Ih.il  reiiown'd  iii.'in 
of  pith, 

All  brought  (o  the  liamnier,  fur  Church  cc)iii])eli- 
lion, — 
Sole  encumbrance.  Miss  Fudge  lo  be  lakiii  Ihere- 
wilh. 

Think,  my  boy,  for  a  Ciirale  how  glorious  a  ealeh  I 

While,  instead  of  the  thousands  of  souls  you  rioif 
watch. 

To  save  Biddy  Fudge's  is  all  you  need  do; 

And  her  purse  will,  meanwhile,  be   the  saving  i  f 
tjou. 


THE  FUDGES  IN  ENGLAND. 


147 


V'ou  may  ask,  Dick,  how  cornea  it  that  I,  a  poor  elf, 
Wmiting  substance  even  more  than  your  spiritual 

self, 
Should  thus  generously  lay  my  own  claims  on  the 

shelf, 
Wlien,  God  knows!  there  ne'er  was  young  gentle- 
man yet 
So  much  lack'd  an  old  spinster  to  rid  him  from  debt. 
Or  had  cogenter  reasons  than  mine  to  assail  her 
With  tender  love-suit — at  the  suit  of  his  tailor. 

But  thereby  there  hangs  a  soft  secret,  my  friend. 
Which  thus  to  your  reverend  breast  I  commend : 
Miss  Fudge  h.ith  a  niece — such  a  creature ! — with 

eyes 
Like  those  sparklers  that  peep  out  from  summer- 
night  skies 
At  astronomers-royal,  and  laugh  with  deliglit 
To  see  elderly  gentlemen  spying  all  night. 
While  her  figure — oh,  bring  all  the   graeefullest 

things 
That  are  borne  through  the  light  air  by  feet  or  by 

wings, 
Not  a  single  new  grace  to  that  form  could  they  teach, 
Which  combines  iia  itself  the  perfection  of  each ; 
While,  rapid  or  slow,  as  her  fairy  feet  fall, 
The  mute  music  of  symmetry  modulates  all. 

Ne'er,  in  short,  was  there  creature  more  form'd  to 
bewilder 

A  gay  youth  like  me,  who  of  castles  aerial 
(And  only  of  such)  am,  God  help  me!  a  builder; 

Still  peopling  each  mansion  with  lodgers  ethereal. 
And  now,  to  this  nymph  of  the  seraph-like  eye. 
Letting  out,  as  you  see,  my  first  floor  next  the  sky.' 

But,  alas !  nothing's  perfect  on  earth — even  she. 
This  divine  little  gipsy,  does  odd  tilings  some- 
times ; 
Talks  learning — looks  wise,  (rather  painful  to  see,) 
Prints  already  in  two  County  papers  her  rhymes ; 
And  raves — the  sweet,  charming,  absurd  little  dear ! 
About  Amulets,  Bijous,  and  Keepsakes,  ne.xt  year. 
In  a  manner  which  plainly  bad  symptoms  portends 
Of  that  Annual  hlue  fit,  so  distressing  to  friends; 
A  fit  which,  though  lasting  but  one  short  edition. 
Leaves  the  patient  long  after  in  sad  inanition. 

However,  let's  hope  for  the  best — and,  meanwhile. 
Be  it  mine  still  to  bask  in  the  niece's  warm  smile  ; 
While  you,  if  you're  wise,  Dick,  will  play  the  gallant 
(Uphill  work,  I  confess)  to  her  Saint  of  an  Aunt. 
Think,  ray  bo}",  for  a  youngster  like  you,  who'vo  a 
lack. 
Not  indeed  of  rupees,  but  of  other  specie, 


What  luck  thus  to  find  a  kind  witch  at  your  back. 
An  old  goose  wit!i  gold  cggp,  from  all  debts  to 
release  ye ; 
Never  mind,  tho'  the  spinster  be  reverend  and  thin. 
What  are  all  the  Three  Graces  to  her  Three  per 
Cents.  ? 
While  her  acres ! — oli  Dick,  it  dont  matter  one  pin 
How  she  touches  th'  affections,  so  you  touch  the 
rents ; 
And  Love  never  looks  half  80  pleased,  as  when,  bless 

him !  he 
Sings  to  an  old  lady's  purse  "  Open,  Sesame." 

By  the  way  I've  just  heard,  in  my  walks,  a  report, 
Which,  if  true,  will   insure  for  your  visit  some 

sport. 
'Tis  rumor'd  our  Manager  me.ins  to  bespeak 
The  Church  tumblers  from  Exeter  Hall  for  nexl 

week ; 
And  certainly  ne'er  did  a  queerer  or  rummer  set 
Throw,  for  th'  amusement  of  Christians,  a  summer 

set. 
'Tis  fear'd  their  chief  "  Merriman,"  Cooke,  canno' 

come. 
Being  called  off,  at  present,  to  play  Punch  at  home , 
And  the  loss  of  so  practised  a  wag  in  divinity 
Will  grieve  much  all  lovers  of  jokes  on  the  Trin- 

ity;- 
His  pun  on  the  name  Unigenitus,  lately 
Having    pleased    Robert    Taylor,   the    Reverend, 

greatly.' 

'Twill  prove  a  sad  drawback,  if  absent  he  be. 
As  a  wag  Presbyterian's  a  thing  quite  to  see ; 
And,  'mong  the  Five  Points  of  the  Calvinists,  none 

of 'em 
Ever  yet  reckon'd  a  point  of  wit  one  of  'em. 
But  even  though  deprived  of  this  comical  elf, 
We've  a  host  of  hujfoni  in  Murtagh  himself. 
Who  of  all  the  whole  troop  is  chief  mummer  and 

mime. 
As  CooKE  takes  the  Ground  Tumbling,  he  the  Sub- 

lime ;' 
And  of  him  we're  quite  certain,  so,  pray,  come  in 

time. 


LETTER  IL 

FROM    MISS    BIDDY    FUDGE   TO    MRS.    ELIZ.^BETH    . 

Just  in  time  for  the  post,  dear,  and  rr-cnstrously 
busy. 
With   godly  concernments — and    vorldly  ones, 
too ; 


148 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Things  carnal  and  spiritual  raix'd,  my  dear  Lizzy, 
[n  this  little  brain  till,  bewildered  and  dizzy, 

'Twixt  heaven  and  earth,  I  scarce  know  what  I  do. 
First,  Fve  been  to  see  all  the  gay  fashions  from 

Town, 
Which  our  favorite  Jliss  Gimp  for  the  spring  has 

had  down ; 
Sleeves  still  worn  (whicli  /  think  is  wise)  a  la  folk. 
Charming   hats,  pou   de   soie — though    the    shape 

rather  droll. 
But  you  can't  think  how  nicely  the  caps  of  tulle  lace, 
With  the  vtentonniercs,  look  on  this  poor  sinful  face ; 
And  I  mean,  if  the  Lord  in  his  mercy  thinks  right. 
To  wear  one  at  llrs.  Fitz-wigram's  to  night. 
The  silks  are  quite  heavenly : — I'm  glad,  too,  to  say. 
Gimp  herself  grows  more  godly  and  good  every  day  ; 
Hath  had  sweet  experience — yea,  even  doth  begin 
To  turn  from  the  Gentiles,  and  put  away  sin — 
And  all  since  her  last  stock  of  goods  was  laid  in. 
Wliat  a  blessing  one's  milliner,  careless  of  pelf, 
Should  thus  "  walk  in  newness"  as  well  as  one's  self! 

So  much  for  the  blessing,  the  comforts  of  Spirit 
I've  had  since  we  met,  and  they're  more  than  I 

merit  I — 
Poor,  sinful,  weak  creature  in  every  respect ; 
Tliough  ord:un'd  (God  knows  why)  to  be  one  of  th' 

Elect. 
Bui  now  for  the  picture's  reverse. — Vou  remember 
That  footm.in  and  cook-maid  I  hired  last  December; 
lie,  a  Baptist  Particular — she,  of  some  sect 
Not  particular,  I  fancy,  in  any  respect ; 
But  desirous,  poor  thing,  to  be  fed  with  the  Word, 
And  "  to  wait,"  as  she  said, "  on  Miss  Fudge  and  the 

I-ord." 

Well,  my  dear,  of  all  men,  th.at  Particular  Baptist 
At  preaching  a  sermon,  olf  hand,  was  the  aptcst ; 
And,  long  as  he  stay'd,  do  him  justice,  more  rich  in 
Sweet  savors  of  doctrine,  there  never  was  kitchen. 
He  preach'd  in  the  parior,  he  preach'd  in  tlic  hall. 
He  prc.ich'd  to  the  chambermaids,  scullions,  and  all. 

All  heard  with  delight  his  reprovings  of  sin, 
But  above  all,  the  cook-m.nid; — oh,  ne'er  would  she 

tire — 
Tliough  in  learning  to  save  sinful  souls  from  the  fire. 
She  would  oft  let  the  soles  she  was  frying  fall  in. 
(Gi)d  forgive  me  for  punning  on  points  thus  of 

])icty ! — 
A  sad  Irick  I've  learned  in  Bob's  liealhcii  society.) 
Bill  nil!  there  remains  still  the  worst  of  my  tile; 
Come,  AsteriskiSBnd  help  mo  the  sad  truth  to  veil — 
ConnciouH  Htnrs,  tlint  at  even  your  own  secret  turn 

palo ! 


In  short,  dear,  this  preaching  and  psalm-singing  pair. 
Chosen  "  vessels  of  mercy,"  as  /  thought  they  were, 
Have  together  this  last  week  eloped ;  making  bold 
To  whip  ofl"  as  much  goods  as  both  vessels  could 

hold- 
Not  forgetting  some  scores  of  sweet  tracts  from  my 

shelves, 
Two  Family  Bibles  as  large  as  themselves. 
And  besides,  from  the  drawer — I  neglecting  to  lock 

it— 
My  neat"  Morning  Manna,  done  up  for  the  pocket.'" 
Was  there  e'er  known  a  case  so  distressing,  dear  Liz  ? 
It  has  made  me  quite  ill  : — and  the  worst  of  it  is. 
When  rogues  are  all  pious,  'tis  hard  to  detect 
^VIiich  rogues  are  the  reprobate,  tchich  the  elect. 
This  man  "  had  a  call,"  he  said — impudent  mockery  ! 
Wli.it  call  h.ad  he  to  my  linen  and  crockery  ? 

I'm  now,  and  have  been  for  this  week  past,  in  chase 
Of  some  godly  young  couple  this  pair  to  replace. 
Tiie  enclosed  two  announcements  h.ave  just  met  my 

eyes. 
In  that  venerable  Monthly  where  Saints  advertise 
For  such  temporal  comforts  as  this  world  supplies ;" 
And  the  fruits  of  the  Spirit  are  properly  made 
An  essential  in  every  craft,  calling,  and  trade. 
Where  th'  attorney  requires  for  his  'prentice  sonu 

youth 
Who  has  "  learn'd  to  fear  God,  and  to  w.ilk  in  tin 

truth ;" 
Where  the  sempstress,  in  search  of  employment 

declares, 
That  pay  is  no  object,  so  she  can  have  pniyors ; 
And  th'  EstJiblish'd  Wine  Company  proudly  give- 
out, 
That  the  whole  of  the  linn,  Co.  and  all,  are  devon'. 
IIa|)py  London,  one  feels,  as  one  reads  o'er  the  page  i, 
Where  Saints  are  so  much  more  abundant  than 

sages ; 
Where  Parsons  may  soon  bo  all  laid  on  the  .shelf, 
As  each  Cit  can  cite  chapttr  and  ver.se  for  himself. 
And  the  acrioiis  frequenters  of  market  and  dock 
All  l:iy  in  religion  as  part  of  their  stock.' 
Who  can  tell  to  wli.-it  lengths  wo    may  go  on  im- 
proving. 
When  thus  through  all   London  the  Spirit  keeps 

moving, 
And  heaven's  so  in  vogue,  that  each  shop  advertise- 
ment 
Is  now  not  so  iiineli  for  the  earth  as  the  skies  meant  ? 

I'.S. 
Have  mislaid  the  two  panigraphs — can't  .stop  to  look. 
But  both  describe  oliarming — both   Footman  and 
Cook, 


THE  FUDGES  IN  ENGLAND. 


149 


She,  "decidedly  pious" — witli  pathos  deplores 

Th'  increase   of  French  cookery  and   sin  on  our 

shores ; 
And  adds — (while  for  further  recounts  she  refers 
To  a  great  Gospel  preacher,  a  cousin  of  hers,) 
That   "  though   some   make   their   Sabhatlis   mere 

matter-of-fun  days, 
She  asks  but  for  tea  and  the  Gospel,  on  Sundays." 
Tlie  footman,  too,  full  of  the  true  sa\dng  knowl- 
edge ;— 
Has  late  been  to  Cambridge — to  Trinity  College ; 
Served  last  a  young  gentleman  studying  divinity. 
But  left; — not  approving  the  morals  of  Trinity. 

P.S. 

I  enclose,  too,  according  to  promise,  some  scraps 
Of  my  Journal — that  Day-book   I   keep  of  my 
heart ; 
Where,  at  some  little  item,  (partaking,  perhaps. 
More  of  eartli  than  of  heaven,)  thy  prudery  may 

start. 
And  suspect  something  tender,  sly  girl  as  thou 
art. 
For  the  present,    I'm    mute — but,    whate'  er   may 

befall, 
Recollect,  dear,  (in  Hebrews  xiii.  4,)  St.  Paul 
tkdh  himself  declared,  "  Marriage  is  honoi'able  in 
all." 

EXTRACTS  FKO.M   MY  DIARY. 

Mondatf, 

Teied  a  new  chale  gown  on — pretty. 

No  one  to  see  me  in  it — pity ! 

Flew  in  a  passion  with  Friz,  my  maid ; — 

The  Lord  forgive  me  ! — she  look'd  dism.ay'd  ; 

But  got  her  to  sing  the  lOOtli  Psalm, 

Wliile  she  curl'd  my  hair,  which  made  me  calm. 

Nothing  so  soothes  a  Christian  heart 

As  sacred  music — heavenly  art ! 

Tucsdajj. 

At  two,  a  visit  from  Mr.  Magan — 

A  remarkably  handsome,  nice  young  man  ; 

And,  all  Hibernian  though  he  be. 

As  civilized,  strange  to  say,  as  we ! 

I  own  this  young  man's  spiritual  state 
Hath  much  engross'd  my  thoughts  of  late ; 
And  I  mean,  as  soon  as  my  niece  is  gone. 
To  have  some  talk  with  him  thereupon. 
At  present,  I  nauglit  can  do  or  sav. 
But  that  troublesome  child  is  in  the  wav 
Nor  is  there,  I  tliink,  a  doubt  tliat  he 

Would  also  her  absence  much  prefer. 
As  oft,  while  list'ning  intent  to  me. 

He's  forced,  from  politeness,  to  look  at  her. 


Heigho  ! — what  a  blessing  should  Jlr.  MagaD 
Turn  out,  after  all,  a  "  renew'd"  young  man  i 
And  to  me  should  fall  the  task,  on  eartli, 
To  assist  at  the  dear  youth's  second  birlh. 
Blest  thought !  and,  ah,  mure  blest  the  tie. 
Were  it  heaven's  high  will,  that  he  and  I — 
But  I  blush  to  write  the  nuptial  word — 
Should  wed,  as  St.  Paul  says, "  in  the  Lord ;" 
Not  this  world's  wedlock — gross,  gallant. 
But  pure — as  when  Amram  married  his  aunt. 

Our  ages  differ — but  who  would  count 
One's  natural  sinful  life's  amount, 
Or  look  in  the  Register's  vulgar  page 
For  a  regular  twice-born  Christian's  age. 
Who,  blessed  privilege !  only  then 
Begin's  to  live  when  he's  born  again. 
And,  counting  in  this  way — let  me  see — 
I  myself  but  five  years  old  shall  be. 
And  dear  Magan,  when  th'  event  takes  place. 
An  actual  new-born  child  of  grace — 
Should  Heaven  in  mercy  so  dispose — 
A  si.x-foot  baby,  in  swaddling  clothes. 

IVednesdaf, 
Finding  myself,  by  some,  good  fate. 
With  Jlr.  ]\[agan  left  Itle-a-ltlc, 
Had  ju-st  begun — having  stirr'd  the  fire. 
And  drawn  my  chair  near  his — to  inquire 
What  his  notions  were  of  Original  Sin, 
When  that  naughty  Fanny  again  bounced  in ; 
And  all  the  sweet  things  I  had  got  to  say 
Of  the  flesh  and  the  Devil  were  wliisk'd  away 

Mucli  grieved  to  observe  that  Mr.  Magan 
Is  actually  pleased  and  amused  with  Fan! 
What  charms  any  sensible  man  can  see 
In  a  child  so  foolishly  young  as  she — 
But  just  eighteen,  comes  next  3Iay-day, 
With  eyes,  like  herself,  full  of  naught  but  play- 
Is,  I  own,  an  exceeding  puzzle  to  me. 


LETTER  IIL 

FROM    MISS    FAX.NY    FUDGE,    TO    HEK    COUSIN,    MISS 
KITTV    . 

hTANZA.S  (ENCLOSED) 

TO    MY    SHADOW  ;    OR,    WHY  ! WU.iT  ? HOW  ! 

Dark  comrade  of  my  path !  while  earth  and  sky 
Thus  wed  tlicir  charms,  in  bridal  light  .".rray'd 


160 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Why  in  this  bright  hour,  walk'st  thou  ever  nigh, 
Black'nin?   my  footsteps    with   thy   length    of 
shade — 

Dark  comrade.  Why  ? 

Thou  mimic  Shape  that,  'mid  these  flowery  scenes, 
Gfidest  beside  me  o'er  each  sunny  spot, 

Sadd'ning  them  as  thou  goest — say,  what  means 
So  dark  an  adjunct  to  so  bright  a  lot — 

Grim  goblin,  What  ? 

Slill,  as  to  pluck  sweet  flowers  I  bend  my  brow. 
Thou  bendest,  too — thou  risest  when  I  rise  ; — 
Say,  mute  mysterious  Thing !  how  is't  that  thou 
Thus   comest   between   me   and   those   blessed 
skies — 

Dim  shadow.  How  ? 

(additional  stanza,  by  another  band.) 

Thus  said  I  to  that  Shape,  far  less  in  grudge 

Than  gloom  of  soul ;  while,  as  I  eager  cried. 
Oh,    Why?    What?     IIuw  ?— a    Voice,    that    one 
might  judge 
To  be  some  Irish  echo's,  faint  replied, 

Oh  fudge,  fudge,  fudge ! 

You  have  here,  dearest  Coz,  my  last  lyric  effusion ; 
And,  with  it,  that  odious  "  additional  stiinza," 

Wliich  Aunt  will  insist  I  must  keep,  as  conclusion, 
And  which,  you'll  at  once  see,  is  Mr.  JIagan's; — a 
Most  cruel  and  dark-design'd  extravaganza. 

And  part  of  that  plot  in  which  he  and  my  Aunt  are 

To  stifle  the  flights  of  my  ^iiiius  by  banter. 

Just   so    'twas    with    J?yron's    young    eagle-eyed 

strain, 
Just   80   did   they   taunt   him ; — but   vain,  critics, 

vain. 
All  your  etforts  to  saddle  Wit's  fire  with  a  chain  ! 
To  blot  out  the  splendor  of  Fancy's  young  stream. 
Or  crop,  in  its  cradle,  her  newly-fledged  beam  !  ! ! 
Thou  perceiv'st,  dear,  that,  even  while  these  lines 

I  indite, 
Thoughts  burn,  brilliant  fancies  break  out,  wrong 

or  right, 
And  I'm  all  over  poet,  in  Criticism's  spite! 

That   my  Aunt,  who   deals  only  in   I'salnis,  and 

regards 
^(eHH^H.  Steriihold  nnd  Co.  as  the  first  of  nil  bardx — 
That  she  should  make  light  of  my  works  I  can't 

blame ; 
liut  lluit  nice,  lianditome,  odiouit  Mogan — what  a 

hliame  I 


Do  you  know,  dear,  tliat,  high  as  on  most  points  I 

rate  liim, 
I'm  really  afraid — after  all,  I — must  hate  him. 
He  is  so  provoking — naught's  safe  from  Ids  tongue 
He  spares  no  one  authoress,  aticient  or  young. 
Were  you  Sappho  herself,  ana  in  Keepsake  or  Bijou 
Once  slione  as  contributor,  Lord  how  he'd  quiz  you ! 
lie  laughs  at  all  Monthlies — I've  actually  seen 
A  sneer  on  his  brow  .at  the  Court  Magazine  ! — 
While  of  Weeklies,  poor  tilings,  there's  but  one  he 

peruses, 
And  buys  every  book  whiv.'h  tliat  Weekly  abuses. 
But  I  care  not  how  others  sucli  sarcasm  may  fear, 
Ojie  spirit,  at  least,  will  not  bend  to  his  sneer; 
And  though  tried  by  the  fire,  my  young  genius 

shall  burn  as 
Uninjured  as  crucified  gold  in  the  furnace ! 
(I   suspect   the  word   "crucified"   must   be  made 

"  crucible," 
Before  this  fine  image  of  mine  is  producible.) 
And  now,  dear — to  tell  you  a  secret  which,  pray 
Only  trust  to  such  friends  as  with  safety  you  may — 
You  know,  and  indeed  the  whole  county  suspects, 
(Though  the  Editor  often  my  best  things  rejects,) 
That  tlie  verses  signed  so,  |^P~,  which  you  now 

and  then  see 
In  onr  County  Gazette  (vide  last)  are  by  me. 
But   'tis  dreadful   to   think  what  provoking  mis- 
takes 
The  vile  country  Press  in  one's  prosody  makes. 
For  you  know,  dear — I  m.ay,  without  vanity,  hint — 
Though  an  angel  should  write,  still  'tis  devils  must 

print ; 
And   you  can't  tliink   uliat  havoc  these  demons 

sometimes 
Choose  to  make  of  one's  sense,  and  what's  worse, 

of  one's  rhymes. 
But  a  week  or  two  since,  in  my  Ode  upon  Spring, 
Which   I   meant  to  have  made  a  most  beautiful 

thing. 
Where  I  talk'd  of  the  "  dewdropa.  from  freshly. 

blown  roses," 
The  nasty  thing.s   niada    it   "  from  freshly-blown 

noses  I" 
And  once  when,  to  please  my  cross  .\nnt,  I  had 

tried 
To  cmnmcmoi-ale  some  saint  of  her  eUijtii\  who'd 

just  died, 
Having  said  ho  "  had  tak'n  n|i  in  hcMvcii  his  po- 

Hition," 
They  made  it,  lic"d  "taken  »\i  lo  heaven  liis  ]ihysi- 

cian !" 

This  is  very  dishoarlcning ; — I  ut  brighter  days  shine, 
I  rejoice,  love,  lo  snv,  both  fi.r  me  nnd  the  Nine; 


THE  FUDGES  IN  ENGLAND. 


151 


For,  what   do  you   tliink?  —  so  delightful!    next 

yeai 
Oh,  prepare,  dearest  girl,  for  the  grand  news 

prepare — 
<n  to  write  in  tlie  Keepsake — yes,  Kitty,  my  dear, 
'J'o  write   in  the  Keepsake,  as  sure  as  you're 

there ! ! 
T'other  night,  at  a  Ball,  'twas  my  fortunate  cliaiiee 
\Vith  a  very  nice  elderly  Dandy  to  dance. 
Who,  'twas  plain,  from  some  hints  which  I  now 

and  then  caught. 
Was  tlie  author  of  somelhing — one   couldn't  tell 

what ; 
But  his  satisfied  manner  left  no  room  to  doubt 
It  was  something  that  Colburn  had  lately  brought 

out. 

We  conversed  of  helles-letlres  through  all  the  quad- 
rille,— 

Of  poetry,  dancing,  of  prose,  standing  still ; 

Talk'd  of  Intellect's  march — wliether  right  'twas 
or  wrong — 

And  then  settled  the  point  in  a  bold  en  avant. 

In  the  course  of  this  talk  'twas  tliat,  having  just 
hinted 

Tliat  /  too  had  Poe'ms  whicli — long'd  to  be  printed, 

He  protested,  kind  man  !  he  liad  seen,  at  first  sight, 

I  was  actually  born  in  the  Keepsake  to  write. 

"In  the  Annals  of  England  let  some,"  he  said, 
"  shine, 

"  But  a  place  in  her  Annuals,  Lady,  be  tliine ! 

"  Even  now  future  Keepsakes  seem  brightly  to  rise, 

"  Through  the  vista  of  years  as  I  gaze  on  those 
eyes, — 

"  All  letter'd  and  press'd,  and  of  large-paper  size !" 

How  unlike  that  Magan,  who  my  genius  would 
smother. 

And  how  we  true  geniuses,  find  out  each  other! 

This,  and  much  more  he  said,  with  that  fine  fren- 
zied glance 
One  so  rarely  now  sees,  as  we  slid  through  the 

dance ; 
Till  between  us  'twas  finally  fi-^'d  that,  ne.xt  year, 
In  this  requisite  task  I  my  pen  should  engage ; 
And,  at  parting,  he  stoop'd  down  and  lisp'd  in  my 

ear 
These  mystical  words,  which  I  could  hiit  Just  hear, 
"Terms  for  rliyme — if  it's  prhm: — ten  and  six- 
ponce  per  page." 
Tliink,  Kitty,  my  dear,  if  I  heard  his  words  right. 
What  a  mint  of  half-guineas  this   small  head 
contams ; 
If  for  nothing  to  write  is  itself  a  delight. 
Ye  gods,  what  a  bliss  to  be  paid  for  one's  str.iiiis. 


Having  dropp'd   tlie  dear  fellow  a  court'sy  pro« 

found. 
Off  at  once,  to  inquire  all  about  him,  I  ran ; 
And  from  what  I  could  learn,  do  you  know,  dear 

I've  found 
Tliat  he's  quite  a  new  species  of  literary  man ; 
One,  whose  task  is — to  what  will  not  fashion  ao- 

custom  us  ? 
To  cdi/e  live  authors,  as  if  they  were  posthumous. 
For  instance — the  plan,  to  be  sure,  is  the  oddest ! — 
If  any  young  he  or  she  author  feels  modest 
In  venturing  abroad,  this  kind  gentleman-usher 
Lends  promptly  a  Imnd  to  the  interesting  blusher; 
Indites  a  smooth  Preface,  brings  merit  to  light. 
Which   else   might,  by   accident,   shrink    out  of 

sight, 
And,  in  short,  renders  readers  and  critics  polite. 
My  Aunt  says — though  scarce  on  such  points  one 

can  credit  her — 
He   was   Lady   Jane   Thingumbob's   last   novel's 

editor. 
'Tis  certain  the  fashion's  but  newly  invented  ; 
And,  quick  as  the  change  of  all  things  and  all 

names  is. 
Who  knows,  but,  as  autliors,  like  girls,  are  presented, 
We,  girls,  may  be  edited  soon  at  St.  James's  ? 

I  must  now  close  ray  letter — there's  Aunt,  in  full 

screecli. 
Wants  to  take   me  to  hear  some  gieat  Irvingite 

preach. 
God  forgive  me,  I'm  not  much  inclined,  I  must  say, 
To  go  and  sit  still  to  be  preach'd  at,  to-day. 
And,  besides — 'twill   be   all   against   dancing,  no 

doubt. 
Which   my  poor  Aunt   .abhors,  with  such   hatred 

devout. 
That,  so  far  from  presenting  young  nymphs  with  a 

head, 
For  their  skill  in  the  dance,  as  of  Herod  is  said. 
She'd  wish  their  own  heads  in  the  platter,  instead. 
Tliere    again — coming    Ma'am  ! — I'll   write    more 

if  I  can. 
Before  the  post  goes. 

Your  affectionate  Fan. 

lour  o'clock. 

Such  a   sermon! — though  not  about  dancing,  my 

dear  ; 
'Twas  only  on  th'  end  of  the  world  being  ne.ar. 
Eighteen  Hundred  and  Forty's  the  year  that  some 

st.ate 
As  the  time  for  th.at  .accident — some  Forty-Eight :' 
And  I  own,  of  the  two,  I'd  prefer  much  the  latter, 
As  then  I  shall  be  an  old  maid,  and  'twon't  iSatter 


152 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Once  more,  love,  good-by — Fve  to  make  a  new  cap ; 
Uut  am  now  so  dead  tired  with  this  horrid  mishap 
Of  tl;e  end  of  the  world,  that  I  must  take  a  nap. 


LETTER  IV. 

FEOM    I'ATEICK   MAGAN,    KSQ.,    TO    TUF.    BEV. 
RICHAED    . 

He  comes  from  Erin's  spcechful  shore 
Like  fervid  kettle,  bubbling  o'er 

With  hot  effusions — hot  and  weak ; 
Sound,  Humbug,  all  your  hollowest  drums, 
He  coiijes,  of  Erin's  martyrdoms 

To  Britain's  well-fed  Church  to  speak. 
Puff  him,  ye  Journals  of  the  Lord,' 
Twin  prosers,  Watoliman  and  Record  ! 
Journals  reserved  for  realms  of  bliss, 
Being  much  too  good  to  sell  in  this. 
Prepare,  ye  wealthier  Saints,  your  dinners. 

Ye  Spinsters,  spread  your  tea  and  crumpets ; 
And  you,  ye  countless  Tracts  for  Sinner.s, 

Blow  all  your  little  penny  trumpets. 
He  comes,  tlic  reverend  man,  to  tell 

To  all  who  still  the  Church's  part  take, 
Tales  of  parsonic  woe,  that  well 

Might  make  cv'n  grim  Dis.seiiter's  heart  ache: — 
Often  whole  Bishops  snatch'd  away 
For  ever  from  the  light  of  day  ; 
(With  God  knows,  too,  how  many  more, 
For  whom  that  doom  is  yet  in  store) — 
Of  Rectors  cruelly  compeU'd 

From  Bath  and  Cheltejiham  to  liaste  home, 
Because  the  tithes,  by  Pat  withheld. 

Will  not  to  Bath  or  Cheltenham  come  ; 
Nor  will  the  flocks  consent  to  pay 
Their  parsons  thus  to  stay  away  ; — 
Though,  with  such  parsons,  one  may  donbt 
If 'lisn't  money  well  laid  out ; — 
Of  all,  in  short,  and  each  degree 
or  that  once  ha|)py  Hierarchy, 

Which  use<I  lo  roll  in  wealth  so  pleasantly; 
But  now,  alas,  Is  doom'd  to  see 

lU*  surplus  brought  to  nonplus  presently  ! 

Such  are  the  Ihemi's  this  man  of  p.athos, 
I'ricst  of  prose  and  Lord  of  bathos. 

Will    preach   ami    preach  t'yc,  till    you're   dull 
again ; 
Then.  Iiai!  I'.im,  Saints,  with  joint  acclaim, 
Hliout  to  tliB  Htiirs  IiIh  tuneful  name, 
Which  Miirtngli  n-o.*,  pro  known  to  fame, 

Hut  nrivv  is  Mnrtimrr  O'Mullignn! 


All  true,  Dick,  true  as  you're  alive — 
I've  seen  him,  some  hours  since,  arrive. 
JIurtagh  is  come,  the  great  Itinerant — 

And  Tuesday,  in  the  market-place. 
Intends,  to  every  .saint  .and  sinner  in't, 

To  state  wliat  he  calls  L-eland's  Case ; 
Meaning  thereby  the  case  of  his  shop, — 
Of  cur.ate,  vicar,  rector,  bishop. 
And  all  those  other  grades  seraphic, 
That  m.ake  men's  souls  their  special  tratlic. 
Though  caring  not  a  pin  u-hicli  way 
Til'  erratic  souls  go,  so  they  pay. — 
Just  as  some  roguish  country  nurse. 

Who  takes  a  foundling  b.abe  to  suckle, 
First  pops  the  payment  in  her  purse. 

Then  leaves  poor  dear  to — suck  its  knuck  e  ■ 
Even  so  these  reverend  rigmaroles 
Pocket  tlie  money — starve  the  souls. 
JIurtagli,  however,  in  his  glory, 
Will  tell,  next  week,  a  different  «tory ; 
Will  make  out  all  these  men  of  b.irter, 
As  each  a  saint,  a  downright  martyr. 
Brought  to  tlie  stake — i.  c.  a  berfono, 
Of  all  their  martyrdoms  the  chief  one  ; 
Though  try  them  even  at  this,  they'll  bear  it. 
If  lender  and  w.asli'd  down  with  c'r.rct. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Fudge,  who  hives  all  lions, 
Your  saintly,  7tcj:t  to  gre.at  and  high  'uns — 
(A  Viscount,  be  he  what  he  may 
Would  cut  a  Saint  out,  any  day.) 
Has  just  announced  a  godly  rout. 
Where  Jlurtagh's  to  be  first  brought  out. 
And  shown  in  his  t;une,  iveek-ihiy  state: — 
"  Prayers,  half-past  seven,  tea  .it  eight." 
Even  so  the  circular  missive  orders — 
Pink  cards,  witli  cherubs  round  llie  borders 

Haste,  Dick — you're  lost,  if  you  lose  time, 

Spinsters  at  forty-five  grow  giddy, 
.■\iui  Murtagh,  with  his  tropes  subnmp. 

Will  surely  carry  ofl'old  Biddy, 
Unless  sonic  spark  at  once  propose, 
And  distance  him  by  downright  jiroso. 
Tliat  sick,  rich  s(iiiire,  wliose  wealth  and  h  \at 
All  pass,  they  say,  to  Biddy's  hands, 
(The  p.'ilroii,  Dick,  of  three  fat  rectories  \) 
Is  dying  oC  nnirina  pectoris  ; — 
So  that,  unless  you're  stirring  soon, 

Murtagh,  that  priest  of  ])iilVaiid  pelf, 
May  conu'  in  for  a  hoiiey-zHooJi, 

And  1m'  the  titan  of  it,  himself! 

As  for  mc,  Dick — 'tis  whim,  'tis  folly, 
But  till  I  young  niece  nlisoibs  nie  wlwdly. 


THE  FUDGES  IN   ENGLAND. 


153 


'Tis  true,  the  gii-l's  a  vile  verse-maker — 

Would  rliymo  all  nature,  if  you'd  let  Iior  — 
But  even  her  oddities,  plague  take  her, 

But  make  me  love  her  all  the  better. 
Too  true  it  isj  she's  bitton  sadly 
With  this  new  rage  for  rhyming  badly. 
Which  late  hath  seized  all  ranks  and  classes, 
Down  to  that  new  Estate,  "  the  masses ;" 

Till  one  pursuit  all  taste  combines — 
One  common  railroad  o'er  Parnassus, 
Where,  sliding  in  those  tuneful  grooves, 
CalI'd  cnuplcts,  all  creation  moves, 

And  the  whole  world  runs  mad  in  lines. 
Add  to  all  this — what's  even  still  worse, 
As  rhyme  itself,  though  still  a  curse. 
Sounds  better  to  a  chinking  purse — 
Scarce  sixpence  hath  my  charmer  got, 
While  I  can  muster  just  a  groat; 
So  that,  computing  self  and  Venus, 
Tenpence  would  clear  th'  amount  b<?twoor\  i,^. 

However,  things  may  yet  prove  better: — 
Meantime,  what  awful  length  of  letter ! 

\.nd  how,  wliilo  heaping  thus  with  gibes 

The  Pegasus  of  modern  scribes, 

My  own  small  hobby  of  farrago 

Hatli  beat  the  pace  at  wliieh  even  they  go ! 


LETTER  V. 

KROM    LARRY    o'bEANIGAN,    IS    ENGLAND,    TO    HIS    WIFE 
JUDY,    AT    MULLINAFAD. 

Dear  Judv,  I  sind  you  this  bit  of  a  letther. 

By  mail-coach  conveyance — for  want  of  a  betther — 

To  tell  you  w-hat  luck  in  this  world  I  have  had 

Since  I  left  tlie  sweet  cabin,  at  MuUinafad. 

Och,  Judy,  that  night ! — when   tlie  pig  which  we 

meant 
To  dry-nurse,  in  the  parlor,  to  pay  off  the  rent, 
Julianna,  the  craythur — that  name  was  the  death  of 

her—'" 
Gave  us  the  shiip  and  we  saw  the  last  breath  of 

her ! 
And  tliere  were  the  childher,  six  innocent  aowls. 
For  their  nate  little  play-fellow  tuning  up  howls ; 
Wliile  yourself,  my  dear  Judy,  (though  grievin's  a 

folly,) 
Stud  over  Juljanna's  remains,  melancholy — 
Cryin',    half   for   the    craythur,  and   half  for   the 

money, 
"  Avrali,  why  did  ye  die  till  we'd  sciw)'<l  you,  my 

honey V 

30 


But   God's  will  ])C   done ! — and   then,  faith,  sure 

enough. 
As  the  pig  was  desaieed,  'twas  high  time  to  be  off. 
So  we  gother'd  up  all  the  poor  duds  we  could  catch, 
Lock'd  the  owld   cabin-door,  put  the   kay  in  the 

thatch. 
Then  tuk  laave  of  each  other's  sweet  lips  in  the 

dark, 
And  set  off,  like  the  Chrishlians  turn'd  out  of  the 

Ark ; 
The  six  childher  with  you,  my  dear  Judy,  ochonel 
And  poor  I  wid  myself,  left  condolin'  alone. 

How  I  came  to  this  England,  o'er  .say  and  o'er  lands 
And  what  cruel  hard  walkin'  I've  had  on  my  hands 
Is,  at  this  present  writin',  too  tadious  to  speak. 
So  I'll  mintion  it  all  in  a  postscript,  next  week  : — 
Only  starved  I  was,  surely,  as  thin  as  a  lath. 
Till  I  came  to  an  up-and-down  place  they  call  Bath, 
Where,  as  luck  was,  I  managed  to  make  a  meal's 

meat. 
By  dhraggin'  owld  ladies  all  through  the  street — 
Which  their  docthors  (who  pocket,  like  fun,  the 

pound  starlins) 
Have  brought  into  fashion  to  plase  the  owld  darlins. 
Div'l  a  boy  in  all  Bath,  though  /say  it, could  carry, 
Tlie  grannies  up  hill  half  so  handy  as  Larry ; 
And  the  higher  they  lived,  like  owld  crows,  in  the  air, 
The  more  /was  wanted  to  lug  them  up  there. 

But  luck  has  two  handles,  dear  Judy,  they  s.ay. 
And  mine  has  both  handles  put  on  the  wrong  way. 
For,  pondherin',  one  morn,  on  a  drame  I'd  just  had 
Of  yourself  and  the  babbies,  at  MuUinafad, 
Och,  there  came  o'er  my  sinses  so  plasin'  a  flutther, 
That  I  spilt  an  owld  Countess  right  cUne  in  the 

gutther. 
Muff,  feathers,   .and    all  ! — the    descint     vas  most 

awful. 
And — what  was  still  worse,  faith — I   kn?w  'twas 

unlawful ; 
For,  though,  with  mere  %coinen,  no  very  g  re.at  evil, 
T'  upset  an  owld  Countess  in  Bath  is  the  divil ! 
So,  liftin'  the  chair,  with  herself  safe  upon  it, 
(For  nothin'  about  her  was  kill,  but  her  b  innet,) 
Without  even  mentionin'  "  By  your  lave,  ma'am," 
I  tuk  to  my  heels  and — here,  Judy,  I  am  ! 

What's  the  name  of  this  town  I  can't  s.ay  very  well, 
But  your  heart  sure  will  jump  when  you  hear  what 

befell 
Your  own  beautiful  Larry,  the  very  first  day, 
(And  a  Sund.ay  it  was,  shiniu'  rut  mighty  gay,) 
\\nK'n  his  brogues  to  tliis  Aty  ^f  luck  found  their 

way. 


15i 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Bein'  hungry  God  help  lue,  and  happenin'  to  stop, 
Jast  to  dine  on  the  shmell  of  a  pasthry-cook's  shop, 
I  saw,  in  the  v  indow,  a  hirge  printed  paper. 
And  read  there  a  name,  och !  that  made  my  heart 

caper — > 
Though  printed  it  was  in  some  quare  ABC, 
That  might  bother  a  sehoolmasther,  let  alone  me. 
By  gor,  you'd  have  laugli'd,  Judy,  could  you've  but 

listeivd, 
As,  doubtui',  I  cried,  "  why  it  is  .' — no,  it  isn't :" 
But  it  was,  after  all — for,  by  spellin'  quite  slow, 
First  I  made  out  "  Rev.  Mortimer" — then  a  great 

'•O;" 
And,  at  last,  by  hard  readin'  and  rackin'  my  skull 

again, 
Out  it  came,  nate  as  imported,  "  O'ilulligan !" 

Up  I  jiimp'd,  like  a  sky-lark,  my  jewel,  at  that 

name, — 
Div'l  a  doubt  cm  my  mind,  but  it  ?;!HS/bc  Ihcsame. 
"  Masther  Murthagh,  himself,"  s.ays  I  ,  all  the  world 

over ! 
"My  own  fosther-brolhcr — by  jinks,  I'm  in  clover. 
»  Though  there,  in  the  play-bill,  he  figures  so  grand, 
"  One  wet-nurse  it  was  brought  us  hulk  up  by  hand, 
"  And  he'll  not  see  me  shtarve  in  the  inemy's  land !" 

Well,  to  make  a  long  hishtory  short,  niver  doubt 
But  I  managed,  in  no  time,  to  find  the  lad  out; 
And  the  joy  of  the  meelin'  bethuxt  him  and  me, 
Such  a  l)air  of  owld  cumrogues — was  charuiiu'  to 

see. 
\i>r  is  Murthagh  less  plased  with  tlT  cvinf  than  / 

am. 
As  he  just  then  was  wanting  a  Vallcy-de-sham ; 
And,  for  drcssin'  a  gintleman,  one  way  or  t'other. 
Your  nate  Irish  had  is  beyant  every  other. 

But  now,  Judy,  comes  the  quare  part  of  the  case ; 
And,  in  throth,  it's  the  only  drawback  on  my  place, 
'Twas  Murthagh's  ill  luck   to  be  crossM,  as  you 

know, 
VViOi  an  awkward  mishforlunc  some  short  lime  ago ; 
That'.i  to  Hay,  ho  turn'd  Protestant — whtj,  I  can't 

Inrn ; 
But,  of  coorse,  lie  knew  best,  an'  it's  not  my  consarn. 
All  I  know  is,  we  both  were  good  Cath'lics,  at  nur.se. 
And  myself  am  «o  slill — nayther  bellher  nor  worse. 
Well,  our  bargain  was  nil  right  and  light  in  n  jilfey, 
And  j.'id"  more  conlint  never  yet  left  the  LilTey, 
Will  ,1    Murthagh — or    Morthimer,    iia    Iic'h    vow 

clirishcn'd, 
lliH  mime  being  eonvartcd,  lit  lai.st,  if /ic  i.sn't — 
Fx)»liin'  sly  at  nie,  (faith,  'twas  divartin'  to  hoc,) 
"OfOKirsr,  you're  a  Prntcsljiiit.  K'lrry,"  hhvh  he, 


Upon  which  s.ays  myself,  wid  a  wink  just  as  shly, 
"Is't  a  Protestant? — oh  yes,  I  am,  sir,"  says  I; — 
And  there  the  chat  ended,  and  div'l  a  more  word 
Controvarsia!  between  us  has  since  then  occurr'd 

WHiat  Murthagh  could  mane,  and'  in  troth,  Judj? 

dear. 
What  I  myself  maant,  doesn't  seem  mighty  cle.ir; 
But  the  thruth  is,  though  still  for  the  Owld  Light  a 

stickler, 
I  was  just  tlicn  too  shtarvcd  to  be  o^■er  partic'lar : — • 
Aiul,  God  knows,  between  us,  a  comic'ler  pair 
Of  twin  Protestants  couldn't  be  .seen  any  where 

Next  Tuesd.ny,  (as  towld  in  the  play-bills  I  min 

tion'd, 
Address'd  to  the  loyal  and  godly  intintion'd,) 
His  rivirence,  n.y  master,  comes  forward  to  preach, — 
Blyself  doesn't  know  whether  sarmon  or  speech, 
But  it's  all  one  to  him,  he's  a  dead  hand  .at  each ; 
Like  us,  Paddys,  in  giu'ral,  whose  skill  in  orations 
Quite  bothers  the  blarney  of  all  other  nations. 

But,  whisht! — there's   his  Rivirence,  shoutin'  out 

"  Larry," 
And  sorra  a  word  more  will  this  .shmall  paper  carry ; 
So  here,  Judy,  ends  my  short  bit  of  a  letther, 
Which,  fai.K,  Pd  have   niaile  a  mucli    bigger  and 

betlher. 
But  div'l  a  one  Post-oflicc  hule  in  this  town 
Fit  to  swallow  a  dacent-sizcd  billy-dux  down. 
So  good  luck  to  the  childer  ! — tell  Molly,  I  lovt 

her; 
Kiss  Oonagh's  sweet  mouth,  and  kiss    Katty   aU 

over — 
Not  forgettin'  the  mark  of  the  red  currant  whiskey 
She  got  at  the  fair  when  your.self  was  so  frisky. 
The  he.avcns  beyour  bed   ! — I  will  write,  when) 

can  again. 
Yours  to  the  worhl's  end, 

LaKRV  O'BRANir.AR. 


I.r.TTKK   \1. 

moM  Mi.xH  iiinnv  it  nun,  to  mhs.  ki.i/.ahktu  —  ^ 

Ibiw  I  grieve  you're  not  with  ns  I — pray,  conm   r 

you  can, 
Fre  we're  robb'd  of  this  dear  onilcirical  iii;in, 
Who  combines  in  himself  all  the  nmllipli'  glory 
Of  Or.Migem.m,  Saint,  ipnmiliim  Papist,  and  Tory;- 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PAKIS. 


155 


fChoice  mixture !  like  tliat  frum  which,  duly  con- 
founded, 
The  best  soi-l  of  brass  w:is,  in   old  times,  com- 
pounded)— 
The  sly  and  the  saintly,  the  worldy  and  godly, 
All  fused  down  in  brogue  so  deliciously  oddly  ! 
[n  short,  he's  a  dear — and  suJi  audiences  draws, 
Such  loud  peals  of  laughter  and  shouts  of  applause, 
As  caii't  but  do  good  to  the  Protestant  cause. 

Poor  dear  Irish  Church! — he  to-day  sketeh'd  a  view 
Of  her  history  and  prospects,  to  me  at  least  new. 
And  which  (if  it  takes  as  it  ought)  must  arouse 
The  whole  Christian  world  her  just  rights  to  espouse. 
As  to  reasoning — you  know,  dear,  that's  now  of  no 

use, 
I'eople  still  will  their  facts  a.m\diyfgures  produce, 
As  if  saving  the  souls  of  a  Protestant  tioek  were 
A  tiling  to  be  managed  "  according  to  Cocker !" 
In  vain  do  we  say,  (when  rude  radicals  hector 
At  paying  some  thousands  a  year  to  a  Rector, 
In  places  where  Protestants  never  yet  were,) 
'  Who  knows  but  young  Protestants  maij  be  born 

there  ?" 
And  granting  such  accident,  th.ink,  what  a  shame. 
If  tliey  didn't  find  Rector  and  Clerk    when   they 

came ! 
It  is  clear  that,  witliout  such  a  staff  on  full  pay 
These  little  Church  embryos  must  go  astray ; 
And,  while  fools  are  computing  what  Parsons  would 

cost, 
I'recious  souls  are  meanwhile  to  th'  Establishment 

lost! 

In  vain  do  we  put  tlie  case  sensibly  thus ; — 
They'll  still  with  then-  figures  and  facts  make  a  fuss. 
And  ask  "  if,  while  all,  choosing  each  his  own  road, 
"  Journey   on,  as  we   can,  towards  the  Heavenly 

Abode, 
"  It   is  right  that  seven  eighths  of  the   travellers 

should,  pay 
"  For  one  eighth  that  goes  quite  a  different  way  ?' — 
Just  as  if,  foolish  people,  this  wasn't,  in  reality, 
A  proof  of  the  Church's  extreme  liberality. 
That,  though  hating  Popery  in  otlier  respects. 
She  to  Catholic  mcfney  in  no  way  objects ; 
And  no  liberal  her  very  best  Saints,  in  this  sense, 
That  they  even  go  to  heaven  at  the  Catholic's  ex- 
pense. 

But,  though  clear  to  our  minds  all  theno  arguments 

be. 
People  cannot  or  loiU  not  their  cogency  see  : 
And.  I  grieve  to  confess,  did  the  poor  Irish  Church 
Stand  on  rtaaom'no'  alone,  she'd  be  left  in  the  lurch. 


It  was  therefore,  dear  Lizzy,  with  joy  mo",t  sincere, 
That  I  heard  this  nice  Reverend  O'something  we've 

here, 
Produce,  from  the  deptiis  of  his  knowledge   and 

reading, 
A  view  of  that  marvellous  Church,  far  exceeding. 
In  novelty,  force,  and  profoundness  of  thought. 
All  that  Irving  himself,  in  his  glory,  o'er  taught. 

Looking  through  the  whole  history,  jirescnit  and 

past, 
Of  the  Irish  Law  Church,  from  tlie  first  to  the  last; 
Considering  how  strange  its  origin.al  birth — 
Such  a  thing  having  never  before  been  on  earth — 
How  opposed   to  the  instinct,  the   law,  and  the 

force 
Of  nature  and  reason  lias  been  its  whole  course  , 
Througli  centuries  encount'ring  repugnance,  resist- 
ance. 
Scorn,  hate,  execration — yet  stiil  in  existence  i 
Considering  all  this,  the  conclusion  he  draws 
Is  that  Nature  exempts  this  one  Church  from  her 

laws — 
Tliat  Reason,  dunib-founder'd,  gives  up  the  dispute, 
And  before  the  portentous  anomaly  stands  mute  ; — 
Tliat,  in  short,  'tis  a  IMiracle  ! — and,  once  begun. 
And  transmitted  through  ^gcs,  from  father  to  son, 
For  the  honor  of  miracles,  ought  to  go  on. 

Never  yet  was  conclusion  so  cogent  and  sound, 
Or  so  fitted  the  Church's  weak  foes  to  confound. 
For,  observe,  the  more  low  all  her  merits  they  place, 
The  more  tliey  make  out  the  miraculous  case. 
And  the  more  all  good   Christi-ans  must  deem  it 

profane 
To  disturb  such  a  prodigy's  marvellous  reign. 

As  for  scriptural  proofs,  he  quite  placed  beyond 

doubt 
That  the  whole  in  the  Apocalypse  may  be  found 

out. 
As   clear  and   well-proved,  he  would   venture   to 

swear. 
As  any  thing  else  has  been  ever  found  there  : — 
While  the  mode  in  which,  bless  the  dear  fellow,  ha 

deals 
With  that  whole  lot  of  vials  and  trumpets  and 

seals. 
And  the  ease  with  which  vial  on  vial  he  strings. 
Shows  him  quite  a  first-rate  at  all  tliese  sort  of 

things. 

So  much  for  theology : — ^as  for  th'  aflfairs 
Of  this  temporal  world — the  light,  drawing-room 
cares 


156 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


And  gay  toils  of  the  toilet,  wliicli,  God  knows,  I 

seek, 
From  no  love  of  such  tilings,  but  in  humbleness 

meek. 
And  to  be,  as  the  Apostle  was,  "weak  with  the 

weak," 
Thou  wilt  find  quite  enough  (till  Fm  somewhat  less 

busy) 
In  th'  extracts  enclosed,  my  dear  news-lo\ing  Lizzy. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  MY  DIARY. 

Thursday. 

Last  night,  having  naught  more  holy  to  do, 
Wrote  a  letter  to  dear  Sir  Andrew  Agnew, 
About  the  "  Do-nothing-on-Sunday-Club," 
Which  we  wish  by  some  shorter  name  to  dub : — 
As  the  use  of  more  vowels  and  consonants 
Than  a  Christian,  on  Sunday,  really  wants, 
Is  a  grievance  that  ought  to  be  done  away. 
And  the  Alphabet  left  to  rest,  that  day. 

Sundnij, 
Sir  Andrew"!*  answer ! — but,  shocking  to  say, 
Being  frank'd  unthinkingly  yesterday, 
To  the  horror  of  Agnews  yet  unborn, 
It  arrived  on  this  blessed  Sunday  morn!  ! — 
How  shocking ! — the  postman's  self  cried  "  shame 

on't," 
Seeing  th'  immaculate  Andrew's  name  on't ! ! 
What  will  the  Club  do? — meet,  no  doubt. 
'Tis  a  matter  that  touches  the  Class  Devout, 
And  the  friends  of  the  Sabbath  musi  speak  out. 

T^egday. 

Saw  to-day,  at  the  raffle — and  saw  it  with  pain — 
That  those  stylish  Fitz-wigramsbcgin  to  dross  plain. 
Even  g-iy  little  Sophy  smart  trimmings  renounces — 
She,  who  long  has  stood  liy  nir  tlirougli  all  sorts  of 

flounces, 
And  .show'd,  by  upholding  the  toilet's  fwect  rites, 
That  we,  girls,  may  bo  Christians,  wilhout  being 

frights. 
This,  I  own,  much  .alarms  me  ;  for  though  one's 

religious, 
And  strict,  and — .all    that,  there's   no  need   to  bo 

hideous ; 
.\ni\  why  a  nice  bonnet  should  stand  in  the  way 
Of  one's  going  to  heaven,  'tisn't  easy  to  say. 

Then,  tlierc's  Gimp,  the  poor  thing — if  her  custom 

we  drop, 
Pr.iy,  what's  to  bccotne  of  her  soul  .'ind  her  shop? 
If  by  saints  like  ourselves  no  more  orders  are  given, 
Hlie'II  loHo  nil  the  interest  she  now  fjikes  in  heaven  ; 
And  (his  nice  little  "  fire-brand,  pinck'fl  from  the 

huriiin^f," 
May  fall  in  .ajjain  at  llic  very  next  turning. 


ffeiKtsiaif. 
Mem. — To  write  to  tlie  India-Mission  Society  ; 
And  send  £20 — heavy  tax  upon  piety  ! 

Of  all  Indian  luxuries  we  now-a-days  boast, 
Making  "Comp.any's  Christians"'"  perhaps  costs  the 

most. 
And  the  worst  of  it  is,  that   these  converts  full 

grown, 
Having  lived  in  our  faith,  mostly  die  in  their  owri," 
Praying  hard,  at  tlie  last,  to  some  god  who,  tliey  say, 
When  incarnate  on  earth,  used  to  steal  curds  and 

whey.  '^ 
Think,  how  horrid,  my  dear! — so  that  all's  thrown 

away ; 
And  (what  is  still  worse)  for  the  rum  and  tlie  rice 
They  consumed,  while  believers,  wo  saints  pay  the 

price. 

Still  tis  cnecring  to  find  tliat  we  di>  save  a  few — 
The   Report   gives   sLx   Christians   for   Cunnang- 

cadoo ; 
Doorkotchum  reckons  seven,  and  four  Tro\  andruni, 
While  but  one  and  a  half's  left  at  Cooroopadiiin. 
In  the  last-mention'd  place  'tis  the  barbers  enslave 

'cm. 
For,  once  they  turn  Christians,  no  barber  will  shava 

'em.'« 

To  atone  for  this  rather  small  Heathen  amount, 
Some  Papists,  turn'd  Christians,"  are  tack'd  to  Ih 

account. 
And  though,  to  catch  Papists,  one  needn't  go  so  far 
Sucli  llsli  are  worth  hooking,  wherever  they  are ; 
And  noiv,  when  so  great  of  such  converts  the  lack  is, 
Orie    Papist   well    caught    is   worth    millions    of 

Blackies. 

Last  night  had  a  dream  so  odd  and  funny, 

I  cannot  resist  recording  it  here. — 
Methought  that  the  Genius  of  Matrimony 

Itefore  ine  stood,  with  a  joyons  leer, 
Leading  a  husband  in  each  hand. 

And  both  for  me,  which  look'd  ratlier  (pieer; — 
One  I  could  perfectly  understand. 

But  why  there  were  two  wasn't  qnile  so  dear 
'Twas  meant,  however,  I  soon  could  see. 

To  afford  me  a  choice — :i  most  elegant  plan  , 
And — who  should  lliis  br.ice  of  caiididales  he. 

But  ^lessrs.  O'.MulIigan  and  Magan  : — 
A  thing,  I  suppose,  unheard  of  till  then. 
To  dream,  at  once,  of  I  wo  Irishmen  I — 
That  li.andsome   Magim,  lor,  with   wings  on   ills 
shoulders, 

(For  all  this  pass'd  in  llu  realms  <i|  llie  Hlcss'd,) 


THE  FUDGES  IN  PARIS. 


157 


And  quite  a  creature  to  Jazzle  beholders ; 

Wliile  even  0'Mullig:in,  feather'd  and  dress'd 

As  an  elderly  cherub,  was  looking  his  best. 
iVh  Liz,  you,  who  know  me,  scarce  can  doubt 
As  to  which  of  the  two  I  singled  out. 
But — awful  to  tell — when,  all  in  dread 

Of  losing  so  bright  a  vision's  charms, 
I  grasp'd  at  Magan,  his  image  (led. 
Like  a  mist,  away,  and  I  found  but  the  head 

Of  O'JIulligan,  wings  and  all,  in  my  arms! 
The  Angel  had  flown  to  some  nest  divine, 
And  the  elderly  Cherub  alone  was  mine ! 
Heigho ! — it  is  certain  that  foolish  Magan 
Either  can't  or  loon^t  see  that  lie  might  be  tlie  man  ; 
And,  perhaps,  dear — wlio  knows  ? — if  naught  better 

befall 
But — O'MuUigan  maij  be  the  man,  after  all. 

N.B. 

Next  week  mean  to  have  my  first  scriptural  rout, 
For  the  special  discussion  of  matters  devout ; — 
Like  those  soirees,  at  Powerscourt,'"  so  justly  re- 
no  wn"d. 
For  the  zeal  with  which  doctrine  and  negus  went 

round ; 
Those  theology  routs  which  the  pious  Lord  Roden, 
That  pink  of  Christianity,  first  set  the  mode  in ; 
Wliere,  blessed  down-pouring !"  from  tea  until  nine. 
The  subjects  lay  all  in  the  Prophecy  line ; — 
Then,  supper — and  then,  if  for  topics  hard  driven, 
Prom  thence  until  bed-time  to  Satan  was  given ; 
While  Roden,  deep  read  in  each  topic  and  tome, 
On  all  subjects  (especially  the  last)  was  at  hnme. 


LETTER  VII. 

rUOM    MISS    F.\>'NY    FUDGE,    TO    HER    COUSIX,    MISS 
KITTY    . 

IRREGULAR  ODE. 

Bring  me  the  slumbering  souls  of  flowers, 

Willie  yet,  beneath  some  northern  sky, 
Ungilt  by  beams,  ungemm'd  by  showers. 
They  wait  the  breath  of  summer  hours, 
To  wake  to  light  each  diamond  eye. 

And  let  loose  every  florid  sigh  ! 
Bring  me  the  first-born  ocean  waves. 
From  out  those  deep  primeval  caves. 
Where  from  the  dawn  of  Time  they've  ^in — 
The  Embryos  of  a  future  Main  ! — 
Untaught  as  yet,  young  things,  to  speak 

The  language  of  their  Parent  Sea, 
(Polyphlysbaean"  named  in  Greek.) 


Though  soon,  too  soon,  in  bay  and  creek, 

Round  startled  isle  and  wondering  peak. 

They'll  thunder  loud  and  long  as  He 

Bring  me,  from  Hecla's  iced  abode, 
Young  fires 

I  h.ad  got,  dear,  thus  far  in  my  Ode, 
Intending  to  fill  the  whole  page  to  the  bottom, 
But,  having  invoked  such  a  lot  of  fine  things. 
Flowers,  billows  and  thunderbolts,  rainbows  and 
wings. 
Didn't  know  what  to  do  with  'cm,  when  I  had  got 

'em 
Tlie  truth  is,  my  thouglits  are  too  full,  at  this  minute, 

Of  past  MSS.  any  new  ones  to  try. 
This  very  night's  coiich  brings  my  destiny  in  it — 

Decides  the  great  question,  to  live  or  to  die ! 
And,  whether  I'm  henceforth  immortal  or  no. 
All  depends  on  the  answer  of  Simpkins  and  Co. ! 
You'll  think,  love,  I  rave,  so  'tis  best  to  let  out 
The  whole  secret,  at  once — I  have  publish'd  a 
Book ! ! ! 
Y'es,  an  actual  Book ; — if  the  mariel  you  doubt, 

Y'ou  have  only  in  last  Mond.ay's  Courier  to  look. 
And  you'll  find  "  This  day  publish'd  by  Simpkina 

and  Co. 
"A   Romaunt,  in   twelve  Cantos,  entitled   'Woe 
Woe!' 

"By  Miss  Fanny  F ,  known  more  commonly 

so  ^W°" 
This  I  put  that  my  friends  mayn't  be  left  in  the  dark, 
But  may  guess  at  my  writing  by  knowing  my  mark. 

How  I  managed  at  last,  tliis  great  deed  to  achieve, 
Is  itself  a  "Romaunt,"  which  you'd  scarce,  dear, 

believe ; 
Nor  can  I  just  now,  being  all  in  a  wliirl. 
Looking  out  for  the  Magnet,'"  explain  it,  dear  girl. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that  one  half  the  e.\pense 
Of  this  leasehold  of  fame  for  long  centuries  hence — 
(Though  "  God  knows,"  as  aunt  says,  my  humble 

ambition 
Aspires  not  beyond  a  small  Second  Edition,) — 
One  half  the  whole  cost  of  the  paper  and  printing, 
I've  managed  to  scrape  up,  this  year  past,  by  stinting 
My  own  little  wants  in  gloves,  ribbons,  and  shoes, 
Thus  defrauding  the  toilet  to  fit  out  the  Muse ! 

And  who,  my  dear  Kitty,  would  not  do  the  s.ame '. 
Wliat's  eay.de  Cologne  to  the  sweet  breath  of  fame'; 
Y'ards  of  ribbon  soon   end— but  the  measure  of 

rhyme, 
Dipp'd  in  hues  of  the  rainbow,  stretcli  out  through 

all  time. 


158 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Gloves  languish  and  ftide  away,  pair  after  pair, 
Wliilc  couplets  shine  out,  but  the  brighter  for  wear. 
Ami  the  dancing-shoe's  gloss  in  an  evening  is  gone, 
VVliile  light-footed  lyrics  through  ages  trip  on. 

The  remaining  expense,  trouble,  risk — and,  alas ! 
My  poor  copyright  too — into  otlier  hands  pass; 
And  my  friend,  the  Head  Devi  of  the  "  County 

Gazette," 
(Tlie  only  ileca:nas  I've  ever  had  yet,) 
He  who  set  up  in  type  my  first  juvenile  lays, 
Is  now  set  up  by  them  for  the  rest  of  his  days ; 
And  while  Gods   (as  my  "Heathen  Mythology" 

says) 
Live  on  naught  but  ambrosia,  his  lot  how  much 

sweeter 
To  live,  lucky  dev'l,  on  a  young  lady"s  metre  ! 
As  for  pujjing — that  first  of  all  lit'rary  boons, 
And  essential  alike  both  to  bards  and  balloons — 
As,  unless  well  supplied  willi  inflation,  'tis  found 
Neitiier  bards  nor  balloons  budge  an  inch  from  the 

ground ; — 
In  this  respect,  naught  could  more  prosp'rous  be- 
fall ; 
As  my  friend  (for  no  less  this  kind  imp  can  I  call) 
[jkHows  the  whole  world  of  critics — the  hypers  and 

all. 
1  suspect  he  himself,  indeed,  dabbles  in  rliyme, 
Which,  for  imps  diabolic,  is  not  the  first  time  ; 
As  Fvc  heard  uncle  Bob  Kiy,  'tw:is  known  among 

Gnostics, 
That  the  Dev'l  on   Two   Sticks  was  a  dev'l   at 

Acrostics. 

But  hark  !  there's  the  Jlagnet  just  dash'd  in  from 

Town— 
How  my  heart,  Kitty,  beats!  I  shall  surely  drop 

down. 
That  nwful  Court  Journal,  Gazette,  Athenaeum, 
All  full  of  my  book — I  shall  sink  when  I  see  'cm. 
And  then  the  great  point — whether  Simpkins  and 

Co. 
Arc  actually  pleased  witli  Iheir  bargain  or  no  I — 

AH'm  delightful — such  praises  I — I  really  fear 
That  this  poor  little  head  will  turn  gidily,  my  dear; 
I've    but    time  now  to  send    you   two   exquisite 

scraps — 
All  the  rest  by  the  Magnet,  on  Monday,  perhaps. 

KauM   THE   "MOBNIXO    POST." 

*J'in  known  that  n  certain  distingiiish'd  phywcinn 
I'rpscribi's,    for    ilijsprpsia,   a    course    of    light 
ri-adini{  ■ 


And   Rhymes   by   young   Ladies,  tl-.e   first,  fresh 

edition, 
(Ere  critics  have  injured  their  powers  of  nutrition,) 
Are  he  tliinks,  for  weak  stomachs,  the  best  sort 

of  feeding. 
Satires  irritate — love-songs  are  found  calorific ; 
But  smootli,  female  sonnets  he  deems  a  specific. 
And,  if  taken  at  bed-time,  a  sure  soporific. 
Among  works  of  this  kind,  the  most  pleasing  wo 

know. 
Is  a  volume  just  publish'd  by  Simpkins  and  Co., 
Where  all  such  ingredients — the  iiowcry,  the  sweet, 
And  the  gently  narcotic — are  mix'd  per  receipt, 
With  a  hand  so  judicious,  we've  no  hesitation 
To  say  that — "hove  all,  for  the  young  generation — 
'Tis  an  elegant,  soothing,  and  safe  preparation. 

Nola  bene — for  readers,  whose  object's  to  sleep. 
And  who  read,  in  their  nightcaps,  the  publishers  keep 
Good  fire-proof  binding,  whieli  comes  very  cheap. 

ANECDOTE FROM    THE    "  COUKT    JOURNAL." 

T'other  night,  .at  the  Countess  of*  *  *'s  rout, 
An  amusing  event  was  much  whisper'd  about, 

It  W!vs  said  that  Lord ,  at  the  Council,  that  d.ay, 

Had,  more  th.an  once,  jump'd  from  his  scat,  like 

a  rocket. 
And  flown  to  a  corner,  where — heedless,  they  .say. 
How    the    country's   resources    were    siiuander'd 

away — 
He  kept  reading  some  papers  he'd    brought  in 

his  pocket. 
Some  thought  them  dispatches  from  Spain  or  the 

Turk, 
Others  swore  they  brought  word   we  had  lo.st 

the  Mauritius; 
But  it  turn'd  out  'twas  only  Miss  Fudge's  new 

work, 
Whicli   his   Lordship   dcvonr'd    witli   such  zeal 

expeditious — 
Messrs.  Simpkins  and  Co.,  to  avoid  all  delay, 
Ilavhig  scut  it  in  slu^cts,  that  his  l.onlship  might 

say, 
Ht  had  distanced   the  wlwile  reading  world  by  » 

day! 


LKTTKR  Vlir. 

nUlM    lloll    M'lXill,    KSg.,    TO    TME    IIEV.    MOUTIMKn 
o'tll'I.I.KIAN. 

I'uegitajf  rrrnimf. 
I  MiTil  regret,  dear  Kpverend  Sir, 

I  could  not  como  to  *  '  *  to  meet  v'lU  ; 


THE  FUDGES  IN  ENGLAND. 


159 


But  tliis  cursed  gout  wo'u't  let  rae  stir — 

Ev'n  now  I  but  by  proxy  greet  you, 
As  tills  vUo  siTawl,  wliate'er  Its  sense  is, 
Owes  all  to  an  amanucnsia. 
Most  other  scourges  of  disease 
Hediice  men  to  extremilies — 
But  gout  wo'n't  leave  one  even  these. 

From  all  my  sister  writes,  I  sec, 
Tiiat  yon  and  I  will  quite  agree. 
I'm  a  plain  man,  who  speak  the  truth, 

And  trust  you'll  think  mo  not  uncivil. 
When  I  declare  that,  from  my  youth, 

I've  wish'd  your  country  at  the  devil : 
Nor  can  I  doubt,  indeed,  from  all 

I've  heard  of  your  high  patriot  fame — 
From  every  word  your  lips  let  fall— 

Th.it  you  most  truly  wish  the  same. 
It  plagues  one's  life  out — thirty  years 
Have  I  had  dinning  in  my  ears, 

"  Ireland  wants  this,  and  that,  and  t'other. 
And,  to  this  hour,  one  nothing  hears 

But  the  same  vile,  eternal  bother. 
While,  of  tliose  countless  things  she  w.anted 
Thank  God,  but  little  has  been  granted. 
And  ev'n  that  little,  if  we're  men 
And  Britons,  we'll  have  b.ack  again! 

I  really  think  th.at  Catholic  question 
Was  what  brought  on  my  indigestion  ; 
And  still  each  year,  as  Popery's  curse 
Has  gather'd  round  us,  I've  got  worse; 
Till  ev'n  my  pint  of  port  a  day 
Can't  keep  the  Pope  and  bile  aw,ay. 
And  whereas,  till  the  Catholic  bill, 
I  never  wanted  draught  or  pill. 
The  settling  of  th.at  cursed  question 
[las  quite  unsettled  my  digestion. 

Ijook  what  has  happen'd  since — the  Elect 
Of  all  the  bores  of  every  sect, 
The  chosen  triers  of  men's  patience. 
From  all  tlie  Tliree  Denominations, 
Let  loose  upon  us :— even  Qu.akers 
Turn'd  into  speechers  and  law  m.akers. 
Who'll  move  no  question,  stilF-rump'd  elves. 
Till  first  the  Spirit  moves  themselves ; 
,\nd  whose  shrill  Yeas  and  Nays,  in  chorus. 
Conquering  our  Ays  and  Nos  sonorous. 
Will  soon  to  death's  own  slumber  snore  us. 

Then,  too,  those  Jews  ! — I  really  sicken 

To  think  of  such  abomination ; 
Fellows,  who  wo'n't  eat  ham  vnth  chicken, 

To  legisl.afe  for  this  great  nnti(  n  ! — 


Depend  upon't,  when  once  they'\  e  sway, 

With  rich  old  Goldsraid  at  the  head  o'  them ! 

Th'  E.xcise  l.aws  will  be  done  away. 

And  Circumnise  ones  pass'd  instead  o'  thcai  I 

In  short,  dear  sir,  look  where  one  will, 
Things  all  go  on  so  devilish  ill. 
That  'pon  my  soul,  I  rather  fear 

Our  reverend  Rector  may  be  right, 
Who  tells  me  the  Millennium's  near : 
N.ay,  swears  he  knows  the  very  year. 

And  regulates  his  leases  by't ; — 
Meaning  their  terms  should  end,  no  doubt. 
Before  the  world's  own  lease  is  out. 
He  tliinks,  too,  that  the  whole  thing's  ended 
So  much  more  soon  than  was  intended, 
Purely  to  scourge  those  men  of  sin 
Who  brought  th'  accursed  Reform  Bill  in.^' 

However,  let's  not  yet  despair  ; 

Though  Toryism's  eclipsed,  at  present. 
And — like  myself,  in  this  old  chair — 

Sits  in  a  state  by  no  means  pleasant ; 
Feet  crippled — hands,  in  luckless  hour. 
Disabled  of  their  gr.asping  power; 
And  all  that  rampant  glee,  which  rcvell'd 
In  this  world's  sweets,  be-duU'd,  be-devird— 
Yet,  though  condemn'd  to  frisk  no  more, 

And  both  in  Chair  of  Penance  set. 
There's  something  tells  me,  all's  not  o'er, 

With  Toryism  or  Bobby  yet ; 
That  though,  between  us,  I  allow 
We've  not  a  leg  to  stand  on  now ; 
Though  cursed  Reform  and  colchicum 
Have  made  us  both  look  deuced  glum, 
Yet  still,  in  spite  of  Grote  and  Gout, 
Again  we'll  shine  triumphant  out! 

Yes — back  .again  sh.all  come,  egad, 
Our  turn  for  sport  my  reverend  lad. 
And  then,  O'Mulligan — oh  then. 
When  mounted  on  our  nags  again, 
You,  on  your  high-flown  Rosiii.ante, 
Bedizen'd  out,  like  Show-Gal  Ian  tee, 
(Glitter  great  from  substance  scanty  ;) — 
While  I,  Bob  Fudge,  Esquire,  shall  rido 
Your  faithful  Sancho,  by  your  side  ; 
Then — talk  of  tilts  and  tournaments  I 
Dara'me,  we'll 


'Squire  Fudge's  clerk  proRente 
To  Reverend  Sir  his  compliments  ; 
Is  grieved  to  say  .an  accident 
Has  just  occurr'd  which  will  <  revent 


160 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


The  Squire — though  now  a  little  Letter — 

From  finisliing  tliis  present  letter. 

Just  when  he'd  got  to  "  Dam'rae,  we'll " 

Hi3  Honor,  full  of  martial  zeal, 

Grasp'd  at  his  crutch,  but  not  being  able 
To  keep  liis  balance  or  his  hold 
Tumbled,  both  self  and  crutch,  and  roll'd 

Like  ball  and  bat,  beneath  t!ie  table. 

All's  safe — the  table,  ch.iir,  and  crutch; — 
Nothing,  tliank  God,  is  broken  much. 
But  the  Squire's  head,  whicli,  in  the  fall. 
Got  bumj)"d  consid'rably — that's  all. 
At  this  no  great  alarm  we  feel. 
As  the  Squire's  head  can  bear  a  deal. 

IVedncsday  morni) 

Squire  much  tlie  same — head  ratlier  liglit — 
Raved  about  "Barbers'  Wigs"  all  night. 

Our  housekeeper,  old  Jlrs.  Griggs, 
Suspects  tliat  he  meant  "barbarous  Whigs." 


LETTER  IX. 

FEOM    I.AUIIY    o'liRANlGAX,  TO    IlIS    WIFK    JUDT. 

As  it  was  but  last  week  that  I  sint  you  a  lettlier. 
You'll  wondher,  dear  Judy,  what  tliis  is  about ; 

And,  tlirolli,  it's  a  Ictlher  myself  would  like  bettlicr. 
Could  I  manage  to  lave  the  continls  of  it  out; 

For  sure,  if  it  makes  even  me  onaisy. 

Who  takes  things  quiet,  'twill  dlirive  you  crazy. 

Oh,  Judy,  that  rivcrind  Jrurthagli,  bad   scran   to 

him ! 
That  e'er  I  should  come  to'vc  been  sarvant-man  to 

him ! 
Or  .so  far  demanc  the  O'Branigan  blood. 
And  my  Aunts,  the  Diluvians,  (whom  not  ev'n  the 

Flood 
WiLs  able  to  wash  aw.iy  plane  from  tlie  eartli,)" 
As  to  sarve  one  whoso  name,  of  mere  yestlierday's 

binh. 
Can  no  more  to  a  great  O,  brfarp.  it,  purlend, 
Than  mine  can  to  wear  a  great  CJ  at  its  end. 

nut  that's  now  all  over — last  night  I  gev  warnin', 
And,   ma'illi'r   as  ho    is,   will   discharge    liiin    (his 

mornin'. 
Tiid  lliief  of  Iho  world  I — but  lis  no  n.so  balnig- 

giii' ;— " 
All  I  know  Is,  I'd  fiflj  limes  rather  be  draggin' 


OulJ  ladies  up  liill  to  the  ind  of  my  days, 

Than  with  Murthagh  to  rowl  in  a  chaise,  at  luy 
aise, 

And  be  forced  to  discind  thro'  the  same  dirty  w.iys. 

Arrah,  sure,  if  I'd  heerd  where  he  hist  .sliow'd  his 
phiz, 

I'd  have  known  wliat  a  quare  sort  of  monstlier  li" 
is; 

For,  by  gor, 'twas  at  E.xether  Change,  sure  enougli, 

Th.at  himself  and  his  other  wild  Irisli  sliow'd  off; 

And  it's  pity,  so  'tis,  that  they  hadn't  got  no  man 

\\'lio  knew  the  wild  craythnrs  to  act  as  tlieir  show, 
man — 

Sayin',  "  Ladies  and  Gintlemnn,  plaze  to  take  no- 
tice, 

"  How  sidim  and  iiow  slilook  tliis  black  animal's 
coat  is ; 

"  All  by  raison,  we're  towld,  that  the  nnlhnr  o'  the 
baste 

"  Is  to  change  its  coat  mice  in  its  lifetime,  at  hisle ; 

"  And  such  objiks,  in  our  eounlliry,  not  bein'  com- 
mon ones, 

"Are  bought  up,  as  this  was,  by  way  of  Fine 
Nomenons. 

"In  regard  of  its  vame — why,  in  tlivolh,  I'mcon- 
s.arn'd 

"To  dilfer  on  tliis  point  so  mucli  witli  the  Larii'd, 

"Who  call  it  a  '  Morlhimer,'  whereas  the  eraythur 

"Is  plainly  a  '  Murtiiagli,'  by  name  and  by  nathur." 

Tills  is  liow  I'd  have  towld  lliein  llie  riglits  of  it 

all, 
Had  /  been  their  showman  .at  Exetlier  Hall — 
Not  forgellin'  that  otiier  groat  wondher  of  Airin 
(Of  th'  owld  billlier  breed  which  th.'V  cill  Prosbe- 

tairin.) 
Tlie  famed  Daddy  Cooke — wlia,  by  gor,  I'd  liavo 

shown  'cm 
As  proof  how  such  bastes  niav  be   lauieil,  wlicii 

you've  tlirown  'em 
A  good  frindly  sop  of  Ihe  rale  llaigiii  Dtinctii.'" 

But,  tlirolh,  I've  no  laisnre  just  now,  Judy  dear. 

For  any  thing,  bnrrin'  our  own  doings  liere, 

And  the   ciirsin'   .-nid   daiiiinin'  and  thuiid'rin',  like 

mad. 
We  I'apists,  God  help  lis,  from  Aliirlliagli  have  had. 
He  sayo  we're  all  murlhercrs— iliv'l  a  bit  less — 
And  that  even  our  priest.s,  when  wo  go  lo  confess, 
Give  us  lessons  in  mnrlh'nng  and  wish  us  success  1 

Wlirn  ax'd  how  he  daar'd,  liy  tongue  or  by  pen. 
To  belie,  in  this  way,  seven  millions  of  men. 
Faith,  lie   said   'twas  all    lowld    liiiii    bv   I'octlior 
Den  :" 


THE  FUDGES  IN   ENGLAND. 


161 


"And  who  the  div'l's  he?"  was  the  question  that 

flew 
From  Ciirishlian   to   Chrishtian — but  not  a   sowl 

knew. 
Wliile  on  went  IMurthagh,  in  ilij^ant  style, 
JMasphamiiig  us  Cath'lics  all  the  while, 
As  a  pack  of  desaivers,  parjurers,  villians, 
All  the  whole  kit  of  th'  aforesaid  millions, — " 
Yourself,  dear  Judy,  as  well  as  the  rest. 
And  the  innocent  craythur  that's  at  your  breast. 
All  rogues  together,  in  word  and  deed, 
Owld  Den  our  insthructor  and  Sin  our  creed ! 

When  ax'd  for  his  proofs  again  and  again, 
Div'l  an  answer  he'd  give  but  Docthor  Den. 
Couldn't  he  call  into  coort  some  livin'  men? 
"  No,  thank  you" — he'd  stick  to  Docthor  Den — 
An  owld  gentleman  dead  a  century  or  two. 
Who  all  about  us,  live  Cath'lies,  knew ; 
And  of  coorse  was  more  handy,  to  call  in  a  hurry. 
Than  Docthor  Blac  Hale  or  Docthor  Murray  ! 

But,  throth,  it's  no  case  to  be  jokin'  upon. 
Though  myself,  from  bad  habits,  is  makin'  it  one. 
Even  you,  had  you  witness'd   his   grand   climac- 

therics, 
Which  actially  threw  one  owld  maid  in  hysterics — 
Or,  och !  had  you  heerd  such  a  purty  remark  as 

his. 
That  Papists  are  only  '^Hmnanili/s  carcasses, 
'^  Ris'n" — ^but,  by  dad,  I'm  afeard   I  can't  give  it 

"  Ris'nfrom  the  sepulchre  of — inactivity ; 
"  And,  like  owld  corpses,  dug  upfront  antikity, 
"  Wandriii  about  in  all  sorts  of  inikity  .' .' — ■" 
Even   you,  Judy,  true   as   you  are   to   the   Owld 

Light, 
IVould  have  laugli'd,  out  and  out,  at  this  iligant 

flight 
Of  (hat  figure  of  speech  call'd  the  Blatherumskite. 
As  for  me,  though  a  funny  thought  now  and  then 

came  to  me. 
Rage  got  the  betther  at  last — .and  small  bl.ime  to 

me  I 
So,  slapping  my  thigh,  "by  the  Powers  of  Delf," 
Says  I  bowldly,  "I'll  miike  a  noriition  myself." 
And  with  that  up  I  jumps — but,  my  darlint,  the 

minit 
I  cock'd  up  my  head,  div'l  a  sinse  remain'd  in  it. 
Though,  saited,  I  could  have  got  beautiful  on, 
When  I  tuk  to  my  legs,  faith,  the  g.ib  was  all 

gone ; — 
Wliich  was  odd,  for  us,  Pats,  who,  what  e'er  we've  a 

hnnd  in, 
At  laste  in  our  legs  show  a  sthrong  understandin'. 
21 


Howsumdevcr,  dctarmincd  the  chaps  should  pur- 

saivo 
What  I  thought  of  their  doin's,  before  I  tuk  lave, 
"  In  regard  of  all  that,"  says  I — there   I  stopp'd 

short — 
Not  a  word  move  would  come,  though  I  sthraggled 

hard  for't. 
So,  shnapping  my  fingers  at  what's  call'd  the  Chair, 
And  the  owld  Lord  (or  Lady,  I  b'lieve)   that  sat 

there — 
"  In  regard  of  all  that,"  says  I  bowldly  again — 
"  To  owld  Nick  I  pitch  Mortimer — and  Docthor 

Den;"— 
Upon  which  the  whole  company  cried  out  "  Amen  ;" 
And  myself  was  in  hopes  'twas  to  what  /  had  said. 
But,  by  gor,  no  such  thing — they  were  not  so  weL 

bred : 
For,  'twas  all  to  a  pray'r  Murthagh  just  had  read  out. 
By  way  of  fit  finish  to  job  so  devout ; 
Th.at  is — afther  well  damning  one-half  the  com- 
munity. 
To  pray  God  to  keep  all  in  peace  an'  in  unity  ! 

This  is  all  I  can  shtuft'in  this  letther,  though  plinty 
Of  news,  faith,  I've  got  to  fill  more — if  'twas  twinty. 
But  I'll  add,  on  the  outside,  a  line,  should  I  need  if, 
(Writin'  "  Private"  upon  it,  that  no  one  may  read  if,) 
To  tell  you  how  Mortimer  (as  the  Saints  chrishten 

him) 
Bears  the  big  shame  of  his  sarvant's  dismisslun'  him. 

{Private  outside.) 

Just  comb  from  his  riv'rence — the  job  is  all  done — 
By  the  powers,  I've  discharged  him  as  sure  as  a 

gun! 
And  now,  Judy  dear,  what  on  earth  I'm  to  do 
With  myself  and  my  appetite — both  good  as  new— ■ 
Without  ev'n  a  single  traneen  in  my  pocket, 
Let  alone  a  good,  dacent  pound-starlin',  to  stock  it. 
Is  a  mysht'ry  I'll  Lave  to  the  One  that's  above. 
Who  takes  care  of  us,  dissolute  sowls,  when  hard 

dhrove ! 


LETTER  X 

raOM    TUE    EEV.    MORTIMER    o'mUI-LIGAN',    TO   TBE 
EEV.    

These  few  brief  lines,  my  reverend  friend, 
By  a  safe,  private  hand  I  send, 
(Fearing  lest  some  low  Catholic  wag 
Should  pry  into  the  Letter-bag.) 
To  tell  you,  far  as  pen  can  dare. 
How  we,  poor  errant  martyrs,  fare ;— 


162 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Martyrs,  not  quite  to  fire  and  rack. 
As  S.unt3  were,  some  few  ages  back, 

All  scattcr'd,  one  by  one,  away, 
As  flashy  and  unsound  as  they. 

But — scarce  less  trying  in  its  way — 
To  laughter,  wheresoe'er  we  stray ; 
To  jokes,  which  Pro%idence  mysterious 

The  question  comes — wh.at's  to  be  done? 
And  there's  but  one  course  left  me — oTie. 
Heroes,  when  tired  of  war's  alarms. 

Permits  on  men  and  things  so  serious. 
Lowering  the  Church  still  more  each  minute. 
And — injuring  our  preferment  in  it. 

Seek  sweet  repose  in  beauty's  arms. 
The  weary  Day-God's  last  retreat  is 
The  breast  of  silv'ry-footed  Thetis; 

Just  think,  how  worrying  'tis,  my  friend, 
To  find,  where'er  our  footsteps  bend. 

Small  jokes,  like  squibs,  .around  us  wliizzing; 
And  bear  the  eternal  torturing  play 
Of  that  great  engine  of  our  day. 

Unknown  to  th'  Inquisition — quizzing ! 

And  mine,  as  mighty  Love's  my  judge. 
Shall  be  the  .arms  of  rich  Jliss  Fudge  ! 

Start  not,  my  friend, — the  tender  scheme, 
Wild  and  romantic  though  it  seem, 
Beyond  a  parson's  fondest  dream. 
Yet  shines,  too,  with  those  golden  dyes 

• 

Your  men  of  thumb-screws  and  of  racks 
Aim'd  at  the  hody  their  attacks ; 
But  modern  torturers,  more  refined, 

So  pleasing  to  a  parson's  eyes — 
That  only  gilding  which  the  muse 
Cannot  .around  lier  sons  diffuse  ; — 

Work  their  machinery  on  the  mind. 

Wliich,  whencesoever  flows  its  bliss. 

Had  St.  Sebastian  had  the  luck 
With  me  to  be  a  godly  rover. 

From  wealthy  Miss  or  benefice. 
To  Jlortimer  indiff^'rent  is. 

Instead  of  arrows,  he'd  be  stuck 

So  he  can  m;ilve  it  only  his. 

With  stings  of  ridicule  all  over ; 

A  poor  St.  Lawrence,  who  was  kill'd 

There  is  but  one  slight  damp  I  see 

By  being  on  a  gridir'n  grill'd. 
Had  he  but  shared  my  errant  lot, 

Upon  this  scheme's  felicity. 

And  that  is,  the  fair  heroine's  claim 

Inste.ad  of  grill  on  gridir'n  hot. 

Th.at  I  shall  tiike  her  family  name. 

A  moral  roasting  would  have  got. 

To  this  (though  it  may  look  henpeck'd) 

Nor  should  I  (trying  as  all  this  is) 

I  can't  quite  doecMlly  object. 
Having  myself  long  clios'n  to  shino 

Much  heed  the  suffering  or  the  shame — 

Conspicuous  in  the  alias"  line  ; 

As,  like  an  actor,  used  to  hisses. 

So  t!;:it  henceforth,  by  wife's  decree, 

I  long  Imve  known  no  other  fame. 
But  that  (.as  I  may  own  to  you. 

(For  Biddy  from  this  point  won't  budge,) 
Your  old  friend's  new  address  must  be 

Though  to  the  world  it  would  not  do) 

The  Rev.  Mortimer  O'Fiidge — 

No  hope  .appe.irs  of  fortune's  beams 

The  "O"  being  kept,  that  all  may  see 

Shining  on  any  of  my  sc'iemes ; 

No  chance  of  something  more  per  ann. 

As  supplement  to  Kcllym.an  ; 

No  prospect  that,  by  fierce  .abuse 

Of  Ireland,  I  shall  e'er  induce 

The  rulers  of  this  thinking  nation 

To  rid  us  of  Emancipation  ; 

To  forge  anew  the  scver'd  chain, 

And  bring  back  I'eiial  Laws  again. 

All,  happy  time!  when  wolves  and  priests 
Alike  wore  hunted,  as  wild  beastji; 
And  five  pounds  was  the  price,  ■jKr  head, 
For  bagging  either,  live  or  dead  ; — " 
Though  oft,  we're  told,  nrv:  outlaw'd  brother 
Saved  cost,  by  eating  up  the  other. 

Finding  llnm  .all  Ihoso  HchcmcB  and  hopes 
I  built  upon  my  flowers  and  tropes 


We're  both  of  antient  family. 

Such,  friend,  nor  need  the  fact  amaze  you. 
My  public  life's  calm  Euthanasia. 
Thus  bid  I  long  farewell  to  all 
The  freaks  of  Exeter's  old  Hall- 
Freaks,  in  grimace,  its  apes  exceeding. 
And  rivalling  its  bears  in  hrceiling. 
Farewell,  the  jilatlonn  fillM  with  preachers— 
The  prny'r  giv'n  o\it,  as  grace,''  by  speeciitrk 
Ero  they  cut  up  their  fellow  creatures  : — 
Farewell  to  dead  old  Dens's  volumes, 
And,  scarce  less  dead,  old  Standanl's  columns 
From  each  and  all  I  now  retire, 
My  tjisk,  henceforth,  as  spouse  and  sire. 
To  bring  up  little  filial  Fudges, 
To  be  M.  I'.s,  and  I'ecrs,  mid  Judges — 
Parsons  I'd  add  too,  if  al.as! 
Tliorc  yet  were  hope  the  Church  could  pass 


THE  FUDGES  IN  ENGLAND. 


163 


Tlie  ^alf  now  oped  for  hers  and  her, 

Or  loiig  survive  what  Exeter — 

Both  Hall  ana  Bishop,  of  that  name — 

Have  done  to  sink  her  reverend  fame, 

Adieu,  dear  friend — you'll  oft  hear  from  me. 

Now  I'm  no  more  a  travelling  drudge ; 

Meanwhile  I  sign  (that  you  may  judge 
How  well  the  surname  will  become  me) 
Years  truly, 

MORTIMEK  O'PVdGE. 


LETTER  XI. 

FROM   riTEICK  MAGA>f,    ESQ.,   TO  THE  EEV. 
EICILAUD    . 


,  Ireland. 

Dear  Dick — just  arrived  at  ray  own  humble  glte, 
I  enclose  you,  postr-haste,  the   account,  all   com- 
plete, 
lust  arrivf-d,  per  express,  of  our  late  noble  feat. 

yExtfoct  from  the  "  County  Oazette."} 

This  place  is  getting  gay  and  full  again. 
***** 

Last  week  was  married,  "  in  the  Lord," 
The  Reverend  Mortimer  O'MuUigan, 

Preacher,  in  Irish,  of  the  Word, 
(He,  who  the  Lord's  force  lately  led  on — 
Exeter  Hall  his  Arma^-ft-geddon,)'" 
To  Miss  B.  Fudge  of  Pisgah  Place, 
One  of  the  chos'n,  as  "  heir  of  grace," 
And  likewise  heiress  of  Phil.  Fudge, 
Esquire,  defunct,  of  Orange  Lodge. 

Same  evening.  Miss  F.  Fudge,  'tis  hinted — 

Niece  of  the  above,  (whose  "  Sylvan  Lyre," 
In  our  Gazette,  last  week,  we  printed.) 

Eloped  with  Pat.  Magan,  Esquh-e. 
The  fugitives  were  track'd,  some  time. 

After  they'd  left  the  Aunt's  abode, 
By  scraps  of  paper,  scrawl'd  with  rhyme. 

Found  strew'd  along  the  Western  road ; — 
Some  of  them,  ci-devant  curl  papers. 
Others,  half  burnt  in  lighting  tapers. 
This  I  lue,  however,  to  their  flight. 

After  some  miles  was  seen  no  more ; 
And,  from  inquiries  made  last  night. 

We  find  they've  reach'd  th3  Irish  shore. 


Every   word   of    it   true,   Dick — tli'   escape   from 

Aunt's  tlirall— 
Western  road — lyric   fragments — curl-papers  and 

all. 
My  sole  stipulation,  ere  link'd  at  the  shrine, 
(As  some  b.alance  between  Fanny's  numbers  and 

mine,) 
Was  that,  when  wo  were  one,  she  must  give  up  the 

Nine; 
Nay,  devote  to  the  Gods  her  whole  stock  of  MS. 
With  a  vow  never  more  against  prose  to  transgress. 
This  she  did,  like  a  heroine ; — smack  went  to  bits 
The  whole  produce  sublime  of  her  dear  little  wits — 
Sonnets,  elegies,  epigrams,  odes,  canzonets — 
Some  twisted  up  neatly,  to  form  allumettes. 
Some  turn'd  into  papiltotes,  worthy  to  rise 
And  enwreathe  Berenice's  brigiit  locks  in  the  skies ! 
While  the  rest,  honest  Larry  (who's  now  in  my  pay) 
Begg'd,  as  " lover  oipdthry"  to  read  on  the  way. 

Having  thus  of  life's  poetry  dared  to  dispose. 
How  we  now,  Dick,  shall  manage  to  get  through 

its  prose, 
With    such   slender    materials    for   style.   Heaven 

knows ! 
But — I'm  call'd  off  abruptly — another  Express ! 
What  the   deuce   can   it   mean  1 — I'm   alarm'd,   1 

confess. 

P.S. 
Hurrah,  Dick,  hurrah,  Dick,  ten  thousand  hurrahs ! 
I'm  a  happy,  rich  dog  to  the  end  of  my  days. 
There — read  the  good  news — and  while  glad,  for 

my  sake, 
That  Wealth  should  thus  follow  in  Love's  shining 

wake. 
Admire  also  the  moral — that  he,  the  sly  elf. 
Who  has  fudged  all  tlie  world,  should  be  now 

fudged  himself! 

EXTBACT    FROM    LETTER    ENCLOSED. 

With  pain  the  mournful  news  I  write. 
Miss  Fudge's  uncle  died  last  night ; 
And  much  to  mine  and  friends'  surprise. 
By  will  doth  all  his  wealth  devise — 
Lands,  dwellings — rectories  likewise — 
To  his  "  beloved  gr.and-niece,"  Miss  Fanny, 
Leaving  l\Iiss  Fudge  herself,  who  many 
Long  years  hath  waited — not  a  penny ! 
Have  notified  the  same  to  latter. 
And  wait  instructions  in  the  matter. 

For  self  and  pirtncrs,  &lc.  Sf^ 


161 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


NOTES. 


(1)  That  floor  which  a  facetious  garreteer  called  "  le  premier 
tfi  descendant  du  ciel." 

(2)  See  the  Dublin  Evening  Post,  of  the  9th  of  this  month, 
(July.)  for  an  account  of  a  scene  which  lately  took  place  at  a 
meeting  of  the  Synod  of  Ulster,  in  which  the  performance  of 
the  above-mentioned  part  by  the  personage  in  question  ap- 
pears to  have  been  worthy  of  all  ita  former  reputation  in  that 
line. 

(3)  "  All  are  punsters  if  they  have  wit  to  be  so ;  and  there- 
fore when  an  Irishman  baa  to  commence  with  a  Bull,  you  will 
naturally  pronounce  it  a  hall.  (A  laugh.)  Allow  me  to  bring 
before  you  the  famous  Bull  that  is  called  Unigenitus,  referring 
to  the  only-begollen  Son  of  God." — Report  of  the  Rev.  Doctor^a 
speechi  June  20,  in  the  Record  J\''ewspapcr. 

(4)  [n  the  language  of  the  play-bills,  "Ground  and  Lofty 
rumbling." 

(5)  "Morning  Manna,  or  Britiuli  Verse-book,  neatly  done  up 
for  tho  pocket,"  and  chieily  intended  to  assist  the  members  of 
the  Ilrilish  Verso  Association,  whose  design  is,  we  are  told, 
^'to  induce  the  inhabitants  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  to 
commit  one  and  the  same  verse  of  t'cripture  to  nienutry  t^very 
morning.  Already,  it  is  known,  several  thousand  pers(uis  in 
Scotland,  besides  tens  of  thousands  in  America  and  Africa, 
are  every  morning  teaming  the  same  versed 

(6)  The  Evangelical  Magazine.— A  few  specimens  taken  at 
random  from  Ihu  wra|»per  of  this  highly  esteemed  periodical 
will  fully  justify  the  character  which  Miss  Fudge  has  here 
given  of  it.  "  Wanted,  in  a  pious  pawnbroker's  family,  an 
active  lad  as  an  a[>prentice.''  '■  Wauled,  as  housemaid,  a 
young  female  who  bus  been  brought  to  a  saving  knowledge  of 
the  Irulh."  "  Wanted  immediately,  a  man  of  decided  piety,  to 
asaist  In  tho  baking  business."  "A  gentleman  who  under- 
stands the  Wine  Trade  is  desirous  of  entering  into  partnership, 
kc,  &.C,  He  is  not  desirous  of  being  connected  with  any  one 
whose  system  of  btiHiness  is  not  uf  the  strictest  integrity  as  in 
the  sight  of  God,  and  seeks  connection  only  with  a  truly  j)ious 
man,  either  Churchman  or  Dissenter." 

(7>  According  to  the  late  Mr.  Irving,  there  is  even  a  peculiar 
form  of  theology  got  uj)  expressly  for  tiio  money-market.  ^  I 
know  how  far  wide,"  he  says,  "of  the  mark  my  views  of  Chrlfil's 
work  in  the  lletili  will  bu  viewed  by  thosu  who  are  working 
with  the  alock-Jobbing  theology  of  the  religious  world."  "Lot 
these  prencherA,"  hu  adds,  "(fori  will  not  call  them  Ihoolo- 
giaiiB,)  cry  u|»,  brukurlike,  tlieir  artirle." 

burning  Hatch.— "So.  111.,  412,  443. 

From  Iho  slateinent  of  another  writer.  In  llie  s.-nne  publlca- 
llon.  it  would  iipprar  that  Ihu  utock-brokerM  have  even  tkit  up 
a  now  Divinity  of  their  own.  "This  shows,"  says  Uie  writer 
In  ')uentlon,  "  that  tho  doctrine  of  tho  union  between  I'hrlsl 
and  hilt  members  In  qnllu  am  esMinllnl  as  that  of  substitullftn, 
by  taking  which  lallvr  alone  Iho  Utock-F.irhange  Jjiriniiy  haa 
\n-vn  proluced." — No.  x.,  p.  37.i. 

Arii'ing  ihr  anetenlN,  wu  know  Iho  mimey-mnrket  waji  pro- 
«lili-d  with  more  Ihnn  ouo  presiding  Deity— "Dciu  Pucuniin 
(Mya  au  ajclenl  author;  cutDmcndaboDliir  ut  pccunlosl  ca* 
•ant.' 


(8)  With  regard  to  the  exact  time  of  this  event,  there  ap- 
pears to  be  a  difference  only  of  about  two  or  tliree  years 
among  the  respective  calculators.  M.  Alphose  Nicole,  Docteur 
en  Droit,  et  Avocat,  merely  doubts  whether  it  is  to  be  in  1846 
or  1&47.  "A  cette  bpoqvie,"  be  says,  "les  fideles  peuvenl 
espcrer  de  voir  s'effectuer  la  purification  du  Sanctuaire." 

(9)  "Our  anxious  desire  is  to  bo  found  on  the  side  of  the 
Lord." — Record  J^ewspaper, 

(10)  Tlie  Irish  peasantiy  are  very  fond  of  giving  fine  names 
to  their  pigs.  I  have  heard  of  one  Instance  in  which  a  couple 
of  young  pigs  were  named,  at  their  birth,  Abelurd  and  Eloisa. 

(11)  The  title  given  by  the  natives  to  such  of  their  country- 
men as  become  converts. 

(IC)  Of  such  relapses  wo  find  innumerable  instances  in  the 
accounts  of  the  Missionaries. 

(\Z}  The  god  Krishna,  ono  of  the  incarnations  of  tho  god 
Vishnu.  "  One  day  (says  the  Bhagavata)  Krishna's  play- 
fellows coniphiined  to  Tusuda  that  be  bad  pilfered  and  ate 
their  curds." 

(14)  "Roleen  wants  shaving,  but  the  barber  here  will  not  do 
it.  He  is  run  away  lest  he  should  bo  compelled.  He  says  ha 
will  not  shave  Vesoo  Kreest's  people." — liapt.  .Mission  Society, 
vol.  ii.  p.  493. 

(15)  In  the  Itejiorts  of  the  Missionaries,  the  Roman  Catholica 
are  almost  always  classed  along  with  the  Heathen.  "I  have 
extended  my  labors  (says  .hunes  ^'enning,  in  a  Report  for 
\K\\)  to  Ihe  Healhen,  Mahomedans.  and  Roman  Catholics." 
^'■The  Heathen  and  Roman  Catholics  in  this  neighborhood 
(says  another  missionary  for  tho  year  18;i-)  aro  not  indillerenti 
but  withstand,  rather  than  yield  to,  the  force  of  truth." 

(10)  An  account  of  Iheso  Powerscourt  Conversaziones 
(uTuler  the  ilirect  pi-esidency  t)f  Lord  Koiien.)  as  well  as  a  list 
of  the  subjects  discussed  at  tho  diilerent  nu'elings,  may  bo 
found  in  Ihe  Christian  Herald  for  the  month  of  December, 
lH3i.  The  following  is  a  specinu-n  of  the  nature  of  the  ques- 
ti<uis  submitted  to  tho  company;^"  JMmtday  F.vmingy  Six 
ti'clock^  September  iJ4,  IKh!. — 'An  e.xaminaliiui  into  the  quota- 
tions given  in  the  New  Testament  from  tho  old,  with  their 
connection  and  expl.malion,  vl/..'  &e.,  ic. —  lf'eihif.iila!/, — 
^Should  wo  expect  a  personal  AntichriHtY  and  lo  trhom  trill  kn 
be  rcvralrd?*  &.C.,  fitc. — Fridaij. — •What  lluht  does  Scripture 
throw  on  present  events,  and  their  moral  character?  H'hat  is 
next  to  be  looked  f*>r  or  ciprclfd  7'  '*  &C. 

The  rapid  procrens  made  ril  thi-s(<  lea-partii-s  in  Hctlling 
points  of  ^^criplure,  iiuiy  be  judged  from  a  paragra|)h  in  Ihu 
account  given  of  one  of  their  evening!*,  by  the  (  hrislian 
Herald  :— 

"On  Da:vjel  n  good  deal  of  light  wa<4  Ihrown,  and  there  v,nn 
Rome,  I  think  not  ko  nuich.  perhapN.  upon  the  IU<\e]ationrt ; 
though  particular  parln  of  it  wi*ro  dl(«cim»ed  with  mnNidi-niHo 
nccettolon  of  knowliMl^e.  There  was  Kouie  very  iuteresiing 
Inipiiry  an  to  the  quolullon  of  the  Old  Tenlarnrut  In  tin-  New  ; 
particularly  on  tho  point,  wlielher  there  wan  any  'uccomnio- 
datluHt^  or  whether  they  wuro  quoted  according  to  tlio  miuil 


THE  FUDGES  IN  ENGLAND. 


165 


of  the  Spirit  in  the  Old :  tliis  gave  occasion  to  acme  very 
Interesting  development  of  i^criptdro.  The  progress  of  the 
\ntichristian  powers  was  very  fully  discussed." 

(17)  "  About  eight  o'clock  the  Lord  began  to  pour  down  his 
spirit  copiously  upon  us— for  they  had  all  by  this  time  as- 
sembled in  my  room  for  the  purpose  of  prayer.  This  down- 
pouring  continued  till  about  ten  o'clock." — Letter  from  Mary 
Campbell  to  the  Uev.  John  Campbell,  of  Row,  (dated  Fenii- 
cary,  April  4,  1S30,)  giving  an  account  of  her  "miraculous 
cure."" 

(IB)  If  ycu  guess  what  tliis  word  means,  'tis  more  than  / 
can  : — 
I  but  give't  as  I  got  it  from  Mr.  Magan.  F.  F. 

(10)  A  day-coach  of  that  name. 

(20)  Tliis  appears  to  have  been  the  opinion  also  of  an 
eloquent  writer  in  the  Morning  Watch.  "One  great  object  of 
Christ's  second  Advent,  as  the  Man  and  as  the  King  of  the 
Jews,  is  tu  punish  the  Kin^s  who  do  not  acknowledge  that 
their  authority  is  derived  from  him,  and  icho  submit  to  receive 
it  from  that  manij-hcadcd  monster^  the  mob.''''    No.  x.  p.  373. 

(21)  "  I  am  of  your  Patriarchs,  I,  a  branch  of  one  of  yoiu* 
antediluvian  families— fellows  that  the  Flood  could  not  wash 
Rway." — CoNOREVE,  Love  for  Love. 

(22)  To  balrag  is  to  abuse — Mr.  Lover  makes  it  ballyrn^^  and 
he  is  high  authority:  but  if  I  remember  rightly,  Curran  in  his 
national  stories  used  to  employ  the  word  as  above. — See 
Lover's  most  amusing  and  genuinely  Irish  work,  the  "■  Le- 
gends and  Stories  of  Ireland." 

(23)  Larry  evidently  means  the  Regium  Donum ;  a  sum 
contributed  by  the  government  annually  to  the  support  of  the 
Presbyterian  church  js  in  Ireland. 

(24)  Correctly,  Deis— Larry  not  being  very  particular  in  his 
D  :)me  iclature. 


(25)  "The  deeds  of  darkness  which  are  reduced  to  horrid 
practice  over  the  drunken  debauch  of  the  midnight  assassin 
are  debated,  in  principle,  in  the  sober  morning  religious 
conferences  of  the  jiricsts."— .S/j^rcA  of  the  Rev.  Mr  AfGhce.— 
"The  charactL-r  of  the  Irish  people  generally  is,  that  they  aro 
given  to  lying,  and  to  acts  of  theft."— 5/>ccc A  of  the  Rev.  Robert 
Daly, 

(2G)  "  But  she  (Popery)  is  no  longer  the  tenant  of  the  sepulchre 
of  inactivity.  She  has  come  from  tho  burial-place,  walking 
forth  a  monster,  as  if  the  spirit  of  evil  had  corrupted  the  carcass 
of  her  departed  humanity ;  noxious  and  noisome,  an  object  of 
abhorrence  and  dismay  to  all  who  arc  not  leagued  with  her  in 
inigutty.'>'—Ropovt  of  the  Rev.  Gentleman's  Speech,  Jime  20, 
in  the  Record  Newspaper. 

We  may  well  ask,  after  reading  this  and  other  such  reverend 
ravings,  "Quis  dubitat  quiu  omne  sit  hoc  rationis  egestasV" 

(27)  "  Among  other  amiable  enactments  against  tiie  Catholics 
at  this  period,  (1G49,)  the  price  of  five  pounds  was  set  on  the 
head  of  a  Romish  priest— being  exactly  the  same  sum  oflered 
by  the  samo  legislators  for  the  head  of  a  wolf." 

Memoirs  of  Captain  Rockj  book  i.,  chap.  10. 

(28)  In  the  first  edition  of  his  Diclionarj*,  Dr.  Johnson  very 
significantly  exemplified  Ihe  meaning  of  the  word  "  alias"  by  the 
instance  of  Mallet,  the  poet,  who  had  exchanged  for  this  more 
refined  name  his  original  Scotch  patronymic,  Malloch.  "  What 
oilier  proofs  he  gave  (says  Johnson)  of  disrespect  to  his  native 
countiy,  I  know  not,  but  il  was  remarked  of  him  that  he  was 
the  only  Scot  whom  Scotchmen  did  not  commend."— Z.f/t  of 
Mallet. 

(29)  "I  think  I  am  acting  in  unison  with  the  feelings  of  a 
Meeting  assembled  for  this  solemn  object,  when  I  call  on  the 
Rev.  Doctor  Holloway  to  open  it  by  prayer."— 5/)ctcA  of  Lord 
Kenyan. 

(30)  The  Rectory  which  the  Rev.  Gentleman  holds  is  situated 
in  the  county  of  .Armagh  .'—a.  most  remarkable  coincidence— 
and  well  worthy  of  tho  attention  of  certain  expounders  of  tha 
Apocalypse. 


FABLES  FOE  THE  HOLY  ALLIAT^CE 


Tu  Re^ibuB  alas 
Eripe.  Viroil,  Qeorg.  lib.  Iv. 

Clip  the  wings 

Of  these  high-flying,  arbitrary  Kinga.       Dbtdkn^s  Translation. 


TO  LORD  BYRON. 

Deah  Lord  Bvkjn, 

Though  tliis  Volume  should  posses3  no  other  merit  in  your  eyes,  than  that  of  reminding 
you  of  the  short  time  wo  passed  together  at  Venice,  when  some  of  the  trifles  whidi  it  contains 
were  written,  you  will,  I  am  sure,  receive  the  dedication  of  it  with  pleasure,  and  believe  that  I  am, 

My  dear  Lord, 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 
T.  B. 


EDITOR'S  RREFACE. 


If  we  were  asked  to  select  any  twenty  pages 
which  Moore  has  written,  to  convince  a  skeptic 
of  the  varied  powers  of  the  poet,  we  should 
select  the  "  Fables  for  the  Holy  Alli:uice"  to  prove 
our  assertion. 

In  these  eight  poems  lie  has  displayed  so  mucli 
sarcasm  and  brilliant  metaphor,  that  wo  can  even 
imagine  the  members  of  the  "  Holy  Alliance" 
themselves  enjoying  their  own  cnsligalion. 

In  the  first  fable  of  tlie  "  Ico  Palace"  the 
allegory  is  admirably  preserved — the  suddenness 
of  the  tliaw  Is  capitally  described — the  kings 

**  WnUzlnit  ftwny  with  nil  their  might, 
A»  If  ll'c  froit  woTilil  lul  for  over  I" 


Could   the   Russian  Bear  himself  avoid  a  grull 
laugh  at  these  lines? 

"  For,  Id!  ero  lonff,  those  w.-ills  so  innssy 

Were  seized  with  nil  ill-oineiiM  dripping, 
And  o'er  ttie  flncira,  now  growing  ulnssy. 

Their  lloIirieSHea  took  to  slipping. 
Tlio  Cznr,  hnlf  through  n  Polonnise, 

Could  scarce  get  on  for  downrigtit  stumbling ; 
A  111  Prussia,  though  to  slippery  ways 

Well  used,  was  cursedly  near  tumbling  I" 

The  Fable  of  the  "  Loolting-Glasses"  isj  of  s 
wider  applicatinii.  ;niil  in  one  of  his  best  Matiriv.1 
efforts.  Tho  idea  of  a  cert;iiii  family  reigning  by 
right  of  their  superior  beauty,  and  voting  by  aei 


lABLES  I^Oll  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE. 


167 


of  parliament  that  tlio  rest  of  the  nation  is  ugly, 
iind  liceping  up  llie  delusion  by  means  of  pro- 
'libiting  looking-glasses,  is  a  happy  one,  and  affords 
nmple  scope  for  the  pen  of  the  satmst. 

"  '"^f  course,  if  any  knave  had  hinted, 

Thai  Ihe  King's  nose  was  turned  awry, 
Or  that  the  Queen,  (God  bless  her !)  squinted — 
The  judges  dooniM  that  knave  to  die. 

"  But  rarely  lhing;s  like  this  occurr'd, 

The  people  to  their  King  were  duteous. 
And  tooli  it,  on  his  royal  word. 
That  t?uy  were  frights.,  and  he  was  beauteous  1 

"The  cause  whereof,  among  all  classes. 
Was  simply  this — these  island  elvea 
Had  never  yet  seen  looking-glasses., 
And,  therefore,  did  not  know  themselves.^ 

But  our  readers  must  study  the  whole  of  this 
admirable  political  essay  for  themselves.  The 
shipwreck  of  a  cargo  of  looking-glasses  on  the 
coast  en.tbles  these  islanders  to  "  become  a  most 
reflecting  nation,"  and  arrive  at  this  hitherto  trea- 
sonable conviction, 

"  That  kings  have  neither  rights  nor  noses 
A  whit  diviner  than  their  own." 

In  the  "Torch  of  Liberty,"  Moore  has  given 
liimself  up  to  a  finer  vein ;  some  of  the  verses 
are  highly  poetical — indeed,  so  much  so,  as  to 
carry  it  into  the  lyrical  kingdom ;  the  lines  de- 
scribing France  are  worthy  of  his  loftiest  flight : — 

"  The  splendid  gia  then  Gallia  took. 
And,  like  a  wild  Bacchante,  raising 
The  brand  aloft,  its  sparkles  shook. 
As  she  would  set  the  world  a-blazing !" 

'*fo  are  afraid  tlie  prophecy  contained  in  tlio  fol- 
le-ving  verso  has  yet  to  be  fulfilled : — 


"  And  fall'n  it  might  have  long  rcmain'd ; 
But  Greece,  who  saw  her  moment  now. 
Caught  up  the  Torch,  though  prostrate,  stained, 
And  waved  it  ruiuid  her  beauteous  brow." 

The  fable  of  tlie  "Fly  and  Cullock"  is  not  equal 
to  the  rest,  although  it  contains  some  good  hits  at 
aristocracy.  Sacrificing  a  bullock  to  a  fly  is  noV. 
an  inapt  simile  when  applied  to  the  t.t.xation  an'\ 
oppression  of  the  masses  for  the  benefit  of  thu 
few.  What  can  be  more  felicitous  than  comparing 
the  weight  resting  upon  tlie  laboring  classes  t« 


-  Those  poor  Caryatides 


Condemned  to  smile  and  stand  at  ease. 
With  a  whole  bouse  upon  their  shoulders  1" 

The  Wit  sums  up  the  moral  by 

00     "That  Fly  on  the  shrine,  is  Legitimate  Right, 

And  that  Bullock,  the  People,  that's  sacrificed  to  it    ' 

The  fifth  fable  is  devoted  to  "Church  i.id 
State,"  and  sums  up  in  a  short  space  the  absurd- 
ities of  that  union. 

The  tale  of  the  combustible  "Extinguishers"  is 
admirably  carried  out,  and  full  of  the  most  pungent 
truth ;  indeed,  we  feel  inclined  to  assert  that  a 
manual  of  policy  might  bo  compiled  from  these 
eight  poems.  Our  space  will  only  permit  us  to 
give  the  moral : — 

"The  moral  hence  ray  Muse  infers 

la,  that  such  Lords  are  simple  elves. 
In  trusting  to  Extinguishers 
That  are  combustible  themselves." 

Our  readers  will  no  doubt  remember  an  amusing 
passage  from  Jlorton's  "  Speed  the  Plough,"  when 
old  Handy,  asking  (when  his  hall  was  in  flames) 
where  his  p.atent  extinguisher  is,  is  told  that  it  is 
on  fire.  So  much  for  rulers  depending  upon  tho 
milit.ary  to  put  down  revolutions. 


168 


MOOEE'S  "WORKS. 


MOORE'S  TREFACE. 


Though  it  v.-as  the  w-ish  of  the  members  of  the 
Poco-curante  Society  (who  have  lately  done  me 
the  honor  of  electing  me  their  Secret:iry)  that  I 
should  prefix  my  name  to  the  following  llisoellany, 
it  is  but  fair  to  them  and  to  myself  to  state,  that, 
except  in  the  "painful  pre-eminence"  of  being 
employed  to  transcribe  their  lucubrations,  my  claua 
to  such  a  distinction  in  the  title-page  is  not  greater 
than  that  of  any  other  gentleman,  who  lias  con- 
tributed his  share  to  the  contents  of  the  volume. 

I  had  originally  intended  to  take  this  oppor- 
tunity of  giving  some  account  of  the  origin  and 
objects  of  our  Institution,  the  names  and  characters 
of  the  diifercnt  members,  &c.,  &.c. — but,  as  I  am 
at  present  preparing  for  the  press  the  First  Volume 
of  the  "Transactions  of  the  Poco-curante  Society," 
I  shall  reserve  for  that  occasion  all  furtlicr  details 
npcn  the  subject ;  and  content  myself  Iiere  with 
ofer.ing,  for  a  general  insight  into  our  tenets,  to  a 


Song  which  will  be  found  at  the  end  of  this  work, 
and  which  is  sung  to  us  on  the  first  day  of  every 
month,  by  one  of  our  oldest  members,  to  the  tune 
of  (as  far  as  I  can  recollect,  being  no  musician) 
citlier  "  Nancy  Dawson"  or  "  He  stole  away  the 
Bacon." 

It  may  be  as  well  also  to  state,  for  the  inform.a- 
tion  of  those  critics,  w-ho  attack  with  the  hope  of 
being  answered,  and  of  being,  thereby,  brought  inlo 
notice,  that  it  is  the  rule  of  this  Society  to  return 
no  other  answer  to  such  assailants,  than  is  con- 
tained in  three  words,  "  Non  curat  Ilippoclides," 
(meaning,  in  English,  "  Hippoclides  does  not  caro 
a  fig,")  which  were  spoken  two  thousand  years 
ago  by  tlie  first  founder  of  Poco-c\irantisn),  and 
have  ever  since  been  adopted  as  tlie  leading  dictum 
of  the  sect. 

THOMAS  BROWN 


FABLES    FOR    THE    HOLY    ALLIANCE. 


FABLE  L 


IKX   BISSOLUTIOS   OF   THE    IIOLV    AI.UA.NCE. 


t"Y«.  J.ad  a  dream  that  bodes  no  good 

Unto  ihe  Holy  Brotherhood. 

I  may  bo  wrong,  but  I  confess — 

As  far  aa  it  is  right  or  lawful 
For  one,  no  conjurer,  to  guess — 

It  scema  to  ma  extremely  awful. 

Mcthought,  upon  the  Ncva'.s  flood 

A  beautiful  Ice  Palace  stv''od, 

A  dome  of  frost-work,  on  tlio  plan 

Of  that  once  bii'lt  by  Empress  Anne,' 

Which  H.'ionc  by  moonlight — as  the  tjilo  is 

Like  nn  Aurora  Borcalis. 

In  tlii^  m\U\  Piilace,  furniHii'd  all 

And  lighted  m  the  best  on  land  are, 

1  dreamt  lliero  w.-vs  a  splendid  Hall, 
Uivon  by  the  Emperor  Alexander, 


To  entertain  with  all  due  zeal. 

Those  holy  gentlcnicn,  who've  shown  a 
Regard  so  kind  for  Euro[)e's  weal. 

At  Trop|)au,  Laybach,  and  Vcronx 
The  thought  was  happy — and  design'd 
To  hint  how  thus  the  human  Sliiul 
May,  like  the  stream  iin])rison'd  there, 
Be  check'd  and  chili'd,  till  it  can  bear 
The  heaviest  Kings,  that  ode  or  sonnet 
E'er  yet  bc-praised,  to  dance  upon  it. 

And  all  were  pleased,  and  cold,  and  stately, 

Shivering  in  grand  illumination — 
Admired  the  superstructure  greatly, 

Nor  gave  one  thought  to  the  foundation. 
Much  too  the  Czar  himself  cxniled, 

To  all  ])k'l)i'ian  fears  a  stranger, 
I'or,  Madame  Knidener,  when  consulted. 

Had  pledged  her  word  tlu're  was  no  dangt 
So,  on  ho  caper'd,  feii-less  quite. 

Thinking  himself  rjttremely  clever. 
And  wall/.'d  away  wilh  all  his  might, 

As  if  the  Frost  would  Ixst  for  ever 


FABLES  FOR  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE. 


169 


Just  fancy  liow  a  bard  like  me, 

Who  reverence  monarclis,  must  have  trembled 
To  see  that  goodly  company, 

At  such  a  ticklish  sport  assembled. 

Nor  were  the  fears,  that  thus  astounded 
My  loyal  soul,  at  all  unfounded — 
For,  lo  !  ere  long,  those  walls  so  massy 

Were  seized  with  an  ill-omen'd  dripping, 
And,  o'er  tlie  floors,  now  growing  glassy, 

Tlieir  Holinesses  took  to  slipping. 
The  Czar,  half  through  a  Polonaise, 

Could  scarce  get  on  for  downright  stumbling; 
And  Prussia,  though  to  slippery  ways 

Well  used,  was  cursedly  near  tumbling. 

Yet  still  'twas,  icho  could  stamp  the  floor  most, 
Russia  and  Austria  'mong  the  foremost. — 
And  now,  to  an  Italian  air. 

This  precious  brace  would,  hand  in  hand  go ; 
Now — while  old  Louis,  from  his  chair. 
Entreated  them  his  toes  to  spare — 

Caird  loudly  out  for  a  Fandango. 
And  a  Fandango,  'faith,  they  had. 
At  which  they  all  set  to,  like  mad ! 
Never  were  Kings  (though  small  th'  e.xpense  is 
Of  wit  among  their  Excellencies) 
So  out  of  all  their  princely  senses. 
But,  ah,  tlrat  dance — that  Spanish  dance — 

Scarce  was  the  luckless  strain  begun. 
When,  glaring  red,  as  'twere  a  glance 

Shot  from  an  angry  Southern  sun, 
A  light  through  all  the  chambers  flamed. 

Astonishing  old  Father  Frost, 
Wlio,  bursting  into  tears,  exclaim'd, 

"  A  thaw,  by  Jove — we're  lost,  we're  lost ; 
"  Run,  France — a  second  Wa^jrloo 
"  Is  come  to  drown  you — sauve  qui  pent .'" 

Why,  why  will  mon.archs  caper  so 

In  palaces  without  foundations  ? — 
Instantly  all  was  in  a  flow, 

Crowns,  fiddles,  sceptres,  decorations — 
Those  Royal  Arms,  that  look'd  so  nice. 
Cut  out  in  the  resplendent  ice — 
Tliose  Eagles,  handsomely  provided 

With  double  heads  for  double  dealings — 
How  fast  the  globes  and  sceptres  glided 

Out  of  their  claws  on  all  the  ceilings  ! 
Proud  Prussia's  double  bird  of  prey. 
Tame  as  a  spatch  cock,  slunk  away ; 
While — ^just  like  France  herself,  when  she 

Proclaims  how  great  her  naval  skill  is — 
Poor  Louis'  drowning  fleur-de-lys 

Imagined  themselves  wa^er-Ulies. 
22 


And  not  alone  rooms,  ceilings,  shelves. 

But — still  more  fatal  execution — 
The  Groat  Legitimates  themselves 

Seem'd  in  a  state  of  dissolution. 
Th'  indignant  Czar — when  just  about 

To  issue  a  sublime  Ukase, 
"  Whereas  all  light  must  be  kept  out" — 

Dissolved  to  nothing  in  its  blaze. 
Next  Prussia  took  his  turn  to  melt, 
And,  while  his  lips  illustrious  felt 
The  influence  of  this  southern  air. 

Some  word,  like  "  Co.nstitution" — long 
Congeal'd  in  frosty  silence  there — 

Came  slowly  tliawing  from  his  tongue. 
Wliile  Louis,  lapsing  by  degrees. 

And  sighing  out  a  faint  adieu 
To  truffles,  salmis,  toasted  cheese, 

And  smoking /onrfiis,  quickly  grew. 

Himself,  into  tifondu  too  ; — 
Or  like  that  goodly  King  they  make 
Of  sugar  for  a  Twelfth-night  cake, 
When,  in  some  urchin's  mouth,  alas. 
It  melts  into  a  shapeless  mass ! 

In  short,  I  scarce  could  count  a  minute. 
Ere  the  bright  dome,  and  all  within  it. 
Kings,  Fiddlers,  Emperors,  all  were  gone— 

And  nothing  now  was  seen  or  heard 
But  the  bright  river,  rushing  on, 

Happy  as  an  enfranchised  bird 
And  prouder  of  that  natural  ray. 
Shining  along  its  chainless  way — 
More  proudly  happy  thus  to  glide 

In  simple  grandeur  to  the  sea, 
Than  when,  in  sparkling  fetters  tied, 
'Twas  deck'd  with  all  that  kingly  pride 

Could  bring  to  light  its  slavery ! 
Such  is  my  dream — and,  I  confess, 
I  tremble  at  its  awfulness. 
Th.at  Spanish  Dance — that  southern  beam- 
But  I  say  nothing — there's  my  dream — 
And  Madame  Krudener,  the  she-prophet, 
May  make  just  what  she  pleases  of  it. 


FABLE  IL 

THE    L0OKIXQ-GLASSE3. 
PROEM. 

Where  Kings  have  been  by  mob-elections 
Raised  to  the  Throne,  'tis  strange  to  see 

What  different  and  what  odd  perfections 
Men  have  required  in  Royalty.  • 


170 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Some,  liking  monarclis  large  and  plumpy, 

Have  chos'n  their  Sovereigns  by  the  weight ; — 
Some  nnsird  tliem  tall,  some  thouglit  your  dumpy, 

Dutch-built,  the  true  Legitimate.' 
The  Easterns  in  a  Prince,  'tis  said. 
Prefer  what's  call'd  a  jolter-head  ;' 
Th'  Egvptians  wer'n't  at  all  particular. 

So  that  their  Kings  had  rwl  red  hair — 
This  fault  not  even  the  greatest  stickler 

For  the  blood  royal  well  could  bear. 
A  thousand  more  such  illustrations 
Might  be  adduced  from  various  nations. 
But,  'mong  the  many  tales  thoy  tell  us, 

Touciiing  th'  acquired  or  natural  right 
WTiich  some  men  have  to  rule  their  fellows, 

There's  one,  which  I  shall  here  recite : — 

FABLE. 
There  was  a  land — to  naijie  the  place 

Is  neither  now  my  wish  nor  duty — 
Wliere  reign'd  a  certain  Royal  race, 

By  right  of  their  superior  beauty. 

What  was  the  cut  legitimate 

Of  these  great  persons'  chins  and  noses, 
By  right  of  which  they  ruled  the  state, 

No  history  I  have  seen  discloses. 

But  so  it  was — a  settled  case — 

Some  Act  of  Parliament,  pass'd  snugly, 

Had  voted  tliem  a  beauteous  race, 
And  all  their  faithful  subjects  ugly. 

As  rank,  indeed,  stood  high  or  low. 
Some  change  it  made  in  visual  organs ; 

Your  Peers  were  decent — Knights,  so  so — 
But  all  your  common  people,  gorgons! 

Of  course,  if  any  knave  had  hinted 

That  the  King's  nose  was  turn'd  awry. 

Or  t'lat  the  Queen  (God  bless  her!)  squinted — 
The  judges  doom'd  that  knave  to  die. 

But  rarely  things  like  this  occurr'd. 
The  people  to  their  King  were  duteous, 

And  took  it,  on  his  Royal  word. 

That  they  were  frights,  and  lie  was  beauteous. 

The  cause  whereof,  among  all  classes, 
VVns  simply  this — these  island  elves 

Hud  never  yet  seen  looking-gl.isscH, 
And,  therefore,  did  not  knuw  themselves. 

SometimcK,  indeed,  their  neighbors'  faces 
Mi)(bt  strike  them  as  more  full  of  reason, 


More  fresh  than  those  in  certain  places — 
But,  Lord,  the  very  thought  was  treason ! 

Besides,  howe'er  we  love  our  neighbor, 
And  take  his  face's  part,  'tis  known 

We  ne'er  so  much  in  earnest  labor. 
As  when  the  face  attack'd's  our  own. 

So,'  on  they  went — the  crowd  believing — 
(As  crowds  well  govern'd  always  do) 

Their  rulers,  too,  themselves  deceiving — 
So  old  the  joke,  tliey  thought  'twas  true. 

But  jokes,  we  know,  if  they  too  far  go. 
Must  have  an  end — and  so,  one  day, 

Upon  that  coast  there  was  a  cargo 
Of  looking-glasses  cast  away. 

'Twas  said,  some  Radicals,  somewhere, 

Had  laid  their  wicked  heads  together, 
And  forced  that  ship  to  founder  there, — 
Wlxile  some  believe  it  was  the  weather. 

However  this  might  be,  the  freight 
Was  landed  without  fees  or  duties ; 

And  from  that  hour  historians  date 
The  downfall  of  the  Race  of  Beauties. 

The  looking-glasses  got  about. 

And  grew  so  common  through  the  land 

That  scarce  a  tinker  could  walk  out, 
Without  a  mirror  in  his  liaiid. 

Comparing  faces,  morning,  noon. 

And  night,  their  constant  occupation — 

By  dint  of  looking-glasses,  soon. 
They  grew  a  most  reflecting  nation. 

In  vain  the  Court,  awart  of  errors 
In  all  the  old.  establish 'd  mazards, 

Proliibilcd  tlie  use  of  mirrors, 

And  tried  to  break  them  at  all  hazards:— 

In  vain — their  laws  might  just  as  well 
Have  been  waste  paper  on  the  shelves; 

ThMt  fatal  freight  had  broke  the  spell; 
People  had  look'd — and  knew  themselvPR 

If  chance  a  Duke,  of  birth  sublime, 
Presumed  upon  his  ancient  face, 

(Some  calf-head,  ugly  from  all  time,) 
They  jjopp'd  a  mirror  to  his  Grace:— 

Just  hinting,  by  that  gentle  sign, 
How  little  Nature  holds  it  true. 


FABLES  I'Uit  TUE  HOLY  AJ.LIANCE. 


171 


That  what  is  call'd  an  ancient  Hue, 
Must  be  the  line  of  Beauty  too. 

From  Dnkes'  tliey  pass'd  to  reg;il  phizzos, 
Coni]):ired  tliein  proudly  with  their  own, 

And  cried,  "  How  could  such  monstrous  quizzes 
'■  In  Beauty's  name  usurp  the  throne  !" — 

They  then  wrote  essays,  pamphlets,  books. 

Upon  Cosmetical  (Economy, 
Which  made  the  Kin§  try  various  looks, 

But  none  improved  his  physiognomy. 

And  satires  at  the  Court  were  levell'd. 
And  small  lampoons,  so  full  of  slynesses, 

Th.at  soon,  in  short,  they  quite  be-devill'd 
Their  Majesties  and  Royal  Highnesses. 

At  length — but  here  I  drop  the  veil, 
To  spare  some  loyal  folks'  sensations; 

Besides,  what  follow'd  is  the  tale 
Of  all  such  late  enlighten'd  nations  ; 

Of  all  to  whom  old  Time  discloses 

A  truth  they  should  have  sooner  known — 

Thftt  Kings  have  neither  rights  nor  noses 
A  whit  diviner  than  their  own. 


FABLE  ITT 


THE   TORCH    OF    LIBEaTT. 


1  SAW  it  all  in  Fancy's  glass — 

Herself,  the  fair,  the  wild  magician. 

Who  bid  this  splendid  d.ay-dream  pass. 
And  named  each  gliding  apparition. 

'Twas  like  a  torch-race — such  as  they 
Of  Greece  perform'd,  in  ages  gone, 

When  the  fleet  youths,  in  long  array, 
Pass'd  the  bright  torch  triumphant  on. 

I  saw  th'  expectant  nations  stand 

To  catch  the  coming  flame  in  turn ; — 

[  saw,  from  ready  hand  to  hand, 
The  clear,  though  struggling,  glory  bum 

.\nd,  oh,  their  joy,  as  it  came  near, 
'Twas,  in  itself,  a  joy  to  see  ; — 

While  Fancy  whisper'd  in  my  ear, 
"  That  torch  they  pass  is  Liberty !" 


And,,  each,  as  she  received  the  flame. 

Lighted  her  altar  with  its  ray ; 
Then,  smiling,  to  the  next  who  came, 

Speeded  it  on  its  sparkling  way. 

From  Albion  first,  whose  ancient  shnne 
Was  furnish'd  with  the  fire  already, 

Columbia  caught  the  boon  divine. 
And  lit  a  flame,  like  Albion's,  steady. 

The  splendid  gift  then  Gallla.  took. 
And,  like  a  wild  Bacchante,  raising 

The  brand  aloft,  its  spaiklcs  shook, 
As  she  would  set  the  world  a-blazing! 

Thus  kindling  wild,  so  fierce  and  liigh 

Her  altar  blazed  into  the  air. 
That  Albion,  to  that  fire  too  nigh, 

Shrunk  back,  and  shudder'd  at  its  glare! 

Next,  Spain,  so  new  was  light  to  her, 
Leap'd  at  the  torch — but,  ere  the  spark 

That  fell  upon  her  shrine  could  stir, 

'Twas  quench'd — and  all  again  was  dark. 

Yet,  no — -iwt  quench'd — a  treasure,  worth 
So  much  to  mortals,  rarely  dies : 

Again  her  living  light  look'd  forth. 
And  shone,  a  beacon,  in  all  eyes. 

Who  next  receiv'd  the  flame  1  alas, 
Unworthy  Naples — shame  of  shames ! 

That  ever  through  such  hands  should  pass 
That  brightest  of  all  earthly  flames  ! 

Scarce  had  her  fingers  touch'd  the  torch. 
When,  frighted  by  the  sparks  it  shed. 

Nor  waiting  even  to  feel  the  scorch, 
She  dropp'd  it  to  the  earth — and  fled. 

And  fall'n  it  might  have  long  remain'd ; 

But  Greece,  who  saw  her  moment  now. 
Caught  up  the  prize,  though  prostrate,  stain'd, 

And  waved  it  round  her  beauteous  brow. 

And  Fancy  bade  me  mark  where,  o'er 

Her  altar,  as  its  flame  ascended, 
Fair,  laurell'd  spirits  seem'd  to  soar. 

Who  thus  in  song  their  voices  blended : — 

"  Shine,  shine  for  ever,  glorious  Flame, 

"  Divinest  gift  of  Gods  to  men ! 
"  From  Greece  thy  earliest  splendor  came, 

"  To  Greece  thy  ray  returns  again. 


172 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


T" 


"  Take,  Freedom,  take  thy  radiant  round, 
"  U'hen  dimm'd,  revive,  when  lost,  returi., 
Till  not  a  shrine  through  earth  be  found, 
"  On  which  thy  glories  shall  not  burn  ?" 


FABLE  IV. 

THK    FLT    AND    THE    BULLOCK. 

PROEM. 

Of  all  that,  to  the  sage's  survey, 

This  world  presents  of  topsy-turvy. 

There's  naught  so  much  disturbs  one's  patience. 

As  little  minds  in  lofty  stations. 

'Tis  like  that  sort  of  painful  wonder. 

Which  slender  columns,  laboring  under 

Enormous  arches,  give  beholders; 
Or  those  poor  Caryatides, 
Condcmn'd  to  smile  and  stand  at  ease. 

With  a  whole  house  upon  their  shoulders. 

If,  as  in  some  few  royal  cases, 

Some  minds  are  horn  into  sucli  places — 

If  they  are  there,  by  Right  Divine, 

Or  any  such  sufficient  reason, 
Why — Heav'n  forbid  we  should  repine ! — 

To  wish  it  otherwise  were  treason ; 
N'.ay,  ev'n  to  see  it  in  a  vision, 
Would  be  what  lawyers  call  misprision. 

Sir  Robert  Filmer  saith — and  he, 

Of  course  knew  all  about  the  matter — 
'  Both  men  and  beasts  love  Monarchy;" 

Which  proves  how  rational — the  latter. 
Sidney,  we  know,  or  wrong  or  riglit. 
Entirely  difl'er'd  from  the  Knight ! 
N.iy,  hints  a  King  may  lose  his  head, 

By  slipping  awkwardly  his  bridle  : — 
But  this  is  tre.isonous,  ill-bred. 
And  (iiow-a-days,  when  Kings  are  led 

III  patent  snaffleM)  downriglil  idle. 
.Vo,  no — it  isn't  right-line  Kings, 
(Those  sovereign  lords  in  leading-strings 
Who,  from  their  birth,  are  Failh-Defenders,) 
That  move  my  wrath — 'tis  your  pretenders. 
Your  mushroom  nileri,  sons  of  earth, 
Who — not,  like  t'others,  bores  by  birth, 
EHlabJisli'd  f^ratiil  Dei  blockheads, 
Born  with  three  kingdoms  in  lli^ir  pockets — 
Yet,  «ith  u  brass  that  nothing  stops, 

Push  up  into  the  loftiest  staliuiis, 
And,  though  too  dull  to  manage  shops, 

I'rcBumc,  the  dolt«,  to  manage  nulions ! 


This  class  it  is,  that  moves  my  gal. 
And  stirs  up  bile,  and  spleen,  and  a  1. 
While  other  senseless  things  appear 
To  know  the  limits  of  tlioir  sphere^ 
While  not  a  cow  on  earth  romances 
So  much  as  to  conceit  slie  dances — 
While  the  most  jumping  frog  we  know  ol, 
Would  scarce  at  Astley's  hope  to  show  olF — 
Your  MeriviJes,  your  Leigh  Hunts  dare, 

Untrain'd  as  are  their  minds,  to  set  them 
To  any  business,  any  whore. 

At  any  time  that  fools  will  let  them. 

But  leave  we  here  these  upstart  things — 
My  business  is,  just  now,  with  Kings; 
To  whom,  and  to  their  riglit-line  glory, 
I  dedicate  the  following  story. 

FABLE. 

The  wise  men  of  Egypt  were  secret  as  dummies ; 

And,  ev'n  when  they  most  condescended  to  teach, 
They  pack'd  up  their  meaning,  as  they  did  their 
mummies, 

In  so  in;iny  wrappers,  'twas  out  of  one's  reach. 

They  were  also,  good  peoi)le,  much  given  to  Kings — 
Fond  of  craft  and  of  crocodiles,  monkeys  and 
mystery ; 
But   blue-bottle    flies    were    their    best    beloved 
things — 
As  will  partly  appear  in  tliis  very  short  history. 

A  Scythian  pliilosoplier  (nephew,  tliey  say. 
To  that  other  great  traveller,  young  Anacliarsis) 

Stepp'd  into  a  temple  at  Memphis  one  day, 
To  have  a  short  peep  at  their  mystical  farces. 

He  saw'  a  brisk  blue-bottle  Fly  on  an  allnr, 

Made   much  of,  and    worshipp'd,  as   somclliiiig 
divine ; 
Wliile  a  large,  handsome  Bullock,  led  tliere  in  a 
halter. 
Before  it  lay  stabb'd  at  the  foot  of  tlio  shrine 

Surprised  at  such  doings,  ho  whispcr'd  his  tcaolier — 
"If 'tisn't  impertinent,  nuiy  I  ask  why 

"  Should    a    Bullock,    that    useful    and    powerful 
creature, 
"  Bo  thus  olFer'd  up  to  a  bluebottle  Fly?" 

"  No  wonder,"  said  t'other,  "  you  stare  at  the  sight, 
"  But  ice  as  a  Symbol  of  Monarchy  view  it — 

"Thill  Fly  on  the  slirine  is  Legiliniate  Right, 
"And  that  Bullock,  the  People,  that's  safriliced 
to  it." 


FABLES  FOR  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE. 


173 


FABLE  V. 

CHDEOH   AK       STATE. 

PROEM. 

"  The  moment  any  religion  becomes  nnlional,  or  cslablishod, 
Its  purity  must  certainly  bo  lost,  becauso  it  la  then  impossible 
to  keep  it  unconnected  with  men's  interests;  and,  if  con- 
nected, it  must  inevitably  bo  perverted  by  them."— Soame 
Jenyns. 

Thus  did  Soame  Jenyns— thougli  a  Tory, 
A  Lord  of  Trade  and  the  Plantations, 

Feel  how  Religion's  simple  glory 
Is  stain'd  by  State  associations. 

When  Cathekine,  ere  she  crusli'd  the  Poles, 

Appeal'd  to  the  benign  Divinity ; 
Then  cut  them  np  in  protocols. 
Made  fractions  of  their  very  souls'' — 

All  in  tlie  name  of  the  bless'd  Trinity ; 
Or  when  her  grandson,  Alexander, 
That  mighty  Northern  Salamander," 
Whose  icy  touch,  felt  all  about, 
Puts  every  fire  of  Freedom  out — 
When  he,  too,  winds  up  his  Ukases 
With  God  and  the  Panagia's  praises — 
When  he,  of  royal  Saints  the  type, 

In  holy  water  dips  the  sponge. 
With  which,  at  one  imperial  wipe, 

He  would  all  human  rights  expunge ; 
When  Louis  (whom  as  King,  and  eater, 
Some  name  Dix-hiiit  and  some  Des-huUres) 
Calls  down  "  St.  Louis'  God"  to  witness 
The  right,  humanity,  and  fitness 
Of  sending  eighty  thousand  Solons, 

Sages,  with  muskets  and  laced  coats, 
To  cram  instruction,  nolens  volens, 

Down  the  poor  struggling  Spaniards'  throats 
r  can't  help  thinking,  (though  to  Kings 

I  must,  of  course,  like  other  men,  bow,) 
That  when  a  Christian  monarch  brings 
Religion's  name  to  gloss  these  things — 

Such  blasphemy  out-Benbows  Benbow !' 

Or — not  so  far  for  facts  to  roam. 
Having  a  few  much  nearer  home — 
When  we  see  Churclimen,  who,  if  ask'd, 
"  Must  Ireland's  slaves  be  tithed,  and  task'd, 
"  And  driv'n  like  Negroes  or  Croats, 

"  That  you  may  roll  in  wealth  and  bliss  ?" 
Look  from  beneath  their  shovel  hats 

Witli  all  due  pomp,  and  answer  "  Yes!" 

But  then,  if  question'd,  "  Snail  the  brand 
"  Intolerance  flings  throughout  that  land, — 


{ 


"  Shall  the  fierce  strife,  now  taugiil  to  grow 

"  Betwi.tt  her  palaces  and  liovels, 

"Be  ever  quench'd T— from  the  same  shovels 
Look  grandly  forth,  and  answer  "  No." — • 
Alas,  alas !  have  these  a  claim 
To  merciful  Religion's  name? 

If  more  you  seek,  go  see  a  bevy 
Of  bowing  parsons  at  a  levee — 
(Choosing  your  time,  when  straw's  before 
Some  apoplectic  bishop's  door,) 
Then,  if  thou  canst,  with  life,  escape 
That  rush  of  lawn,  that  press  of  crape, 
Just  watch  their  rev'rences  and  graces, 

As  on  eacli  smirking  suitor  frisks 
And  say,  if  those  round  sliining  faces 

To  heav'n  or  earth  most  turn  their  disks? 

This,  this  it  is — Religion,  made, 
'Twixt  Churcli  and  State,  a  truck,  a  trade^ 
This  most  ill-match'd,  unholy  Co., 
From  whence  the  ills  we  witness  flow ; 
The  war  of  many  creeds  with  one — 
Th'  extremes  of  too  much  faith,  and  none — 
Till,  betwixt  ancient  trash  and  nev\', 
'Twixt  Cant  and  Blaspliemy — the  two 
Rank  ills  with  wliich  this  age  is  cursed — 
We  can  no  more  tell  ivhicii  is  worst. 
Than  er.st  could  Egypt,  when  so  rich 
In  various  plagijes,  determine  which 
She  thought  most  pestilent  and  vile, 
Her  frogs,  like  Benbow  and  Carlisle, 
Croaking  tlieir  native  mud-notes  loud. 
Or  her  fat  locusts,  like  a  cloud 
Of  pluralists,  obesely  low'ring. 
At  once  benighting  and  devouring ! 

This — this  it  is — and  here  I  pray 

Those  sapient  wits  of  the  Reviews, 
Who  make  us  poor,  dull  authors  say. 

Not  what  we  mean,  but  what  they  choose . 
Who  to  our  most  abundant  shares 
Of  nonsense  add  still  more  of  theirs, 
And  are  to  poets  just  such  evils. 

As  caterpillars  find  those  flies,' 
Which,  not  content  to  stiug  like  devils. 

Lay  eggs  upon  their  backs  likewise — 
To  guard  against  such  foul  deposits 

Of  others'  meaning  hi  my  rhymes, 
(A  thing  more  needful  here,  because  it'e 

A  subject,  ticklish  in  these  times) — 
I,  here,  to  all  such  wits  make  known, 

Monthly  and  Weekly,  UHiig  and  Tory, 
'Tis  this  Religion — this  alone, 

I  aim  at  in  the  following  story: — 


174 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


FABLE. 

When  Royalty  was  young  and  bold, 
Ere,  touch'd  by  Time,  he  had  become, 

If  'tisn't  civil  to  say  old. 
At  least,  a  cUdevantjeune  homme ; 

One  eveningf,  on  some  wild  pursuit 

Driving-  along,  he  chanced  to  see 
Religion,  passing  by  on  foot. 

And  took  him  in  his  vis-i-vis. 

This  said  Religion  was  a  Friar, 
The  humblest  and  the  best  of  men, 

Who  ne'er  had  notion  or  desire 
Of  riding  in  a  coach  till  then. 

"  I  s.iy," — quoth  Royalty,  who  rather 

Enjoy'd  a  masquerading  joke — 
"  I  say,  suppose,  my  good  old  father, 

"  You  lend  me,  for  a  while,  your  cloak." 

The  Friar  consented — little  knew 

Wliat  tricks  tlie  youth  had  in  his  head; 

Besides,  was  r.ather  tempted  too 
By  a  laced  coat  he  got  in  stead. 

Away  ran  Royalty,  slap-dash, 

Scamp'ring  like  mad  about  the  town  ; 

Broke  windows,  shivcr'd  lamps  to  smash. 

And  knock'd  whole  scores  of  watchmen  down. 

While  naught  could  they,  whose  iieads  were  broke. 
Learn  of  the  "  why"  or  the  "  wherefore," 

Except  that  'twas  Religion's  cloak, 

The  gentleman,  who  crack'd  them,  wore. 

Meanwhile,  the  Friar,  whose  head  was  turnVl 
By  the  laced  coat,  grew  frisky  too ; 

Look'd  big — his  former  habits  spurn'd — 
And  storm'd  about,  as  great  men  do : 

Dealt  much  in  pompous  oatlis  and  curses — 
Said  "  d — inn  you"  often,  or  as  bad — 

Ijiid  claim  to  other  people's  purses — 
In  short,  grew  either  knave,  or  in.ul. 

As  work  like  this  was  unbefitting. 

And  flesh  and  blood  no  longer  bore  it. 

The  Court  of  Common  Sense,  then  sitting 
Summun'd  the  culprits  both  before  it. 

Where,  nfl<'r  hours  in  wrangling  spent, 
(Ah  Courts  must  wrangle  to  decide  well,) 

Kelii^'in  to  St.  Luke's  was  sent. 

And  Royalty  pack'd  (ill' to  Bridi^well. 


With  tliis  proviso — should  they  be 
Restored,  in  due  time,  to  their  senses, 

They  botli  must  give  security. 
In  future,  against  such  offences — 

Religion  ne'er  to  lend  his  cloak. 

Seeing  what  dreadful  work  it  leads  to ; 

And  Royalty  to  crack  his  joke, — 

But  not  to  crack  poor  people's  heads  too. 


FABLE  VI. 

THE    LITTLE    GRAND    I.AM*. 

PROEM. 

Novella,  a  young  Bolognese, 

The  daughter  of  a  learn'd  Law  Doctor,' 
Who  had  willi  all  the  subtleties 

Of  old  and  modern  jurists  stock'd  hor. 
Was  so  exceeding  fair,  'lis  said, 

And  over  hearts  held  such  dominion. 
That  when  her  father,  sick  in  bed. 
Or  busy,  sent  her,  in  his  stead, 

To  lecture  on  the  Code  Justinian, 
She  had  a  curtain  drawn  before  her. 

Lest,  if  lier  cliarins  were  seen,  the  students 
Should  let  their  young  eyes  wander  o'er  her. 

And  quite  forget  their  jurisprudence.'" 
Just  so  it  is  with  truth,  when  seen. 

Too  dazzling  far, — 'tis  from  behind 
A  light,  thin  allegoric  screen, 

She  tlius  can  safest  teach  mankind. 

FABLE. 
In  Thibet  once  there  reign'd,  we're  told, 
A  little  Lama,  one  year  old — 
Raised  to  the  throne,  th.at  re.ilm  to  bless. 
Just  when  his  little  Holiness 
Had  cut — as  near  as  can  bo  leckon'd — 
Some  say  his  /;rs(  tootli,  some  his  second. 
Chronologers  and  Nurses  vary. 
Which  proves  historians  should  bo  wary. 
We  only  know  th'  iinportani  truth, 
Ilis  Majesty  had  cut  a  tooth." 
And  much  his  subjects  were  cnchanlod, — 

As  well  all  Lamas'  subjects  tnni/  be. 
And  would  have  giv'n  their  heads,  if  wanted, 

To  m.ake  tee-lotums  for  the  baby. 
Throned  as  ho  w;is  by  Right  Divine — 

(What  lawyers  call  Jure  Diiino, 
Meaning  u  right  to  yours,  and  mine. 

And  every  body's  goods  and  rhino.) 


FABLES  FOR  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE. 


lib 


Of  course,  liis  f;iitliful  subjects'  purses 
Weio  ready  willi  their  aids  and  succors ; 

Notliing  was  seen  but  pension'd  Nurses, 
And  the  land  groan'd  with  bibs  and  tuckers. 

Oil !  had  there  been  a  Hume  or  Cennet, 
Then  silting  on  the  Thibet  Senate, 
Ye  Gods,  what  i-oom  for  long  debates 
Upon  the  Nursery  Estimates! 
What  cutting  down  of  swaddling-clothes 

And  pin-a-fores,  in  nightly  battles ! 
What  calls  for  papers  to  expose 

The  waste  of  sugar-plnms  and  r.attles! 
But  no— if  Thibet  liad  M.  P.'s, 
They  were  far  better  bred  than  these ; 
Nor  gave  the  slightest  opposition. 
During  the  Monarch's  whole  dentition. 
But  short  this  calm ; — for,  just  when  he 
Had  reach'd  th'  alarming  age  of  three, 
When  Royal  natures,  and,  no  doubt, 
Those  of  all  noble  beasts  break  out — 
The  Lama,  who  till  then  was  quiet, 
Show'd  symptoms  of  a  taste  for  riot; 
And,  ripe  for  mischief,  early,  late, 
Without  regard  for  Church  or  State, 
Made  free  with  whosoe'er  came  nigh ; 

Tweak'd  the  Lord  Chancellor  by  the  nose, 
Turn'd  all  the  Judges'  wigs  awry. 

And  trod  on  the  old  Generals'  toes: 
Pelted  tlie  Bishops  with  hot  buns. 

Rode  cockhorse  on  the  City  maces, 
And  shot  from  little  devilish  guns 

Hard  peas  into  his  subjects'  faces. 
In  short,  such  wicked  pranks  he  play'd, 

And  grew  so  mischievous,  God  bless  him ! 
Th.at  his  Chief  Nurse — with  ev'n  the  .aid 
Of  an  Archbishop — was  .afraid. 

When  in  these  moods,  to  comb  or  dress  him. 
Nay,  ev'n  the  persons  most  inclined 

Through  thick  and  thin,  for  Kings  to  stickle, 
Thought  him  (if  they'd  but  speak  tlieir  mind. 

Which  they  did  7iot)  an  odious  Pickle. 

At  length  some  patriot  lords — a  breed 

Of  animals  they've  got  in  Thibet, 
Extremely  rare,  and  fit,  indeed. 

For  folks  like  Pidcock,  to  exhibit — 
Some  patriot  lords,  who  saw  the  length 
To  wliieh  things  went,  combined  their  strength. 
And  penn'd  a  manly,  pl.ain,  and  free 
Remonstrance  to  the  Nursery  ; 
Protesting  warmly  that  they  yielded 

To  none,  that  ever  went  before  'em. 
In  loyalty  to  him,  who  wielded 

Th'  hereditary  pap-spoon  o'er  'em ; 


Th.it,  as  for  treason,  'tw.as  a  thing 

That  made  them  almost  sick  to  think  of — 
Thiit  they  and  theirs  stood  by  the  King, 

Throughout  his  measles  and  his  chin-cough, 
When  others,  thinking  him  consumptive, 
Had  ratted  to  the  Heir  l'resuiii[ilive  I — 
But,  still — though  much  admiring  Kings, 
(And  chiclly  those  in  leading-strings,) 
Thev  saw,  with  shame  and  grief  of  soul, 

There  was  no  longer  now  the  wise 
And  constitutional  control 

Of  birch  before  their  ruler's  eyes ; 
But  that,  of  late,  sueh  pranks,  and  tricks. 

And  freaks  occurr'd  the  whole  day  long 
As  all,  but  men  with  bishoprics ; 

AUow'd,  in  ev'n  a  King,  were  wrong. 
Wlierefore  it  was  they  humbly  pray'd 

That  Honor.able  Nursery, 
That  such  reforms  be  henceforth  made. 

As  all  good  men  desired  to  see  ; — 
In  other  words,  (lest  they  might  seem 
Too  tedious,)  as  the  gentlest  scheme 
For  putting  all  such  pranks  to  rest. 

And  in  its  bud  the  mischief  nipping — 
They  ventured  humbly  to  suggest — 

His  Majesty  should  have  a  ivhipping .'" 

When  this  was  re.id,  no  Congreve  rocket 

Discharged  into  the  Gallic  trenches. 
E'er  equall'd  the  tremendous  shook  it 

Produced  upon  the  Nursery  benches. 
The  Bishops,  who  of  course  had  votes, 
By  right  of  age  and  petticoats, 
Were  first  and  foremost  in  the  fuss — 

"  What,  wliip  a  Lama !  sutler  birch 

"  To  touch  his  sacred infamous  ! 

"  Deistical ! — assailing  thus 

"The  fundament.als  of  the  Church! — 
"  No — no — such  patriot  plans  as  these, 
"  (So  help  them  Heaven — and  their  Sees !) 
"  They  held  to  be  rank  blasphemies." 

Th'  alarm  thus  given,  by  these  and  other 

Grave  liidijs  of  the  Nursery  side, 
Spread  through  the  land,  till,  such  a  pothei. 

Such  party  squabbles,  far  and  wide, 
Never  in  history's  page  h.ad  been 
Recorded,  as  were  then  between 
The  Whippers  and  Non-whippers  seen. 
Till,  things  arriving  at  a  state, 

Which  gave  some  fears  of  revolution, 
The  patriot  lords'  advice,  though  late, 

W.'_s  put  at  last  in  execution. 
The  Parliament  of  Thibet  met— 

The  little  Lama,  call'd  before  it, 


176 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


Did  then  and  there,  his  whipping  get, 
And  (as  the  Nursery  Gazette 
Assures  us)  like  a  hero  bore  it. 

And  though,  'mong  Thibet  Tories,  some 
Liment  that  Royal  Martyrifora, 
(Please  to  observe,  the  letter  D 
In  this  last  word's  pronounced  like  B.) 
Yet  to  th'  example  of  that  Prince 

So  much  b  Thibet's  land  a  debtor, 
That  her  long  line  of  Lamas,  since. 

Have  all  behaved  themselves  much  better. 


FABLE  YU. 


THE  EXTINSniSnEBS. 


PEOEM. 

Though  soldiers  are  the  true  supports, 
The  natural  allies  of  Courts, 
Woe  to  the  Monarch,  who  depends 
Too  much  on  his  red-coated  friends; 
For  even  soldiers  sometimes  think — 

Nav,  Colonels  have  been  known  to  reason,- 
And  reasoners,  whether  clad  in  pink, 
Dr  red,  or  blue,  are  on  the  brink 

(Nine  cases  out  of  ten)  of  treason. 

Vot  many  soldiers,  I  believe,  are 

As  fond  of  liberty  as  Mina; 
else — woe  to  kings,  when  Freedom's  fever 

Once  turns  into  a  Scarlelina  ! 
For  then — but  hold,  'lis  best  to  veil 
My  moaning  in  the  following  tale : — 

FABLE. 
A  Lord  of  Persia,  rich  and  great. 
Just  come  into  a  large  estate, 
Was  shock'd  to  find  he  had,  for  neighbors. 
Close  to  his  gate,  some  rascal  Ghebers, 
Whose  fires,  beneath  his  very  noso 
In  heretic  combustion  rose. 
But  Lords  of  Persia  can,  no  doubts 

Do  what  they  will — so,  one  fine  morning. 
He  turn'd  the  rascal  Ghebers  out. 

First  giving  a  few  kicks  for  warning. 
Then,  thanking  Heaven  most  piously, 

He  knock'd  llieir  Temple  to  the  ground, 
Blessing  himself  for  joy  to  seo 

Such  Pagan  ruins  slrew'd  around. 
Cut  much  it  vex'd  my  Lord  to  find. 

That,  while  all  eUe  obey'd  iiis  will, 


The  Fire  these  Ghebers  left  behind, 
Do  what  he  would,  kept  burning  still. 

Fiercely  he  storm'd,  as  if  his  frown 

Could  scare  the  bright  insurgent  down ; 

But,  no — such  fires  are  headstrong  tilings, 

And  care  not  much  for  Lords  or  Kings. 

Scarce  could  his  Lordship  well  contrive 
The  flashes  in  one  place  to  smother. 

Before — hey  presto  1 — all  alive, 
They  sprung  up  freshly  in  another. 

At  length,  when,  spite  of  prayers  and  damns, 
'Twas  found  tlie  sturdy  flame  defied  him, 

His  stewards  came,  wiih  low  salams, 
Off''ring,  by  contract,  to  provide  him 

Some  large  E.\tinguishers,  (a  plan. 

Much  used,  they  said,  at  Ispahan, 

Vienna,  Petcrsburgh — in  short. 

Wherever  Light's  forbid  at  court,) 

Machines  no  Lord  should  bo  without, 

Which  would,  at  once,  put  promptly  out 

All  kinds  of  fires — from  staring,  stark 

Volcanoes  to  the  tiniest  spark  ; 

Till  all  things  slept  as  dull  as  dark. 

As,  in  a  great  Lord's  neighborhood, 

'Twas  rigiit  and  fitting  all  things  should. 

Accordingly,  some  large  supplies 

Of  these  Extinguishers  were  furnish'd, 

(.'\ll  of  the  true  Imperial  size,) 
And  there,  in  rows,  stood  black  and  burm&h'i^ 

Ready,  where'er  a  gleam  but  shone 

Of  light  or  fire,  to  be  clajip'd  on. 

But,  ah,  how  lordly  wisdom  errs. 

In  trusting  to  extinguishers! 

One  day,  when  he  had  left  all  sure, 

(At  least,  so  thought'he,)  dark,  secure — 

The  flame,  at  all  its  exits,  entries, 

Obstructed  to  his  heart's  content. 
And  black  extinguishers,  like  sentries, 

Placed  over  every  dangerous  vent — 
Ye  Gods,  imagine  his  amaze, 

Ilis  wrath,  his  rage,  when,  on  rcturiting, 
He  found  not  only  the  old  blaze, 

Brisk  as  before,  crackling  and  burning, 
Not  only  new.  young  conllagralions, 
Popping  n|)  roinid  in  various  slalions — 
But,  still  more  awful,  strange,  and  dire, 
Tir  Kxlinguishers  Ihcmselves  on  (ire!  "' 

They,  they — those  trusty.  MiTid  machines 
Ills  Lordship  had  so  long  hccn  praising, 

As,  uniler  Providence,  the  means 
Of  keeping  down  all  lawless  blazing, 


FABLES  FOR  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE. 


177 


Were  now,  tliemselvcs — alas,  too  true 
The  siKUnoful  fact — turn'd  blazers  too, 
And,  by  a  change  as  odd  as  cruel, 
Instead  of  dampers,  served  for  fuel  !'* 

Thus,  of  liis  only  hope  bereft, 

"What,"  said  the  great  man,  "must  ba  done?" 
All  (hat,  in  scrapes  like  this,  is  left 

To  great  men  is — to  cut  and  run. 
So  run  ho  did ;  while  to  their  grounds, 

The  banish'd  Ghebers  bless'd  return'd ; 
And,  though  their  Fire  hiid  broke  its  bounds. 

And  all  abroad  now  wildly  burn'd. 
Yet  well  could  they,  who  loved  the  flame, 
Its  wand'ring,  its  excess  reclaim  ; 
And  soon  another,  fairer  Dome 
Arose  to  be  its  sacred  home, 
Wliere,  eherish'd,  guarded,  not  confined. 
The  living  glory  dwelt  inshrined, 
And,  shedding  lustre  strong,  but  oven. 
Though  born  of  earth,  grew  worthy  heav'n. 

MOEAL. 

The  moral  hence  my  Muse  infers 
Is,  th.it  such  Lords  are  simple  elves, 

In  trusting  to  Extinguishers, 

That  are  combustible  themselves. 


FABLE  Vm. 


LOUIS    FOURTEENTHS   'WIG. 


The  money  raised — the  army  ready — 
Drums  beating,  and  the  Royal  Neddy, 
Valiantly  braying  in  the  van. 
To  the  old  tune,  "  Eh,  eh,  Sire  Am .'"— " 
Naught  wanting,  but  some  coup  dramatic 

To  make  French  sentiment  explode. 
Bring  in,  at  once,  the  gout  fanatic. 

And  make  the  war  "  la  dernicre  mode" — 
Instantly,  at  the  Pav'llon  Marsan, 

Is  held  an  Ultra  consultation — 
What's  to  be  done,  to  help  the  farce  on  ? 

What  stage-effect,  what  decoration. 
To  make  this  beauteous  France  forget, 
In  one  grand,  glorious  pirouette. 
All  she  had  sworn  to  but  last  week. 
And,  with  a  cry  of  "Magnijique .'" 
Rush  forth  to  this,  or  any  war, 
Without  inquiring  once — "  What  for  ?" 

After  some  plans  proposed  by  each, 
Lord  Cha.teaubriand  made  a  speech, 
23 


(Quoting,  to  show  what  men's  rights  are, 

Or  rallier  what  men's  rights  should  be. 
From  Hobbcs,  Lord  Castlereagh,  the  Czar, 

And  other  friends  to  Liberty,) 
Wliercin,  he — having  first  protested 
'Gainst  humoring  the  mob — suggested 
(As  the  most  high-bred  plan  he  saw 
For  giving  the  new  War  eclat) 
A  grand,  Baptismal  IMelo-drame, 
To  be  got  up  at  NOtre-Dame, 
In  which  the  Duke  (who,  bless  his  Highness  t 

Had  by  liis  hill  acquired  such  fame, 
'Twas  hoped  that  he  as  little  shyness 

Would  show,  when  to  the  point  he  came) 
Should,  for  his  deeds  so  lion-hearted. 
Be  christen'd  Hero,  ere  he  started ; 
With  power,  by  Royal  Ordonnance, 
To  bear  that  name — at  least  in  France. 
Himself — the  Viscount  Chateaubriand — 
(To  help  th'  affair  with  more  esprit  on) 
Off'ring  for  this  baptismal  rite, 

Some  of  his  own  famed  Jordan  water — " 
(Marie  Louise  not  having  quite 

Used  all  that,  for  young  Nap,  he  brought  herj 
The  baptism,  in  this  case,  to  be 
Applied  to  that  extremity. 
Which  Bourbon  heroes  most  expose ; 
And  which  (as  well  all  Europe  knows) 
Happens  to  be,  in  this  Defender 
Of  the  true  Faith,  extremely  tender." 

Or  if  (the  Viscount  said)  this  scheme 
Too  rash  and  premature  should  seem — 
If  thus  discounting  heroes,  on  tick — 

This  glory  by  anticipation. 
Was  too  much  in  the  genre  romantique 

For  such  a  highly  classic  nation, 
He  begg'd  to  say,  the  Abyssinians 
A  practice  had  in  their  dominions. 
Which,  if  at  Paris  got  up  well. 
In  full  costume,  w.as  sure  to  tell. 
At  all  great  epochs,  good  or  ill. 

They  have,  says   Bruce,   (and  Bruce   neor 
budges 
From  the  strict  truth,)  a  grand  Quadrille 

In  public  danced  by  the  Twelve  Judges — '•* 
And,  he  assures  us,  the  grimaces. 
The  enlre-chats,  the  airs  and  graces 
Of  dancers,  so  profound  and  stately. 
Divert  the  Abyssinians  greatly. 

"  Now,  (said  the  Viscount,)  there's  but  few 
"  Great  Empires,  where  this  plan  would  do : 
"  For  instance,  England  ; — let  them  take 

"  What  pains  they  would,  'twere  vain  to  strive— 


17S 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


"The  twelve  stiff  Judges  there  would  make 

'•  Tlie  worst  Quadrille-set  now  alive. 
"  One  must  have  seen  them,  ere  one  could 
"  Imagine  properly  Judge  Wood, 
"Performing,  in  his  mg,  so  gayly, 
"  A  queue-de-chat  with  Justice  Bailet  ! 

"  French  Judges,  though,  are,  by  no  means, 
"  This  sort  of  stiff,  be-wigg'd  machines ! 
"  And  we,  wlio've  seen  them  at  Saumur, 
"  And  Poitiers  lately,  may  be  sure 
"  They'd  dance  quadrilles,  or  any  thing, 
"  That  would  be  pleasing  to  the  King — 
"  Nay,  stand  upon  their  heads,  and  more  do, 
'■  To  please  the  little  Duke  de  Bordeaux  !" 

After  these  several  schemes  there  came 
Some  others — needless  now  to  name, 
Since  that,  which  Jlonsieur  plann'd  himself, 
Soon  d(K)m'd  all  others  to  the  shelf. 
And  was  received  par  acclamation, 
As  truly  worthy  the  Grande  Nation. 

It  seems  (as  Monsieur  told  the  story) 
That  Louts  the  Fourtoentli, — that  glory, 
That  Coryphie  of  all  crown'd  pates, — 
That  pink  of  the  Legitimates — 
Had,  wlien,  with  many  a  pious  pray'r,  he 
Bcqucatli'd  unto  the  Virgin  Mary 
Ilis  marriage  deeds,  and  cordon  ble'j}'' 
Bequeath'd  to  lier  his  State  Vv'ig  too — 
(An  off'ring  '.vhiuh,  at  Court,  'tia  thought, 
Tlie  Virgin  values  as  she  ou;jht) — 
That  Wig,  the  wonder  of  all  eyes, 
The  Cynosure  of  Galli-a's  skies. 
To  watch  and  tend  whose  curls  adored. 

Rebuild  its  tow'ring  roof,  wlicn  flat. 
And  round  it.s  rumpled  base,  a  Board 

Of  sixty  Barbers  daily  sat,'" 
WilFi  Subs,  on  State-D.iys,  to  assist, 
Well  pension'd  from  the  Civil  List : — 
That  wondrous  Wig,  array 'd  in  whicli, 
Ami  f  jrni'd  alike  to  awe  or  witch, 
He  beat  all  other  lieirs  of  crowns, 
In  taking  mistresses  and  towns, 
Requiring  but  a  shot  at  one, 
A  Hmile  at  fiilher,  and  'twas  done ! — 


"  That  Wig"  (said  Monsieur,  wlule  his  brow 
Rose  proudly)  '•  is  existing  now ; — 
"  That  Grand  Porruque,  amid  the  fall 

"Of  ev'ry  otlier  Royal  glory, 
"  With  curls  erect  survives  them  all, 

"  And  tells  in  ev'ry  hair  their  story. 
"  Think,  think,  how  welcome  at  this  time 
"  A  relic,  so  beloved,  sublime  ! 
"  What  worthier  standard  of  the  Cause 

"  Of  Kingly  Right  can  France  demand? 
"  Or  who  among  our  ranks  can  pause 

"  To  guard  it,  while  a  curl  shall  stand  1 
"  Behold,  my  friends" — (while  thus  he  cried, 
A  curtain  which  conceal'd  this  pride 
Of  Princely  Wigs  was  drawn  aside) 
"  Behold  tliat  grand  Perruque — how  big 

"  Wit'n  recollections  for  the  world — 
"  For  France — for  ns — Great  Louis'  Wig, 

"  By  Hippoltte"  new  frizz'd  and  cuil'd^ 
"  New  frizz'd!  aias,  'tis  but  too  true, 
"  Well  may  you  start  at  that  word  new — 
"  But  such  the  sacrifice,  my  friends, 
"  Th'  Imperial  Ccsi'ack  recommends ; 
"  Thinking  such  small  concessions  sage, 
"  To  meet  the  spirit  of  tlie  age, 
"  And  do  what  best  that  spirit  flatters, 
"  In  Wigs — if  not  in  weightier  matters. 
"  Wherefore,  to  please  the  Czar,  and  show 
"  That  ice  too,  mucli-wrong'd  Bourbons,  know 
^  What  liberalism  in  Jlonarchs  is, 
'•  We  have  conceded  the  New  Friz ! 
"  Tnus  arm'd,  ye  gallant  Ultras,  say, 
"  Can  men,  can  Frenchmen,  fear  the  fray? 
"  With  this  proud  relic  in  our  van, 

"  And  D'Angouleme,  our  worthy  leader, 
"  Let  rebel  Spain  do  all  she  can, 

"  Let  recreant  England  arm  and  feed  hor,-— 
"  Urged  by  that  pupil  of  Hunt's  scliool, 
"  That  Radical,  Lord  LivEiirooL — 
"  France  can  have  naught  to  fear — far  from  t— • 

"  Wlien  once  astounded  Europe  sees 
"  The  wig  of  Louis,  like  a  Comet, 

"  Streaming  above  the  Pyrenees, 
"  .Mi's  o'er  with  Spain — then  on,  my  sons, 

"  On,  my  incomparable  Duke, 
"  And,  shouting  for  the  Holy  Ones, 

"  Cry  Viic  la  Guerre — et  la  Perruque  I' 


FABLES  FOR  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE. 


179 


NOTES. 


(W  "It  is  well  known  that  the  Empress  Anne  built  a  palace 
of  ice  on  the  Neva,  iu  1740,  which  was  fiity-two  feet  in  length, 
and  when  illuminated  had  a  surprising  effect."— Pinkerton. 

(2)  The  Golha  had  a  law  to  choose  always  a  short,  thick  man 
for  their  King. — Munster,  Cusmog.  lib.  iii.  p.  1G4. 

(3)  "In  a  Prince  ajolter-heud  is  invalu:ible."^0rtfn^a/  Field 
Sports. 

(4)  According  to  VEIian,  it  was  in  the  island  of  Leucadia 
they  practised  this  ceremony. — De  Jinimal.  lib.  ii.  cap.  8. 

(."i)  JlmcSf  demi'dmeSf  &.C. 

(fi)  The  salamander  is  supposed  to  have  the  power  of  extin- 
guishing lire  by  its  natural  coldness  and  moisture. 

(7)  A  well-known  publisher  of  irreligious  books. 

(8)  "  The  greatest  number  of  the  ichneumon  tribe  are  seen 
settling  \ipou  the  back  of  the  caterpillar,  and  darting  at  differ- 
ent intervals  their  stings  into  its  body — at  every  dai't  they 
depose  an  egg." — Goldsmith. 

(9)  Andreas. 

(10)  Quand  il  6tait  occup6  d'aucune  essoine,  il  envoyait  No- 
velle,  sa  fille,  en  son  lieu  lire  aux  escholes  en  charge,  et,  afin 
qua  la  biaUtfi  d'elle  n'emp^chit  la  pensC-e  des  oyants,  ella 
avait  uno  petite  courtiue  devant  hWq.— Christ,  de  Pise,  CiU 
des  Dames,  p.  11,  cap.  3G. 

(11)  See  Turner^a  Embassy  to  Thibet  for  an  account  of  his 
interview  with  the  Lama. — "Teshoo  Lama  (lie  says)  was  at 
this  time  eighteen  months  old.  Though  he  was  unable  to 
■peak  n  word,  be  made  the  most  expressive  signs,  and  con- 
ducted himself  with  astonishing  dignity  and  decorum.'* 

(12)  This  alludes  to  the  execution  oi  Charles  I. 

(13)  The  idea  of  this  Fable  was  caughi  from  one  of  those 
briUiaut  7nots  which  abound  iu  the  conversation  of  my  friend. 


the  author  of  the  "Letters  to  Julia,"— a  production  which 
contains  some  of  the  happiest  speciiiieus  of  playl'iil  poutry  that 
have  appeared  in  this  or  any  age. 

(14)  Old  Ilavdy.  WTiero  are  the  extiniguishcrs? 

Youvn-  Handy.    They  are  on  lire. — Sfkeu  tue  Plough. 

(15)  They  celebrated  in  the  dark  ages,  at  many  churches, 
particularly  at  Koucn,  what  was  called  the  Feast  of  the  Ass. 
On  this  occasion  the  ass,  finely  di-essed,  was  brought  before 
tlie  altar,  and  they  sung  before  him  this  elegant  anthem,  "  Eh, 
eh,  eh,  Sire  Ane,  eh,  eh,  eh,  Sire  Ane." — Wartos's  Essay  on 
Pope. 

(16)  Brought  from  the  river  Jordan  by  M.  Chateaubriand, 
and  presented  to  the  French  Empress  for  the  christening  of 
young  Napoleon. 

(17)  See  the  Duke's  celebrated  letter  to  madame,  written 
during  his  campaign  in  1815,  in  which  he  says,  "J'ai  le  poa- 
tiirieur  legerement  endommag6." 

(18)  "On  certain  great  occasions,  the  twelve  Judges  (who 
are  generally  between  sixty  and  seventy  years  of  age)  sing  the 
song  and  dance  the  liguie-dauce,"  &c. — Book  v. 

(19)  "Louis  XIV.  fit  pr63ent  a  la  Vierge  de  son  cordon  bleu, 
quo  Ton  conserve  soigneusement,  et  lui  envoya  ensuite,  son 
Contrat  de  Mariage  et  le  Traite  des  Pyrenees,  magniliquement 
reii6." — Memoircsj  Jinecdotes  pour  servir,  &c, 

(90)  The  learned  author  of  Rechcrches,  Historiques  sur  les 
Pcrrtiques  saya  that  the  Board  consisted  but  of  Forty — the 
same  number  as  the  Academy.  "  Le  plus  beau  terns  dee 
perruques  fut  celui  ou  Louis  XIV.  commenra  a  porter,  lui- 

m^me,  perruque; On  ignore  Tepoque  oii  ee  fit 

cette  revolution  ;  mais  on  salt  qu'elle  engagea  Louis  le  Grand 
a  y  donner  scs  soins  paternels,  en  creant,  en  1G5G,  quarante 
charges  de  pcrruquiers,  suivant  la  cour;  et  en  1673,  il  forma 
un  corps  de  deux  cents  perruquiers  pour  la  Ville  do  Paris." 
—P.  HI. 

(21)  A  celebrated  Coiffeur  of  tho  present  day. 


ODES    OF    ANACREOI. 


HIS  ROYAL  HIGHNESS 


THE  TRINCE  OF  WALES. 


•im, 


In  allowing  me  to  dedicate  this  Work  to  Your  Royal  Highness,  you  have  conferred  upon 
ao  an  honor  which  I  feel  very  sensibly :  and  I  have  only  to  regret,  that  the  pages  which  you  have 
ftius  distinguished  are  not  more  deser\'ing  of  such  illustrious  patronage. 

Believe,  me.  Sir, 
Witli  every  sentiment  of  respect, 

Your  Royal  Ilighncss's 
Very  grateful  and  devoted  Servant, 

Thomas  1\Ioore. 


REMARKS  ON  ANACREON. 


There  is  hut  little  known  with  certainty  of  the 
life  of  Anacrpon.  Chaniirleon  Ileracli'iites,  who 
wrote  upon  the  suhjoct,  has  licen  lost  in  the  gen- 
eral wreck  of  ancient  literatnre.  The  editors  of 
the  poet  have  collected  the  few  trilling  anecdotes 
which  are  scattered  through  the  extant  authors  of 
antiquity,  and,  supplying  the  deficiency  of  nxitc- 
rials  hy  fictions  of  their  own  iniagiimtion,  have  ar- 
flin.'cd,  what  they  call,  a  life  of  Anacrcon.  These 
<pcc-iouH  fiihricatlons  an;  intended  to  indiilcre  that 
iiilereit  wliirli  we  naturally  feel  in  the  hiography 
of  il'uttrious  men;  hut  it  is  rather  a  dangerous 
kind  of  illusion,  as  it  confounds  the  limits  of 
hidlory  and  romance,'  and  is  too  often  supported 
by  unfaithful  citation.* 


Our  poet  was  horn  in  the  city  of  Tc os,'  in  the 
delicious  reijiiin  of  Ionia,  and  the  time  of  his  hn-lli 
appears  to  have  heen  in  the  sixth  century  het'oro 
Christ.'  He  nourished  at  that  remarkahle  jieriod, 
when,  under  the  polished  tyrants  Ilipparchns  and 
Polycrates,  Athens  and  Sanios  were  hecome  the 
rival  asylums  of  genius.  There  is  nothing  certain 
known  alioiit  his  family,  and  those  who  pretend  to 
discover  in  Plato  th:it  he  was  a  descendant  of  iho 
monarch  Codrus,  show  nnich  more  of  zeal  Ih.ui  i>f 
either  accuracy  or  jii(li,'iiient.' 

The  disposition  and  talents  of  Anacrcon  recom- 
mended him  to  the  monarch  of  Samos,  and  he  was 
formed  to  he  the  friend  of  such  n  princo  ns  Poly- 
crates.    Susceptihie  oiilv  to  the  i)leiisurcs,  he  I'dK 


ODES  OP  ANACKEON. 


181 


not  llio  corrupticna  of  the  court ;  and,  while 
I'ytliagoras  fled  from  tho  tyrant,  Anacreon  was 
.lelebrating  his  praises  on  tho  lyre.  VVe  are  told 
loo  by  Maxnnus  Tyrius,  that,  by  the  iiilhience  of 
his  amatory  songs,  he  softened  the  mind  of  Poly- 
craies  into  a  spirit  of  benevolence  towards  his 
subjects. 

The  amours  of  the  poet,  and  tlie  rivalsliip  of 
the  tyrant,"  I  shall  pass  over  in  silence ;  and  there 
are  few,  I  presume,  who  will  regret  the  omission 
of  most  of  those  anecdotes,  which  tho  industry 
of  some  editors  has  not  only  promulged,  but  dis- 
cussed. Whatever  is  repugnant  to  modesty  and 
virtue  is  considered  in  ethical  science,  by  a  suppo- 
sition very  favorable  to  humanity,  as  impossible; 
and  this  amiable  persuasion  should  bo  nnicli  more 
strongly  entertained,  where  tlie  transgi'ession  wars 
with  nature  as  well  as  virtue.  But  why  are  we 
not  allowed  to  indulge  in  the  presumption  ?  Why 
are  we  officiously  reminded  that  there  have  been 
leally  such  instances  of  depravity  ? 

Hipparchus,  who  now  maintained  at  Athens  tho 
power  which  his  father  Pisistratus  had  usurped, 
was  one  of  those  princes  wlio  may  be  said  to  have 
polished  the  fetters  of  their  subjects.  He  was  the 
,irst,  according  to  Plato,  who  edited  the  poems  of 
flonier,  and  commanded  them  to  be  sung  by  the 
.hapsodists  at  the  celebration  of  tlie  Panathensa. 
»''roiu  his  court,  which  was  a  sort  of  galaxy  of 
genius,  Anacreon  could  not  long  be  .ibsent.  Hip- 
parchus sent  a  barge  for  him  ;  the  poet  readily 
embraced  the  invitation,  and  the  Sluses  and  the 
Loves  were  wafted  with  him  to  Athens.' 

The  manner  of  Anacreon's  death  was  singular. 
VVe  are  told  that  in  the  eighty-fifth  year  of  his  age 
he  was  ch.oked  by  a  grape-stone  ;*  and,  however 
we  may  smile  at  their  enthusiastic  partiality,  who 
see  in  this  easy  and  characteristic  death  a  peculiar 
indulgence  of  Heaven,  we  cannot  help  admiring 
that  his  fate  should  have  been  so  emblematic  of 
his  disposition.  Ca;lius  Calcagninus  alludes  to 
this  catastrophb  ;n  the  following  epitaph  on  our 
poet: — 


"Those  lips,  tlicri,  hallow'd  sage,  which  pour'd  along 
A  music  sweel  as  i.ny  cygnet's  soug, 
The  grnpe  hath  closed  for  ever  ! 
Here  let  the  ivy  kiss  tlie  poet's  tomb, 
Here  lei  the  rose  he  loved  with  laurels  bloora, 
In  bands  that  ne'er  shall  sever. 


"But  far  111  thou,  oh!  I'ar,  unholy  vino, 
By  whom  the  favorite  minstrel  of  the  Nino 

Lost  his  sweet  vital  breath  ; 
Thy  God  himself  now  blushes  to  confess, 
Once  hallow'd  vine  !  he  feels  he  loves  thee  less, 

BiDco  poor  Anacreon's  death. ' 


It  has  been  supposed  by  some  writers  that 
Anacreon  and  Sappho  were  contemporaries;  and 
the  very  thought  of  an  itilercourse  between  per- 
sons so  congenial,  both  in  warmth  of  passion  and 
delicacy  of  genius,  gives  such  play  to  the  imagin.t. 
tion,  that  the  mind  love-s  to  indulge  in  it.  But 
the  vision  dissolves  before  historical  truth ;  and 
Chamaeleon  and  Hermesianax,  who  are  the  source 
of  the  supposition,  are  considered  as  having  merely 
indulged  in  a  poetical  anachronism." 

To  infer  the  moral  dispositions  of  a  poet  from 
the  tone  of  sentiment  which  pervades  his  works, 
is  sometimes  a  very  fallacious  analogy ;  but  the 
soul  of  Anacreon  speaks  so  unequivocally  through 
his  odes,  that  we  may  safely  consult  them  as  the 
faithful  mirrors  of  his  heart.'"  We  find  him  there 
the  elegant  voluptuary,  diffusing  the  seductive 
charm  of  sentiment  over  passions  and  propensities 
at  which  rigid  morality  must  frown.  His  heart, 
devoted  to  indolence,  .seems  to  have  thought  that 
there  is  wealth  enough  in  happiness,  but  seldom 
happiness  in  mere  wealth.  The  cheerfulness,  in- 
deed, with  which  he  brightens  his  old  age  is  inter- 
esting and  endearing :  lilie  his  own  rose,  he  is 
fragrant  even  in  decay.  But  the  most  peculiar 
feature  of  his  mind  is  that  love  of  simplicity,  which 
he  attributes  to  himself  so  feelingly,  and  which 
breathes  characteristically  throughout  all  that  he 
has  sung.  In  truth,  if  we  omit  those  few  vices  in 
our  estimate,  which  religion,  at  that  time,  not  only 
connived  at,  but  consecrated,  we  shall  be  inclined 
to  say  that  the  disposition  of  our  poet  was  amiable ; 
that  his  morality  was  relaxed,  but  not  abandoned; 
and  that  Virtue,  with  her  zone  loosened,  may  be  ar 
apt  emblem  of  the  character  of  Anacreon." 

Of  his  person  and  physiognomy  time  has  pre- 
served such  uncertain  memorials,  that  it  were  bet- 
ter, perhaps,  to  le.ave  the  pencil  to  fanej';  and  few 
can  read  the  Odes  of  Anacreon  without  imagining 
to  themselves  the  form  of  the  animated  old  bard, 
crowned  with  roses,  and  singing  cheerfully  to  his 
lyre.  But  the  head  of  Anacreon,  prefixed  to  this 
work,'"  has  been  considered  so  authentic,  that  we 
scarcely  could  be  justified  in  the  omission  of  it; 
and  some  have  even  thought  that  it  is  by  no  means 
deficient  in  that  benevolent  suavity  of  expression 
which  should  characterize  the  countenance  of  such 
a  poet. 

After  the  very  enthusiastic  eulogiums  bestowed 
both  by  ancients  and  moderns  upon  the  poems  of 
Anacreon,"  wo  need  not  be  diffident  in  expressing 
our  raptures  at  their  l^auty,  nor  hesitate  to  pro- 
nounce them  the  most  polished  remains  of  anti- 
quity. They  are,  indeed,  all  beauty,  all  enchant;, 
ment."     He  steals  as   so  iiisensibly  along  witn 


182 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


him,  that  we  sympathize  even  in  his  excesses.  In 
his  amatorv  odes  tliere  is  a  delicacy  of  compliment 
not  to  be  i'ound  in  any  other  ancient  poet.  Love 
at  that  period  was  rather  an  unrefined  emotion : 
and  the  intercourse  of  the  sexes  was  animated 
more  by  passion  than  by  sentiment.  They  knew 
not  those  little  tendernesses  which  form  the  spiritual 
part  of  affection ;  their  expression  of  feeling  was 
therefore  rude'  and  unvaried,  and  the  poetry  of 
love  deprived  it  of  its  most  c.iptivating  graces. 
Anacreon,  however,  attained  some  ideas  of  this 
purer  gallantry;  and  the  same  delicacy  of  mind 
which  led  him  to  this  refinement,  prevented  him 
also  from  yielding  to  the  freedom  of  language 
which  has  sullied  the  pages  of  all  the  other  poets. 
His  descriptions  are  warm ;  but  the  warmth  is  in 
the  ideas,  not  the  words.  He  is  sportive  without 
being  wanton,  and  ardent  without  being  licentious. 
His  poetic  invention  is  always  most  brilliantly  dis- 
played in  those  allegorical  fictions  which  so  many 
have  endeavored  to  imit.atc,  though  all  have  con- 
fessed them  to  be  inimitable.  Simplicity  is  the  dis- 
tinguishing feature  of  these  odes,  and  they  interest 
by  their  innocence,  as  much  as  they  fascinate  by 
_  their  beauty.  They  may  be  said,  indeed,  to  be  the 
very  infants  of  the  Muses,  and  to  lisp  in  numbers. 

I  shall  not  be  accused  of  enthusiastic  partiality 
by  those  who  have  read  and  felt  the  original ;  but, 
to  others,  I  am  conscious,  tliis  sliould  not  be  the 
.angiiage  of  a  translator,  whose  faint  rclleclion 
of  such  beauties  can  but  ill  justify  his  admiration 
of  them. 

In  the  age  of  Anacreon  music  and  poetry  were 
inseparable.  These  kindred  talents  were  for  a 
long  thne  associated,  and  the  poet  always  sung 
his  own  compositions  to  the  lyre.  It  is  probable 
that  they  were  not  set  to  any  regular  air,  but 
rather  a  kind  of  musical  recitation,  which  was 
varied  according  to  the  fancy  and  feelings  of  the 
moment.  The  poems  of  Anacreon  were  sung  at 
banf|ucts  as  late  as  the  time  of  Anlus  Gcllius,  who 
IcUh  us  that  he  heard  one  of  the  odes  performed 
at  a  birthday  cnlcrtainnierit. 

The  singular  beauty  of  our  poet's  style,  and 
the  apparent  facility,  perhaps,  of  his  metre,  have 
attracted,  as  I  have  already  remarked,  a  crowd  of 
iniiL'itors.  Some  of  these  have  succeeded  with 
wonderful  felicity,  as  ni:iy  be  discerued  in  the  few 
ides  which  are  attributed  to  writers  of  a  later 
period.  But  notie  of  his  emulators  have  been  half 
so  dangerous  to  his  fame  as  those  Greek  ecclcsi- 
iMtics  of  the  early  nge»,  who,  being  conscious  of 
their  own  inferiority  to  tlicir  groat  prototypcR, 
dvlermincd  on  removing  all  possibility  of  com- 
parison, nod,  under  a  aemblanoo  of  moral   7.ea1, 


deprived  the  world  of  some  of  the  most  exciuisite 
treasures  of  ancient  limes.  The  works  of  Sappho 
and  Alcreus  were  among  those  flowers  of  Grecian 
literature  which  tlius  fell  beneath  the  rude  hand 
of  ecclesiastical  presumption.  It  is  true  they  pre- 
tended that  this  sacrifice  of  genius  was  hallowed 
by  the  interests  of  religion ;  but  I  have  already 
assigned  the  most  probable  motive;  and  if  Gre- 
gorius  Nazianzenus  had  not  written  An.acrcontics, 
we  might  now  perhaps  have  the  works  of  the 
Teian  unmutilated,  and  bo  empowered  to  say 
exultingly  with  Horace, 


'Nee  si  quid  oliui  lusit  Auacroon 
Dclovit  a'las.'' 


The  zeal  by  which  these  bishops  professed  to  oe 
actuated,  gave  birth  more  innocently,  indeed,  to  an 
absurd  species  of  parody,  as  repugnant  to  piety  as 
it  is  to  taste,  where  the  poet  of  volnptuousness 
was  made  a  preacher  of  the  gospel,  and  his  muse, 
like  the  Venus  in  armor  .at  Laceda>mon,  was  ar- 
rayed in  all  the  severities  of  priestly  instruction. 
Sucli  was  the  "Anacreon  Recantatus,"  by  Carolus 
de  Aquino,  a  Jesuit,  publislied  1701,  which  con- 
sisted  of  a  series  of  palinodes  to  the  several  songa 
of  our  poet.  Such,  too,  was  the  Christian  Anac- 
reon of  Patriganus,  another  Jesuit,  who  preposter- 
ously transferred  to  a  most  sacred  subject  all  that 
the  (irceian  poet  had  dedicated  to  festivity  and 
love. 

His  metre  has  frequently  been  .adopted  by  the 
modern  Latin  poets;  and  Scaliger,  Taubraan,  Bar- 
Ihius,  and  others,  have  shown  that  it  is  by  no 
means  uncongenial  witli  th.it  language.  The 
Anacreontics  of  Scaliger,  however,  scarcely  de- 
serve the  name ;  as  they  glitter  all  over  with 
conceits,  and,  though  often  elegant,  are  always 
labored.  The  beautiful  fictions  of  Angerianus 
preserve  more  hai)i>ily  than  any  others  the  delicate 
turn  of  those  .allegorical  fables,  which,  passing  so 
frequently  through  the  mediums  of  version  and 
imitation,  have  generally  lost  their  finest  rays  in 
the  transmission.  Jl.my  of  the  Italian  poets  h.avo 
indulged  their  fancies  upon  the  subjects,  and  in  the 
m.anncr  of  An.acreon.  Bernardo  Tasso  first  intro- 
duced the  metre,  which  was  afterwards  j)olishcd 
ami  enriched  by  Chabricra  and  others. 

To  judge  by  the  rel'rreiiees  of  Degen,  the  Ger- 
man language  abounds  in  Anaereonlie  imitations 
and  Hagedorn  is  one  among  many  who  have  a.s- 
Rumed  him  as  a  model.  1,11  Farrc,  Chaulien,  and 
the  other  light  poct.sof  France,  have  also  professed 
to  cultivate  the  muse  of  Ti'os ;  but  they  have  at- 
tained all   lier  negligence  with  lillh-   >f  (he  Kirn|)lo 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


183 


grace  that  enilicUiMlics  it.  In  the  delicate  bard  of 
Schiiis  we  iind  the  Iciiulred  spirit  of  Anacrcon: 
some  of  his  gazelles,  or  songs,  possess  all  the 
character  of  our  poet. 

We  come  now  to  a  retrospect  of  the  editions  of 
Anacreon.  To  Henry  Stephen  we  are  indebted 
for  having  first  recovered  his  remains  from  the 
obscurity  in  which,  so  singularly,  they  had  for  many 
ages  reposed.  He  found  the  seventh  ode,  as  we 
are  told,  on  the  cover  of  an  old  book,  and  commu- 
nicated it  to  Victorius,  who  mentions  the  circum- 
stance in  his  "Various  Readings."  Stephen  was 
then  very  young ;  and  this  discovery  was  con- 
sidered by  some  critics  of  that  day  as  a  literary 
imposition.  In  1554,  however,  he  gave  Anacreon 
to  the  world,"'  accompanied  witli  annotations  and 
a  Latin  version  of  tlie  greater  part  of  the  odes. 
The  learned  still  hesitated  to  receive  them  as  the 
relics  of  the  Teian  bard,  and  suspected  them  to  be 
the  fabrication  of  some  monks  of  the  sLxteenth 
century.  This  was  an  idea  from  which  the  classic 
muse  recoiled ;  and  the  Vatican  manuscript,  con- 
sulted by  Scaliger  and  Salmasius,  confirmed  the 
antiquity  of  most  of  the  poems.  A  very  inaccurate 
eopy  of  this  MS.  was  taken  by  Isaac  Vossius,  and 
this  is  the  authority  which  Barnes  has  followed  in 
his  collation.  Accordingly  he  misrepresents  al- 
most as  often  as  he  quotes;  and  tlie  subsequent 
editors,  relying  upon  his  authority,  have  spoken 
of  tlie  manuscript  with  not  less  confidence  than 
ignorance.  The  literary  world,  however,  lias  at 
length  been  gratified  with  this  curious  memorial 
of  the  poet,  by  the  industry  of  the  Abbe  Spaletti, 
who  published  at  Rome,  in  1781,  a  fac-simile  of 
those  pages  of  the  Vatican  manuscript  which  con- 
tained the  odes  of  Anacreon. 

A  catalogue  has  been  given  by  Gail  of  all  the 
different  editions  and  translations  of  Anacreon. 
Finding  their  number  to  be  mucli  greater  than  I 
could  possibly  have  had  an  opportunity  of  consult- 
ing, I  shall  here  content  myself  with  enumerating 
only  those  editions  and  versions  which  it  has  been 
in  my  power  to  collect;  and  which,  though  very 
few,  are,  I  believj,  the  most  important. 


The  edilion  by  Henry  Stciihen,  1554,  at  Paris 
— the  Latin  version  is  atlribuled  by  Colomcsius  to 
John  Dorat. 

The  old  French  translations,  by  Ronsard  and 
Belleau — the  former  published  in  1555,  the  latter 
in  1556.  It  appears  from  a  note  of  Muretus  upon 
one  of  the  sonnets  of  Ronsard,  that  Henry  Ste- 
phen communicated  to  this  poet  his  manuscript 
of  Anacreon,  before  he  promulgated  it  to  the 
world."= 

The  edition  by  Le  Fevre,  16G0. 

The  edition  by  Madame  Dacier,  1G81,  with  a 
prose  translation." 

The  edition  by  Longepierre,  1684,  with  a  trans- 
lation in  verse. 

The  edition  by  Baxter;  London,  1695. 

A  French  translation  by  la  Fosse,  1704. 

"  L'Histoire  des  Odes  d' Anacreon,"  by  Garon ; 
Rotterdam,  1712. 

A  translation  in  English  verse,  by  several 
hands,  1713,  in  which  the  odes  by  Cowley  are 
inserted. 

The  edilion  by  Barnes;  London,  1721. 

The  edition  by  Dr.  Trapp,  1733,  with  a  Latm 
version  in  elegiac  metre. 

A  translation  in  English  verse,  by  John  Ad- 
dison, 1735. 

A  collection  of  Italian  translations  of  Anacreon, 
published  at  Venice,  1736,  consisting  of  those  by 
Corsini,  Regnier,  Salvini,  Marchetti,  and  one  by 
several  anonymous  authors. 

A  translation  in  English  verse,  by  Fawkcs  and 
Doctor  Broome,  1760. 

Another,  anonymous,  1768. 

The  edition  by  Spaletti,  at  Rome,  1781;  with 
the  fac-simile  of  the  Vatican  BIS. 

Tlie  edition  by  Degen,  1786,  who  published 
also  a  German  translation  of  Anacreon,  esteemed 
the  best. 

A  translation  in  English  verse,  by  Urquhart, 
1787. 

The  edition  by  Gail,  at  Paris,  1799,  with  a 
prose  translation. 


184 


MOOKE'S  WOEKS. 


OIES  OF  ANACIIEOA^. 


ODE  L 

I  SAW  the  smiling  bard  of  pleasure, 
The  minstrel  of  the  Tei;in  measure; 
'Twas  in  a  vision  of  the  night, 
He  beam'd  upon  my  wondering  sight. 
I  heard  his  voice,  and  warmly  press'd. 
The  dear  enthusiast  to  my  breast. 
His  tresses  wore  a  silvery  dye. 
But  beauty  sparkled  in  Iiis  eye; 
Sparkled  in  his  eyes  of  fire, 
Tlirough  the  mist  of  soft  desire. 
His  lip  exhaled,  whene'er  he  sigh'd, 
The  fragrance  of  the  racy  tide ; 
And,  as  with  weak  and  reeling  feet 
[le  came  my  cordial  kiss  to  meet, 
An  inf.mt,  of  the  Cyprian  band. 
Guided  him  on  with  tender  hand. 
Quick  from  his  glowing  brows  he  drew 
His  braid,  of  many  a  wanton  hue ; 
I  took  the  wreath,  whose  inmost  twine 
Breatlied  of  him  and  bluslTd  with  wine." 
I  hung  it  o'er  my  thoughtless  brow 
And  ah!  I  feel  its  magic  now: 
I  feel  that  even  his  garland's  touch 
Can  make  the  bosom  love  too  much. 


ODE  IL 

Give  me  the  harp  of  epic  song, 
VVliich  Homer's  finger  thrill'd  along; 
But  tear  away  the  sanguine  string. 
For  war  is  not  the  theme  I  sing. 
Proclaim  the  laws  of  festal  rite, 
I'm  monarch  of  the  board  to-night; 
And  all  around  sli.'dl  brim  as  high, 
And  quaff  the  tide  as  deop  as  [. 
And  when  the  cluster's  mellowing  dews 
Their  wnnn  enchanting  balm  infuse, 
Our  feet  shall  catch  th'  el.astic  bound. 
And  reel  us  through  the  dance's  round. 
Great  Racchus  !  wo  shidl  sing  to  thee, 
In  wild  l)Ut  sweet  cbrlely  ; 
Flphhing  around  such  sparks  of  thought, 
An  BiuuiIhih  rouUI  alone  linvo  taught. 


Then,  give  the  harp  of  epic  song, 
Which  Homer's  finger  tlirill'd  along; 
But  tear  away  the  sanguine  string, 
For  war  is  not  tlie  tlieme  I  sing. 


ODE  UI. 

Ltsten  to  the  Muse's  lyre, 
Jlaster  of  the  pencil's  fire  ! 
Sketch'd  in  painting's  bold  disp!ay. 
Many  a  city  first  portray  ; 
Many  a  city,  revelling  free. 
Full  of  loose  festivity. 
Picture  tlien  a  rosy  train, 
Bacchants  straying  o'er  the  plain 
Piping,  as  they  roam  along, 
Rouudflay  or  shepherd-song.        ' 
I'aiut  me  next,  if  painting  may 
Such  a  theme  as  this  portray. 
All  the  earthly  heaven  of  love 
These  delighted  mortals  prove. 


ODE  IV. 

Vulcan  !  hear  your  glorious  t^isk  : 
I  do  not  from  your  labors  ask 
In  gorgeous  panoply  to  shine. 
For  war  was  ne'er  a  sport  of  mine. 
No — let  me  have  a  .silver  bowd, 
^Vhere  I  may  cradle  all  my  soul ; 
But  mind  that,  o'er  its  simple  frame 
No  mimic  conslellalions  llanie  ; 
Nor  grave  upon  the  swelling  side, 
Orion,  scowling  o'er  the  tide. 
I  care  not  for  the  glitt'ring  wain. 
Nor  yet  the  weeping  sister  train. 
But  let  the  vino  luxuriant  roll 
Its  hlushing  tiMidrils  rciuiid  llie  bowl, 
While  many  a  roso-lipp'd  hai-cliant  maid 
Is  cullirig  clusters  in  their  shade. 
I, cl  sylvan  gods,  ill  anlic  shap- 
Wildly  press  the  giinuiiig  gr.ipcs. 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


185 


And  flitrlits  of  Loves,  in  wanton  play, 

Wiiijr  throujrii  tlie  aii-  tlieir  winding  way ; 

ODE  VIL 

Wliiio  Venus  from  lier  harbor  green, 

Looks  laugliing  at  the  joyous  scene, 

The  women  tell  me  every  day 

And  young  Lyaeus  by  her  side 

That  all  my  bloom  has  pass'd  away. 

Sits,  worthy  of  so  briglit  a  brido. 

"  Behold,"  the  pretty  wantons  cry, 

"  Behold  this  mirror  with  a  sigh ; 

"  The  locks  upon  th.y  brow  are  few, 

"  And,  like  the  rest,  they're  withering  too  ." 

Whether  decline  has  thinn'd  my  hair, 

ODE  v. 

I'm  sure  I  neither  know  nor  care ; 

But  this  I  know,  and  this  I  feel. 

SouLPTOB,  wouldst  thou  glad  my  soul, 

As  onward  to  the  tomb  I  ste.al, 

Grave  for  me  an  ample  bowl, 

That  still  as  death  approaches  nearer, 

Worthy  to  shine  in  hall  or  bower. 

The  joys  of  life  are  sweeter,  dearer  f 

When  spring-time  brings  the  reveller's  hour. 

And  had  I  but  an  hour  to  live, 

Grave  it  with  themes  of  chaste  design. 

That  little  hour  to  bliss  I'd  give. 

Fit  for  a  simple  board  lil;e  mine. 

Display  not  there  the  barbarous  rites 

In  which  religious  zeal  delights ; 

Nor  any  t.ale  of  tragic  fate 

Which  History  shudders  to  rel.ate. 

ODE  Via 

No — cull  the  fancies  from  .^bove, 

Themes  of  lieav'n  and  themes  of  love. 

I  CARE  not  for  the  idle  state 

liBt  Bacchus,  Jove's  ambrosial  boy, 

Of  Persia's  king,  the  rich,  the  great  -. 

Distil  the  grape  in  drops  of  joy 

I  envy  not  the  monarch's  throne. 

And  while  he  smiles  at  every  tear, 

Nor  v/ish  the  treasured  gold  my  own. 

Let  warm-eyed  Venus,  dancing  near, 

But  oh !  be  mine  the  rosy  wreath. 

With  spirits  of  the  genial  bed. 

Its  freshness  o'er  my  brow  to  breathe  ; 

The  dewy  herbage  deftly  tread. 

Be  mine  the  rich  perfumes  that  flow. 

Let  Love  be  there,  without  his  arms," 

To  cool  and  scent  my  locks  of  snow."' 

Li  timid  nakedness  of  charms ; 

To-day  I'll  haste  to  quaff  my  wine. 

And  all  the  Graces,  link'd  with  Love, 

As  if  to-morrow  ne'er  would  shine ; 

Stray,  laughing,  through  the  shadowy  grove  ; 

But  if  to-morrow  comes,  why  then — 

While  rosy  boys  disporting  round, 

I'll  haste  to  quaff  ray  wine  ag.ain. 

111  circlets  trip  the  velvet  ground. 

And  thus  while  all  our  days  are  bright, 

But  ah !  if  there  Apollo  toys. 

Nor  time  has  dimra'd  their  bloomy  light. 

I  tremble  for  the  rosy  boys."° 

Lot  us  the  festal  hours  beguile 

With  mantling  cup  and  cordial  smile ; 

And  shed  from  each  new  bowl  of  wine 

■  The  richest  drop  on  Bacchus'  shrine. 

For  Death  may  come,  with  brow  unpleasant 

ODE  W 

May  come,  when  least  we  wish  him  present. 

As  late  I  sought  the  spangled  bowera, 

And  beckon  to  the  sable  shore. 

To  cull  a  wreath  of  matin  flowers. 

And  grimly  bid  us — drink  no  more ! 

Where  many  an  early  rose  was  weeping, 

I  found  the  urchin  Cupid  sleeping.'" 

I  caught  the  boy,  a  goblet's  tide 

Was  richly  mantling  by  my  side. 

I  caught  him  by  his  downy  wing. 

ODE  IX. 

And  whelin'd  him  in  the  racy  spring. 

Then  drank  I  down  the  poison'd  bowl, 

I  PRAY  thee,  by  the  gods  above," 

And  Love  now  nestles  in  my  soul. 

Give  me  the  mighty  bowl  I  love. 

Oh  yes,  my  soul  is  Cupid's  nest. 

And  let  me  sing,  in  wild  delight, 

I  feel  him  fluttering  in  my  breast. 

"I  will — I  will  be  mad  to-night!" 

24 


186 


MOOEE'S  WOKKS. 


Alcmseon  once,  as  legends  tell, 

"  Sir,"  (he  answer'd,  and  the  while 

Was  frenzied  by  the  fiends  of  hell ; 

Answer'd  all  in  Doric  style,) 

Orestes  too,  with  naked  tread, 

"  Take  it,  for  a  trifle  t;ike  it ; 

Frantic  paced  the  mounkiin-head  ; 

"  'Twas  not  I  who  dared  to  make  it  • 

And  why  ?  a  raurder'd  mother's  shade 

"  No,  believe  me,  'twas  not  I ; 

Haunted  them  still  where'er  they  stray'd. 

"  Oil,  it  has  cost  me  many  a  sigh. 

But  ne'er  could  I  a  murderer  be. 

"  And  I  can  no  longer  keep 

The  grape  alone  shall  bleed  by  me ; 

"  Little  gods,  who  murder  sleep !" 

Yet  can  I  shout,  with  wild  delight, 

"  Here,  then,  here,"  (I  said  with  joy,) 

"  I  will — I  will  be  mad  to-night." 

"  Here  is  silver  for  the  boy : 

"He  shall  be  my  bosom  guest, 

AlciJes'  self,  in  days  of  yore, 

"  Idol  of  my  pious  breast!" 

Imbrued  his  hands  in  youthful  gore, 

And  brandish'd,  with  a  maniac  joy. 

Now,  young  Love,  I  have  thee  mine. 

The  quiver  of  th'  expiring  boy : 

Warm  me  with  that  torch  of  thine ; 

And  Ajax,  with  tremendous  shield. 

Make  me  feel  as  I  have  felt, 

Infuriate  scour'd  the  guiltless  field. 

Or  thy  waxen  frame  shall  melt : 

But  I,  whose  liands  no  weapon  ask, 

I  must  bum  with  warm  desire, 

No  armor  but  this  joyous  tiask  ; 

Or  thou,  my  boy — in  yonder  fire. 

The  trophy  of  whose  frantic  hours 

Is  but  a  scatter'd  WTeath  of  flowers, 

Ev'n  I  can  sing  with  wild  delight. 

"  I  will— I  will  be  mad  to-night !" 

ODE  xn. 

Thet  tell  how  Atys,  wild  with  love, 

Roams  the  mount  and  haunted  grove  , 

ODE  X. 

Cybele's  name  he  howls  around. 

The  gloomy  blast  returns  the  sound ! 

How  am  I  to  punish  thee, 

Oft  too,  by  Claros'  liallow'd  spring,"' 

For  the  wrong  thou'st  done  to  me, 

The  votaries  of  the  laureU'd  king 

Silly  swallow,  prating  thing — '* 

QualTlhe  inspiring,  magic  stream. 

Shall  I  clip  that  wheeling  wing? 

And  rave  in  wild,  prophetic  dream. 

Or,  as  Tcreus  did,  of  old," 

But  frenzied  dreams  are  not  for  me. 

(So  the  fabled  tale  is  told,) 

Great  Bacchus  is  my  deity  ! 

Shall  I  tear  that  tongue  away, 

Full  of  mirth,  and  full  of  him. 

Tongue  that  ulter'd  such  a  lay? 

While  floating  odors  round  me  swim, 

Ah,  how  thoughtless  liast  thou  been! 

While  mantling  bowls  are  full  supplied. 

Long  before  the  dawn  was  seen. 

And  you  sit  blushing  by  my  side. 

When  a  dream  came  o'er  my  mind, 

I  will  be  mad  and  raving  too — • 

Picturing  her  I  worship,  kind. 

Mad,  my  girl,  with  love  for  you! 

Just  when  I  was  nearly  blest. 

Loud  thy  matins  broke  my  rest  I 

DDK  XIII. 

ODE  XL 

I  WILL,  I  will,  the  eonllicl's  past, 

And  I'll  consent  to  lovo  at  last. 

"Teu,  mo,  pontic  youth,  T  pray  thee. 

Cupid  has  long,  with  smiling  art, 

"What  ill  piiri'lia>ic  shall  I  p.iy  llico 

Invited  mo  to  yield  my  heart ; 

"  For  thJH  little  wnxen  toy, 

And  I  have  llionght  that  peace  of  mind 

"  Image  of  the  Paphian  boy  T 

Should  not  bo  for  a  sinilo  rcsign'd  : 

Thiiit  1  itnid,  the  other  day, 

And  so  repell'd  the  tender  lure, 

To  a  youth  who  patw'd  my  way : 

And  hoped  my  heart  would  sleep  sccurei 

ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


187 


There,  indeed,  are  nymphs  divine. 

Dangerous  to  a  soul  like  mine.^' 

Many  bloom  in  Lesbos'  isle ; 

JIany  in  Ionia  smile  ; 

Rhodes  a  pretty  swarm  can  boast ; 

Caria  too  contains  a  host. 

Sum  them  all — of  brown  and  fair 

You  may  count  two  thousand  there. 

What,  you  stare  1  I  pray  you,  peace  I 

More  I'll  find  bi'.fore  1  cease. 


15ut,  sli^rhted  in  his  hoasted  charms, 

Have  I  told  you  all  my  flames, 

The  angry  infant  llcw  to  arms  ; 

'Mong  the  amorous  Syrian  dafnes? 

lie  slung  his  quiver's  golden  frame, 

Have  I  number'd  every  one. 

He  took  his  bow,  his  shafts  of  flame, 

Glowing  under  Egypt's  sun  ? 

And  proudly  summon'd  me  to  yield, 

Or  the  nymphs,  who,  blushing  swee. 

<')r  meet  him  on  the  martial  field. 

Deck  the  shrine  of  Love  in  Crete; 

And  what  did  I  unthinking  do? 

Where  the  God,  with  festal  play. 

I  took  to  arms,  uiuhmnted,  too ;"" 

Holds  eternal  holiday  ? 

Assumed  the  corslet,  shield,  and  spear, 

Still  in  clusters,  still  remain 

And,  like  Pelides,  smiled  at  fear. 

Gades'  warm,  desiring  train  ;'* 

Then  (hear  it,  all  ye  powers  above !) 

Still  there  lies  a  myriad  more 

I  fought  with  Love  !  I  fought  with  Love ! 

On  the  sable  India's  sliore 

And  now  his  arrows  all  were  shed. 

These,  and  manv  far  removed. 

And  I  had  just  in  terror  fled — 

All  are  loving — all  are  loved! 

When,  heaving  an  indignant  sigh. 

To  see  me  thus  unwounded  fly. 

And,  having  now  no  other  dart. 

He  shot  himself  into  my  heart !" 

My  heart — alas  the  luckless  day  ! 

ODE  XV. 

Received  the  god,  and  died  away. 

Farewell,  farewell,  my  faithless  shield! 

Tell  me,  why,  my  sweetest  dove," 

Thy  lord  at  length  is  forced  to  yield. 

Thus  your  humid  pinions  move. 

Vain,  vain,  is  every  outward  care. 

Sliedding  through  the  air  in  showers 

The  foe's  within,  and  triumphs  there. 

Essence  of  the  balmiest  flowers? 

Tell  me  whither,  whence  you  rove, 

Tell  me  all,  my  sweetest  dove. 
Curious  stranger,  I  belong 

ODE  XIV.'" 

To  the  bard  of  Teian  song ; 

Count  me,  on  the  summer  trees. 

With  his  mandate  now  I  fly 

Every  leaf  that  courts  the  breeze ;" 

To  the  nymph  of  azure  eye  ; — 

Count  me  on  the  foamy  deep, 

She,  whose  eye  has  madden'd  many. 

Every  wave  that  sinks  to  sleep ; 

But  the  poet  more  than  any. 

Then,  when  you  have  number'd  these 

Venus,  for  a  hymn  of  love. 

Billowy  tides  and  leafy  trees. 

Warbled  in  her  votive  grove," 

Count  me  all  the  flames  I  prove. 

('Twas  in  sooth  a  gentle  lay,) 

All  the  gentle  nymphs  I  love. 

Gave  me  to  the  bard  away. 

First,  of  pure  Athenian  maids 

See  me  now  his  faithful  minion. — 

Sporting  in  their  olive  shades, 

Thus  with  softly-gliding  pinion. 

You  may  reckon  just  a  score. 

To  his  lovely  girl  I  bear 

Nay,  I'll  grant  you  fifteen  more. 

Songs  of  passion  through  the  air. 

In  the  famed  Corinthian  grove, 

Oft  he  blandly  whispers  me, 

Where  such  countless  wantons  rove. 

"  Soon,  my  bird,  I'll  set  you  free." 

Chains  of  beauties  may  be  found, 

But  in  vain  he'll  bid  me  Hy, 

Chains,  by  which  my  heart  is  bound ; 

I  shall  serve  him  till  I  die. 

Never  could  my  plumes  sustain 
Ruffling  winds  and  chilling  rain. 
O'er  the  plains,  or  in  the  dell. 
On  the  mountain's  savage  swell. 
Seeking  in  the  desert  wood 
Gloomy  shelter,  rustic  food. 
Now  I  lead  a  life  of  ease. 
Far  from  rugged  haunts  like  thesa. 
From  Anacreon's  hand  I  eat 
Food  delicious,  viands  sweet; 


188 


MOOKE'S  WOEKS. 


Flutlei  o'er  his  goblet's  brim, 
Sip  the  foamy  "ine  with  liim. 
Then,  when  I  have  wanton'd  round 
To  his  lyre's  beguiling  sound ; 
Or  with  gently-moving  wings 
Fann'd  the  minstrel  while  he  sings: 
On  his  harp  I  sink  in  slumbers, 
Dreaming  still  of  dulcet  numbers 

This  is  all — away — away — 
You  have  made  me  waste  the  day. 
How  I've  chatter'd  !  prating  crow- 
Never  yet  did  chatter  so. 


ODE  XVL" 

Thou,  whose  soft  and  rosy  hues 
Mimic  form  and  soul  infuse,'^' 
Best  of  painters,  come,  portray 
The  lovely  maid  that's  far  away." 
Far  away,  my  soul !  thou  art, 
But  I've  thy  beauties  all  by  heart. 
Paint  her  jetty  ringlets  playing, 
Silky  locks,  like  tendrils  straying ;" 
And,  if  painting  hath  the  skill 
To  m.-tke  the  spicy  balm  distil," 
Let  every  little  lock  exhale 
A  sigh  of  perfume  on  the  gale. 
Where  her  tresses'  curly  flow 
Darkles  o'er  the  brow  of  snow, 
Let  her  forehead  beam  to  light, 
Burnish'd  ;ls  the  ivory  bright. 
Let  her  eyebrows  smoothly  rise 
In  jetty  arches  o'er  her  eyes. 
Each,  a  crescent  gently  gliding. 
Just  commingling,  just  dividing. 

But,  hast  thou  any  sparkles  warm. 
The  lightning  of  hor  eyes  to  form? 
Let  them  effuse  the  azuro  rays 
That  in  Minerva's  glances  blaze, 
Mix'd  will)  the  li(|uid  light  that  lies 
In  Cylherca's  languid  eyes." 
O'er  her  nose  and  cheek  be  shed 
Flushing  while  and  soften'd  red; 
Mingling  tints,  as  when  there  glows 
In  snowy  milk  the  bashful  rose." 
Then  her  lip,  so  rich  in  blisses, 
Sweet  pclilioner  for  kisses," 
Uoi4y  ncsl,  whore  lurks  I'ersuasion, 
Mutely  courting  Love's  inviusion. 
Next,  bcncjith  the  velvet  chin, 
Whose  dimple  hides  n  Lovo  witliin," 


JNIould  her  neck  with  grace  descending. 
In  a  heaven  of  beauty  ending ; 
While  countless  charms,  above,  below, 
Sport  and  flutter  round  its  snow. 
Now  let  a  floating,  lucid  veil, 
Shadow  her  form,  but  not  conceal ;" 
A  charm  may  peep,  a  hue  may  beam, 
And  leave  the  rest  to  Fancy's  dre.am. 
Enough — 'tis  she !  'tis  all  I  seek ; 
It  glows,  it  lives,  it  soon  will  speak ! 


ODE  xva" 

And  now  witli  all  thy  pencil's  trutL, 

Portray  Bathyllus,  lovely  youth  ! 

Let  liis  hair,  in  masses  bright, 

Fall  like  floating  rays  of  light;" 

And  there  the  raven's  dye  confuse 

With  the  golden  sunbeam's  hues. 

Let  no  wrcatli,  with  artful  twine," 

The  flowing  of  his  locks  confine  ; 

But  leave  them  loose  to  every  breeze, 

To  take  what  shape  and  course  they  please 

Beneath  the  forehead,  fair  as  snow, 

But  flusli'd  with  manliood's  early  glow, 

And  guileless  as  the  dews  of  dawn, 

Let  the  majestic  brows  be  drawn, 

Of  ebon  hue,  enrich'd  by  gold, 

Such  as  dark,  shining  snakes  unfold. 

Mix  ill  his  eyes  the  power  alike, 

Willi  love  to  will,  with  awe  to  strike ;" 

Borrow  from  JIars  his  look  of  iro, 

From  Venus  her  soft  glance  of  lire ; 

Blend  lliein  in  such  expression  here. 

That  wc  by  turns  may  hope  and  fear! 

Now  from  llic  sunny  apple  seek 
The  velvet  down  that  spreads  his  cheek  ; 
And  there,  if  art  .so  far  can  go, 
Tir  ingenuous  blush  of  boyhood  show. 
While,  for  his  mouth — but  no, — in  vain 
WouM  words  its  witching  clirntn  explain. 
Make  it  the  very  seat,  the  throne. 
That  Hloiiupnce  would  claim  her  own ;" 
And  let  the  lips,  though  silent,  wear 
A  life-look,  !ia  if  words  were  there." 

Next  Ihou  his  ivory  neck  must  trace. 
Moulded  with  soft  1ml  manly  grace  : 
Fair  as  the  neck  of  I'apliia'i  hoy, 
Where  I'jiphia's  arms  have  hung  in  joy 
(live  Iriiii  the  winged  Hermes'  hand," 
Willi  which  he  waves  his  snaky  wand 


ODES  OF  ANACREOK 


189 


Let  Ricclius  tlio  broad  chest  supply, 
Ami  Leda's  sciiw  the  Kiriewy  tliigli ; 
While,  through  his  whole  transparent  frame, 
Tliou  show'st  the  stirrings  of  that  flame. 
Which  kindles,  when  the  first  love-sigh 
Steals  from  the  heart,  unconscious  why. 

But  sure  thy  pencil,  though  so  bright, 
Is  envious  of  the  eye's  delight, 
Or  its  enamor'd  touch  would  show 
The  shoulder,  fair  as  sunless  snow. 
Which  now  in  veiling  shadow  lies. 
Removed  from  all  but  Fancy's  eyes. 
Now,  for  his  feet — but  hold — forbear — 
I.see  the  sun-god's  portrait  tliere  ;*' 
Why  paint  Bathyllus?  when,  in  truth, 
There,  in  that  god,  thou'st  sketch'd  the  youth. 
Enough — let  this  bright  form  be  mine. 
And  send  the  boy  to  Samoa'  shrine ; 
Pha3bus  shall  then  Eathyllus  be. 
Bathyllus  then,  the  deity ! 


ODE  xvin 

Now  the  star  of  day  is  high. 

Fly,  my  girls,  in  pity  fly, 

Bring  me  wine  in  brimming  urns," 

Cool  my  lip,  it  burns,  it  burns ! 

Sunn'd  by  the  meridian  tire. 

Panting,  languid  I  expire. 

Give  me  all  those  humid  flowers, 

Drop  them  o'er  my  brow  in  showers. 

Scarce  a  brcatliing  chaplet  now 

Lives  upon  my  feverish  brow ; 

Every  dewy  rose  I  wear 

Sheds  its  tears,  and  withers  there,'" 

But  to  you,  my  burning  heart," 

What  can  now  relief  impart  ? 

Can  brimming  bowl,  or  flowret's  dew, 

Cool  tlie  fiame  that  scorches  you  ? 


ODE  XIX.'' 

Here  recline  you,  gentle  maid,'' 
Sweet  is  this  embowering  shade  ; 
Sweet  the  young,  the  modest  ti-ees, 
Ruffled  by  the  kissing  breeze  ; 
Sweet  the  little  founts  that  weep. 
Lulling  soft  the  mind  to  sleep ; 


Hark !  they  whisper  as  they  roll. 
Calm  persuasion  to  the  soul ; 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  is  not  this 
All  a  stilly  scene  of  bliss? 
Who,  my  girl,  would  pass  it  bv  ? 
Surely  ueither  you  nor  I 


ODE  XX." 

One  day  the  muses  twined  the  h.ands 
Of  infant  Love  with  tlow'ry  bands; 
And  to  celestial  Beauty  gave 
The  captive  infant  for  her  slave. 
His  motlier  comes,  with  many  a  toy. 
To  ransom  her  beloved  boy ;" 
His  mother  sues,  but  all  in  vain, — 
He  ne'er  will  le.ave  his  chains  again. 
Even  should  they  take  his  chains  away, 
The  little  captive  still  would  stay. 
"  If  this,"  he  cries,  "  a  bondage  be 
"  Oh,  who  could  wish  for  libertv  1" 


ODE  XXL"' 

Observe  when  mother  earth  is  dry, 
She  drinks  the  droppings  of  the  sky. 
And  then  the  dewy  cordial  gives 
To  ev'ry  thirsty  plant  that  lives. 
The  vapors,  which  at  evening  weep. 
Are  beverage  to  the  swelling  deep  ; 
And  when  the  rosy  sun  appears. 
He  drinks  the  ocean's  misty  tears. 
The  moon  too  quaffs  her  paly  stream 
Of  lustre,  from  the  solar  beam. 
Then,  hence  with  all  your  sober  thinking ! 
Since  Nature's  holy  law  is  drinking ; 
I'll  make  the  laws  of  nature  mine, 
And  pledge  the  universe  in  wine. 


ODE  XXII. 

The  Phrygian  rock,  that  braves  the  storm, 

Was  once  a  weeping  matron's  form  ;" 

And  Progue,  hapless,  frantic  maid, 

Is  now  a  swallow  in  the  shade. 

Oh  I  that  a  mirror's  form  were  mine. 

That  I  might  catch  that  smile  divine ; 


190 


MOOEE'S  Ti^ORKS. 


And  like  my  o\mi  fond  fancy  be, 

A  hoof  of  strength  she  lent  the  steed. 

Reflecting-  tliee,  and  only  thee ; 

And  wing'd  the  timorous  hare  with  speed. 

Or  could  I  be  the  robe  wliich  holds 

She  gave  the  lion  tiings  of  terror, 

That  graceful  form  within  its  folds ; 

And,  o'er  the  ocean's  crystal  mirror, 

Or,  turn'J  into  a  fountain,  lave 

Taught  the  unnumber'd  scaly  throng 

Thv  beauties  in  my  circling  wave, 

To  trace  their  liquid  path  along; 

Would  I  were  perfume  for  thy  hair. 

While  for  the  umbrage  of  the  grove, 

To  breathe  my  soul  in  fragrance  there , 

She  plumed  the  warbling  world  of  love. 

Or,  better  still,  the  zone,  that  lies 

Close  to  thy  breast,  and  feels  its  sighs ." 

To  man  she  gave,  in  th.at  proud  hour, 

Or  e'en  those  envious  pearls  that  show 

The  boon  of  intellectual  power. 

So  f lintly  round  that  neck  of  snow^ 

Then,  what,  oh  woman,  what,  for  thee, 

V'es,  I  would  be  a  happy  gem. 

Was  left  in  Nature's  treasury? 

Like  them  to  hang,  to  fade  like  them. 

She  gave  tliee  beauty — mightier  fir 

What  more  would  thy  Anacreon  be  1 

Than  all  the  pomp  and  power  of  war. 

Oh,  any  thing  that  touches  thee ; 

Nor  steel,  nor  fire  itself  hath  power 

Nay  sandals  for  those  airy  feet — 

Like  woman  in  her  conquering  hour. 

E'en  to  be  trod  by  them  were  sweet !" 

Be  thou  but  fair,  mankind  adore  tliee, 

Smile,  and  a  world  is  weak  before  thee !"' 

ODE  xxm. 

I  OFTEN  wish  this  languid  lyre. 

ODE  XXV. 

This  warbler  of  my  soul's  desire, 

Could  raise  the  breath  of  song  sublime. 

Once  in  each  revolving  year. 

To  men  of  fame,  in  former  time. 

Gentle  bird !  wc  find  thee  here. 

But  when  the  soaring  theme  I  try. 
Along  the  chords  my  numbers  die. 
And  whisper,  with  dissolving  tone, 
'•  Our  sighs  are  given  to  love  alone !" 
Indignant  at  the  feeble  lay, 
I  tore  the  panting  chords  aw.ay, 
Attuned  them  to  a  nobler  swell, 
And  struck  again  the  breathing  shell ; 
In  .all  the  glow  of  epic  fire. 
To  Hercules  I  wake  the  lyre. 
But  still  its  fainting  sighs  repeat, 
"The  tale  of  love  alone  is  sweet  I" 
Then  fare  thee  well,  .seductive  dream. 
That  mad'.st  mc  follow  Glory's  theme ; 
For  thou  my  lyre,  and  thou  ray  heart, 
Shall  never  more  in  spirit  part ; 
And  all  that  one  has  felt  so  well 
The  other  shall  aa  sweetly  tell  I 


ODE  XXIV." 

To  all  that  breathe  the  nir  of  heaven, 
Some  boon  ofHlrongth  has  Nature  given. 
In  forming  the  majostiu  bull, 
8hc  fenced  with  wreathed  horns  his  skull ; 


When  Nature  wears  her  summer-vest. 
Thou  cora'st  to  weave  thy  simple  nest  • 
But  when  the  chilling  winter  lowers. 
Again  thou  .seek'st  the  genial  bowers 
Of  Memphis,  or  the  shores  of  Nile, 
Whore  sunny  hours  for  ever  smile. 
And  thus  thy  pinion  rests  and  roves, — 
Alas !  unlike  the  swarm  of  Loves, 
That  brood  within  this  hapless  brc.ist, 
And  never,  never  change  their  nest !" 
Still  every  year,  and  all  the  year. 
They  fix  their  fated  dwelling  hero  ; 
And  some  their  infmt  plumage  try. 
And  on  a  tender  winglct  fiy  ; 
While  in  the  shell,  impregn'd  with  fires. 
Still  lurk  a  thousand  more  desires ; 
Some  from  their  tiny  prisons  peojiing, 
And  some  in  formless  embryo  sleeping. 
Thus  peopled,  like  the  vernal  groves, 
My  breast  resounds  with  warbling  Loves ; 
One  urchin  imps  the  other's  feather, 
Then  twin-dosires  they  wing  together. 
And  fast  as  they  thus  take  their  flight, 
Still  other  urchins  spring  to  light. 
Bnt  is  Iherc  then  no  kindly  art, 
To  chase  these  ('upids  from  my  he.art? 
Ah,  no!  I  fear,  in  sadness  fear, 
They  will  for  ever  nestle  here  I 


ODES  OF  ANACEEON. 


191 


ODE  XXVL 

Thy  harp  may  sing  of  Troy's  alarms, 
Or  lull  the  tale  of  Tlieban  arms; 
With  other  wars  my  song  shall  burn, 
For  other  wounds  my  harp  shall  mourn. 
'Tv\  as  not  tlie  crested  warrior's  dart, 
That  drank  the  current  of  my  heart; 
Nor  naval  arms,  nor  mailed  steed, 
Have  made  this  vanquish'd  bosom  bleed; 
No — 'twas  from  eyes  of  liquid  blue, 
A  host  of  quiver'd  Cupids  flew ;'"' 
And  now  my  heart  all  bleeding  lies 
Beneath  that  army  of  the  eyes  ! 


ODE  XXVIL 

We  read  the  flying  courser's  name 
Upon  his  side,  in  marks  of  flame ; 
And,  by  their  turban'd  brows  alone. 
The  warriors  of  the  East  are  known. 
But  in  the  lover's  glowing  eyes, 
The  iniet  to  his  bosom  lies ;" 
Through  them  we  see  the  small  faint  mark 
Where  Love  has  dropp'd  his  burning  spark ! 


ODE  xxvni. 

As,  by  his  Lemnian  forge's  flame  ; 

The  husband  of  the  Paphian  dame 

Moulded  the  glowing  steel,  to  form 

Arrows  for  Cupid,  thrilling  warm; 

And  Venus,  as  he  plied  his  art, 

Shed  honey  round  each  new-made  dart, 

While  Love,  at  hand,  to  finisli  all, 

Tijip'd  every  arrow's  point  with  gall ;" 

It  chanced  the  Lord  of  Battles  came 

To  visit  that  deep  cave  of  flame. 

'Twas  from  the  ranks  of  war  he  rush'd 

His  spear  with  many  a  life-drop  blush'd 

Ho  saw  the  fiery  darts,  and  smiled 

Contemptuous  at  the  archer-cliild. 

"  What !"  said  the  urchin,  "  dost  thou  smile  ? 

"Here,  hold  this  little  dart  awhile, 

"  And  thou  wilt  find,  though  swift  of  flight, 

"  My  bolts  are  not  so  feathery  light." 

Mars  took  the  shaft — and,  oh,  thy  look, 
Svveet  Venus,  when  the  shaft  he  took ! — 


Sighing,  he  felt  the  urchin's  art. 
And  cried,  in  agony  of  heart, 
"  It  is  not  light — I  sink  with  pain  ! 
"  Take — take  thy  arrow  back  again." 
"  No,"  said  the  child,  "  it  must  not  bo 
"That  little  dart  was  made  for  thee !" 


ODE  XXIX. 

Yes — loving  is  a  painful  thrill. 
And  not  to  love  more  painful  still ;" 
But  oh,  it  is  the  worst  of  pain, 
To  love  and  not  be  loved  again  ! 
Aftiection  now  has  fled  from  earth, 
Nor  fire  of  genius,  noble  birth. 
Nor  heavenly  virtue,  can  beguile 
From  beauty's  clieek  one  favoring  smile 
Gold  is  the  woman's  only  theme, 
Gold  is  the  woman's  only  dream. 
Oh  !  never  be  that  wretch  forgiven — 
Forgive  him  not,  indignant  heaven  ! 
Whose  grovelling  eyes  could  first  adore 
Whose  heart  could  pant  for  sordid  ore. 
Since  that  devoted  thirst  began, 
Man  has  forgot  to  feel  for  man  ; 
The  pulse  of  social  life  is  dead. 
And  .all  its  fonder  feelings  fled  ! 
War  too  has  sullied  Nature's  charms, 
For  gold  provokes  the  world  to  arms : 
And  oh  !  tlie  worst  of  all  its  arts. 
It  rends  asunder  loving  hearts. 


ODE  XXX." 

'Twas  in  a  mackiiig  dream  of  night — 

I  fancied  I  had  wings  as  light 

As  a  young  bird's,  and  flew  as  fleet ; 

Wliile  Love,  around  whose  beauteous  feet, 

I  knew  not  why,  hung  chains  of  lead. 

Pursued  me,  as  I  trembling  fled ; 

And,  strange  to  say,  as  swift  as  thought. 

Spite  of  my  pinions,  I  was  caught ! 

What  does  the  wanton  Fancy  mean 

By  such  a  strange,  illusive  scene  ? 

I  fear  she  whispers  to  my  breast. 

That  you,  sweet  maid,  have  stol'n  its  rest ; 

That  though  my  fancy,  for  a  while, 

H.ith  hung  on  many  a  woman's  smile, 

I  soon  dissolved  each  passing  vow. 

And  ne'er  was  caught  by  love  till  now  " 


192 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


ODE  XXXI." 

Arm'd  with  hyacintliine  rod, 

(Arms  enough  for  sucli  a  god.) 

Cupid  bade  me  wing  my  pace, 

And  try  with  liim  the  rapid  race. 

O'er  many  a  torrent,  wild  and  deep, 

By  Uingled  brake  and  pendent  steep, 

Willi  weary  foot  I  panting  flew. 

Till  my  brow  dropp'd  with  chilly  dew. 

And  now  my  soul,  exhausted,  dying, 

To  my  lip  was  faintly  flying ;" 

And  now  I  thought  the  spark  had  fled. 

When  Cupid  liover'd  o'er  my  head. 

And  fanning  light  his  breezy  pinion, 

Rescued  my  soul  from  death's  dominion ;" 

Then  said,  in  accents  half-reproving, 

"  Why  hast  thou  been  a  foe  to  loving  V 


ODE  XXXIL" 

Strew  me  a  fragrant  bed  of  leaves, 
Where  lotus  with  the  myrtle  weaves; 
And  while  in  lu.xury's  dream  I  sink, 
Let  me  the  balm  of  Bacchus  drink ! 
In  tills  sweet  hour  of  revelry 
Young  Love  shall  my  attendant  be — 
Dress'd  for  the  task,  with  tunic  round 
His  snowy  neck  and  shoulders  bound, 
Himself  shall  hover  by  my  side. 
And  minister  the  racy  tide ! 

Oh,  swift  as  wheels  that  kindling  roll. 
Our  life  is  hurrying  to  the  goal : 
A  scanty  dust,  to  feed  the  wind, 
Is  all  the  trace  'twill  leave  behind. 
Then  wherefore  waste  the  rose's  bloom 
Upon  the  cold,  insensate  tomb  ? 
Can  flowery  breeze,  or  odor's  breath. 
Affect  the  still,  cold  sense  of  death  ? 
Oh  no  ;  I  ask  no  balm  to  .steep 
With  fragrant  tears  my  bed  of  sIccd: 
But  now,  while  every  pulse  is  glowing, 
Now  let  me  breathe  the  balsam  flowing; 
Now  let  the  rose,  with  blush  of  fire. 
Upon  my  brow  in  HweetH  expire  ; 
And  bring  the  nymph  whose  eye  hath  power 
To  bri;;hten  even  death's  cold  hour. 
Yes,  Cupid  1  ere  my  shade  retire. 
To  join  the  blest  elysian  choir, 
Willi  wine,  and  love,  and  Mocial  cheer, 
I'll  make  my  own  clysium  here! 


ODE  XXXIIL 

'TwAS  noon  of  night,  when  round  the  po.e 
The  sullen  Bear  is  seen  to  roll ; 
And  mortals,  wearied  with  the  day. 
Are  slumbering  all  their  cares  away: 
An  infmt,  at  that  dreary  hour. 
Came  weeping  to  my  silent  bower. 
And  waked  me  with  a  piteous  prayer, 
To  shield  him  from  the  midnight  :ur. 
"  And  who  art  thou,"  I  waking  cry, 
"That  bidd'st  my  blissful  visions  fly?" 
"  Ah,  gentle  sire  I"  the  infant  said, 
"  In  pity  take  me  to  thy  shed ; 
"  Nor  fear  deceit :  a  lonely  child 
"  I  wander  o'er  the  gloomy  wild. 
"Chill  drops  the  rain,  and  not  a  ray 
"Illumes  the  drear  and  misty  way  !" 

I  heard  the  baby's  tale  of  woe ; 
I  heard  the  bitter  night-winds  blow ; 
And  sighing  for  his  piteous  fate, 
I  trimm'd  my  lamp  and  oped  the  gate. 
'Tvvas  Love!  the  little  wand'ring  sprite," 
His  pinion  sparkled  through  the  night. 
I  knew  him  by  his  bow  and  dart ; 
I  knew  him  by  my  fluttering  heart. 
Fondly  I  tiike  him  in,  and  raise 
The  dying  embers'  cheering  blaze; 
Press  from  his  dank  and  clinging  hair 
Tlie  cry.stals  of  the  freezing  air. 
And  in  my  hand  and  bosom  hold 
His  little  fingers  thrilling  cold. 

And  now  the  embers'  genial  ray 
Had  warm'd  his  anxious  fears  away ; 
"  I  pray  thee,"  said  the  wanton  child, 
(My  bosom  trembled  as  he  smiled,) 
'•I  pray  th«c  let  me  try  my  bow, 
'•  For  through  the  rain  I've  wandcr'd  so, 
"That  much  I  fear,  the  midnight  shower 
"  Has  injured  its  elastic  power  " 
The  fatal  bow  Iho  urchin  drew; 
Swil'l  from  the  siring  the  arrow  flew; 
As  swiftly  flew  as  glancing  llamo. 
And  lo  my  inmost  spirit  came  ! 
"  Fare  thee  well,"  I  he.ard  him  say, 
As  laughing  wild  he  wing'd  away ; 
"Fare  thee  well,  for  now  I  know 
"The  rain  has  not  rel.iv'il  my  bow; 
"  It  slill  can  send  a  Ihrilliug  darl, 
"As  thou  Hlialt  own  with  all  thy  heart!" 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


193 


ODE  XXXIV." 

Oh  thou,  of  all  creation  blest, 
Sweet  insect,  that  delight'st  to  rest 
Upon  the  wild  wood's  leafy  tops. 
To  drink  the  dew  that  morning  drops, 
And  chirp  thy  song  with  such  a  glee,°° 
That  happiest  kings  may  envy  thee. 
Whatever  decks  the  velvet  field, 
Wliate'er  the  circling  seasons  yield, 
Whatever  buds,  whatever  blows. 
For  thee  it  buds,  for  thee  it  grows. 
Nor  yet  art  thou  the  peasant's  fear. 
To  him  thy  friendly  notes  are  dear ; 
For  thou  art  mild  as  matin  dew  ; 
And  still,  when  summer's  flowery  hue 
Begins  to  paint  the  bloomy  plain. 
We  hear  thy  sweet  prophetic  strain  : 
Thy  sweet  prophetic  strain  we  near. 
And  bless  the  notes  and  thee  revere ! 
Tne  Muses  love  thy  shrilly  tone ; 
Apollo  calls  thee  all  his  own ; 
'Twas  he  who  gave  that  voice  to  thee 
'Tis  he  who  tunes  thy  minstrelsy. 

Unworn  by  age's  dim  decline. 
The  fadeless  blooms  of  youth  are  thine. 
Melodious  insect,  child  of  earth," 
In  wisdom  mirthful,  wise  in  mirth; 
E.xempt  from  every  weak  decay, 
That  withers  vulgar  frames  away  : 
With  not  a  drop  of  blood  to  stain 
The  current  of  thy  purer  vein  ; 
So  blest  an  age  is  pass'd  by  thee, 
Thou  seem'st — a  little  deity ! 


ODE  XXXV." 

Cupid  once  upon  a  bed 
Of  roses  laid  his  weary  head ; 
Luckless  urchin,  not  to  see 
Within  the  leaves  a  slumbering  bee; 
The  bee  awaked — with  anger  wild 
The  bee  awaked,  and  stung  the  child! 
Loud  and  piteous  are  his  cries ; 
To  Venus  quick  lie  runs,  he  flies ; 
"  Oh,  mother  ! — I  am  wounded  through- 
"  I  die  with  pain — in  sooth  I  do  ! 
"  Stung  by  some  little  angry  thing, 
"  Some  serpent  on  a  tiny  wing — 
"  A  bee  it  was — for  once,  I  know, 
"  I  heard  a  rustic  call  it  so." 
25 


Thus  he  spoke,  and  she  the  -.vhile 
Heard  him  with  a  soothing  smile  ; 
Then  said,  "  My  infant,  if  so  much 
"  Thou  feel  the  little  wild-bee's  touch, 
"How  must  the  heart,  ah,  Cupid!  be, 
"  The  hapless  heart  that's  stung  by  thee  !" 


ODE  XXXVL 

If  hoarded  gold  possess'd  the  power 

To  lengthen  life's  too  fleeting  hour. 

And  purchase  from  the  hand  of  death 

A  little  span,  a  moment's  breath. 

How  I  would  love  the  precious  ore! 

And  every  hour  should  swell  my  store ; 

That  when  Death  came,  with  shadowy  pinion. 

To  waft  me  to  his  bleak  dominion, 

I  might,  by  bribes,  my  doom  delay. 

And  bid  him  call  some  distant  day. 

But,  since,  not  all  earth's  golden  store 

Can  buy  for  us  one  bright  hour  more. 

Why  should  we  vainly  mourn  our  fate. 

Or  sigh  at  life's  uncertain  date  ? 

Nor  wealth  nor  grandeur  can  illume 

The  silent  midnight  of  the  tomb. 

No — give  to  others  hoarded  treasures — 

Mine  be  the  brilliant  round  of  pleasures; 

The  goblet  rich,  the  board  of  friends. 

Whose  social  souls  tlie  goblet  blends ;" 

And  mine,  while  yet  I've  life  to  live. 

Those  joys  that  love  alone  can  give. 


ODE  XXXVIL" 

'TwAS  niglit,  and  many  a  circling  bowl 
Had  deeply  warm'd  my  thirsty  soul ; 
As  lull'd  in  slumber  I  was  laid. 
Bright  visions  o'er  my  fancy  play'd. 
With  maidens,  blooming  as  the  dawn, 
I  seem'd  to  skim  the  opening  lawn ; 
Light,  on  tiptoe  bathed  in  dew, 
We  flew,  and  sported  as  we  flew ! 

Some  ruddy  striplings  who  look'd  on — 
With  cheeks,  that  like  the  wir.e-god's  shonCi 
Saw  me  chasing,  free  and  wild. 
These  blooming  maids,  and  slyly  smiled; 
Smiled  indeed  with  wanton  glee. 
Though  none  could  doubt  they  envied  me. 
And  still  I  flew — and  now  had  caught 
The  panting  nymphs,  and  fondly  thought 


194 


MOOKE'S  WOEKS. 


To  gather  from  each  rosy  lip 

A  kiss  that  Jove  himself  might  sip — 

When  sudden  all  my  dream  of  joys, 

Blushing  nymphs  and  laughing  boys, 

All  were  gone  !'* — '•  Alas  !"  I  said, 

Sighing  for  th'  illusion  fled, 

"  Again,  sweet  sleep  that  scene  restore, 

"  Oh !  let  me  dream  it  o'er  and  o'er  I'"' 


ODE  xxxvm. 

Let  us  drain  the  nectar'd  bowl. 
Let  us  raise  the  song  of  soul 
To  him,  the  god  who  loves  so  well 
The  nectar'd  bowl,  the  choral  swell ; 
The  god  who  taught  the  sons  of  earth 
To  tlirid  the  tangled  dance  of  mirth ; 
Him,  wlio  was  nursed  with  infant  Love, 
And  cradled  in  the  Paphian  grove  ; 
Him,  that  the  snowy  Queen  of  Charms 
So  oft  has  fondled  in  her  arms. 
Oh  'tis  from  liim  the  transport  flows, 
Which  sweet  intoxication  knows; 
With  him,  the  brow  forgets  its  gloom. 
And  brilliant  graces  learn  to  bloom. 

Behold ! — my  boys  a  goblet  bear. 
Whose  sparkling  foam  lights  up  the  air. 
Where  are  now  the  tear,  the  sigh  ? 
To  the  winds  they  lly,  they  fly  ! 
Grasp  the  bowl  ;  in  nectar  sinking! 
Wan  of  sorrow,  drown  thy  thinking  ! 
Say,  can  the  tears  we  lend  to  tliought 
In  life's  account  avail  us  aught  ? 
Can  we  discern  with  all  our  lore. 
The  path  we've  yet  to  journey  o'er? 
Alas,  alas,  in  ways  so  dark, 
'TiH  only  W'ine  can  strike  a  spark  I" 
Thin  let  me  quaff" the  foamy  tide. 
And  through  the  dance  meandering  glide  ; 
Let  me  imbibe  the  Bpicy  breath 
Of  od'jrs  chafed  to  fragrant  death ; 
Or  'rom  the  'jps  of  love  inhalo 
A  more  ambrosial,  richer  gale  ! 
To  hearts  that  court  the  phantom  Caro, 
Ix:t  him  rctiic  and  sliroud  him  there; 
While  we  exhaust  the  nectar'd  bowl, 
And  »wcll  the  choral  song  of  soul 
To  him,  Ihe  (j"'l  wl'o  loves  ho  well 
Tlie  nectar'd  bowl,  the  choral  swell ! 


ODE  XXXIX. 

How  I  love  the  festive  boy. 
Tripping  through  the  dance  of  joy  ! 
How  I  love  the  mellow  sage. 
Smiling  through  the  veil  of  age  ! 
And  whene'er  this  man  of  years 
In  the  dance  of  joy  appears, 
Snows  may  o'er  his  head  be  flung. 
But  lus  heart — his  heart  is  young." 


ODE  XL. 

I  KNOW  that  Heaven  hath  sent  me  here 
To  run  this  mortal  life's  career ; 
The  scenes  wliich  I  have  journey'd  o'efj 
Return  no  more — alas  !  no  more  ; 
And  all  the  patli  I've  yet  to  go, 
I  neither  know  nor  ask  to  know. 
Away,  then,  wizard  Care,  nor  think 
Thy  fetters  round  this  soul  to  link  ; 
Ncvei-  can  heart  tliat  feels  vith  me 
Descend  to  be  a  slave  to  tlee!'° 
And  oh  !  before  tlio  vital  thrill, 
Wiiii'h  trembles  at  my  heart,  is  still, 
I'll  gather  Joy's  luxuriant  flowers, 
And  gild  with  bliss  my  fading  hours; 
Bacchus  shall  bid  my  winter  bloom, 
And  Venus  dance  me  to  tlie  tomb!"' 


ODE  XLI. 

When  Spring  adorns  the  dewy  scene, 
How  sweet  to  walk  the  velvet  green. 
And  hear  the  west  wind's  gentle  sigha, 
As  o'er  the  scented  mead  it  flies ! 
How  sweet  to  mark  the  pouting  vine, 
Ready  to  burst  in  tears  of  wine  ; 
And  with  some  maid,  who  breathes  but  lovei 
To  walk,  at  noontide,  through  the  grove. 
Or  sit  in  some  cool,  green  recess — 
Oh,  is  not  this  true  happiness  ? 


ODE  XLII." 

Vr.s,  he  the  gloriotis  revel  mine. 
Whore  humor  sparkles  from  the  win*. 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


195 


Around  me,  let  the  youtliful  choir 
Respond  to  my  enlivening  lyre ; 
Ana  while  the  red  cup  foams  along, 
Mingle  in  soul  as  well  as  song. 
Then,  while  I  sit,  witli  flow'rets  crown'd. 
To  regulate  the  goblet's  ronnd. 
Let  but  the  nymph,  our  banquet's  pride, 
Be  seated  smiling  by  my  side, 
And  earth  has  not  a  gift  or  power 
That  I  would  envy,  in  that  hour. 
Envy ! — oh  never  let  its  blight 
Touch  the  gay  hearts  met  here  to-night. 
Far  hence  be  slander's  sidelong  wounds. 
Nor  Iiarsh  dispute,  nor  discord's  sounds 
Disturb  a  scene,  where  all  should  be 
Attuned  to  peace  and  harmony. 

Come,  let  us  hear  the  harp's  gay  note 
Upon  the  breeze  inspiring  float, 
While  round  us,  kindling  into  love. 
Young  maidens  through  the  light  dance  move. 
Thus  blest  with  mirth,  and  love,  and  peace, 
SJure  such  a  life  should  never  cease  ! 


ODE  XLHL 

While  our  rosy  fillets  shed 
Freshness  o'er  each  fervid  head. 
With  many  a  cup  and  many  a  smile 
The  festal  moments  we  beguile. 
And  while  the  harp,  impassion'd,  flings 
Tuneful  raptures  from  its  strings," 
Some  airy  nymph,  with  graceful  bound. 
Keeps  measure  to  the  music's  sound ; 
Waving,  in  her  snow)'  hand. 
The  leafy  Bacchanalian  wand, 
Whieli,  as  the  tripping  wanton  flies, 
Trembles  all  over  to  her  sighs. 
A  youth  the  while,  with  loosen'd  hair, 
Floating  on  the  listless  air. 
Sings,  to  the  wild  harp's  tender  tone, 
A  tale  of  woes,  alas,  his  own  ; 
And  oil,  the  sadness  in  his  sigh. 
As  o'er  his  lip  the  accents  die  !°' 
Never  sure  on  earth  has  been 
Half  so  bright,  so  blest  a  scene, 
t  seems  as  Love  himself  had  come 
To  malie  this  spot  his  chosen  home ; — 
And  Venus,  too,  with  all  her  wiles, 
And  Bacchus,  shedding  rosy  smiles, 
All,  all  are  here,  to  hail  with  oe 
The  Genius  of  Festivity !'« 


ODE  XLIV." 

Buds  of  roses,  virgin  flowers, 

Cull'd  from  Cupid's  balmy  bowers, 

In  the  bowl  of  iiacchus  steep, 

Till  with  crimson  drops  they  weep. 

Twine  the  rose,  the  garland  twine. 

Every  leaf  distilling  wine ; 

Drink  and  smile,  and  learn  to  think 

That  we  were  born  to  smile  and  drink. 

Rose,  thou  art  tlie  sweetest  flower 

That  ever  drank  tlie  amber  shower ; 

Rose,  thou  art  the  fondest  child 

Of  dimpled  Spring,  the  wood-nymph  wild. 

Even  the  Gods,  who  walk  the  sky, 

Are  amorous  of  thy  scented  sigh. 

Cupid,  too,  in  Paphian  shadi.'. 

His  hair  witli  rosy  fillet  braids. 

When  with  tlie  blushing,  sister  Graces, 

The  wanton  winding  dance  he  traces. 

Tlien  bring  me,  showers  of  roses  bring, 

And  shed  them  o'er  me  while  I  sing, 

Or  while,  great  Bacchus,  round  thy  shrine, 

Wreathing  my  brow  with  rose  and  vine, 

I  lead  some  bright  nytnph  througli  tlie  dancei 

Commingling  soul  with  every  glance. 


ODE  XLV. 

Within  this  goblet,  rich  and  deep, 

I  cradle  all  my  woes  to  sleep. 

Why  should  we  breathe  the  sigh  of  fear. 

Or  pour  the  unavailing  tear  ? 

For  death  will  never  heed  the  sigh, 

Nor  soften  at  the  tearful  eye ; 

And  eyes  that  sparkle,  eyes  that  weep. 

Must  all  alike  be  seal'd  in  sleep. 

Then  let  us  never  vainly  stray. 

In  search  of  thorns,  from  pleasure's  way ; 

But  wisely  quaff  the  rosy  wave, 

Wliich  Bacchus  loves,  which  Bacchus  gave 

And  in  the  goblet,  rich  and  deep. 

Cradle  our  eying  woes  to  sleep. 


ODE  XLVl.'" 

Behold,  the  young,  the  rosy  Spring, 
Gives  to  the  breeze  her  scented  wing ; 
While  virgin  Graces,  warm  with  May 
Fling  roses  o'er  lier  dewy  way 


196 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


The  murmuring  billows  of  tho  deep 
Have  lan^ish'd  into  silent  sleep ; 
And  mark  I  the  flitting  sea-birds  lave 
Their  plumes  in  the  reflecting  wave  ; 
While  cranes  from  hoary  winter  fly 
To  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 
Now  the  genial  star  of  day 
Dissolves  the  murky  clouds  away  ; 
And  cultiu-ed  field,  and  winding  stream, 
Are  freshly  glittering  in  its  beam. 

Now  the  earth  prolific  swells 
With  leafy  buds  and  flowery  bells ; 
Gemming  shoots  the  olive  twine. 
Clusters  ripe  festoon  the  vine ; 
All  along  the  branches  creeping 
Through  the  veh-et  foliage  peeping, 
Little  infant  fruits  we  see,- 
Nursing  into  luxury. 


ODE  XLVIL 

'Tis  true,  my  fading  years  decline, 

Yet  can  I  quart"  the  brimming  wine, 

As  deep  as  any  stripling  fair, 

Whose  cheeks  the  flush  of  morning  wear; 

And  if,  amidst  the  wanton  crew 

I'm  call'd  to  wind  the  dance's  clew. 

Then  slialt  thou  see  this  vigorous  hand, 

Not  faltering  on  the  Bacchant's  wand. 

But  brandishing  a  rosy  flask," 

The  only  thyrsus  e'er  I'll  :isk  ! 

Let  those,  who  pant  for  Glory's  charms, 
Embrace  her  in  the  field  of  arms ; 
While  my  inglorious,  placid  soul 
Breathes  not  a  wish  beyond  this  bowl. 
Then  fill  it  high,  my  ruddy  slave. 
And  b.iihe  me  in  its  brimming  wave. 
For  though  my  fading  years  decay, 
Though  manhood's  prime  hath  poss'd  away, 
Likj  old  Silenus,  sire  divine, 
\V'itli  blushes  borrow'd  from  my  wine, 
I'll  wanton  'mid  tho  dancing  train, 
And  live  my  follies  o'er  again ! 


ODE  XLVm. 


WiiEH  my  tliimty  soul  I  stoop, 
Erory  sorrow's  luli'd  to  sleep. 


Talk  of  monarchs !  I  am  then 
Richest,  happiest,  first  of  men  , 
Careless  o'er  my  cup  I  sing. 
Fancy  makes  me  more  than  king ; 
Gives  me  wealthy  Croesus'  store. 
Can  I,  can  I  wish  for  more  ? 
On  my  velvet  couch  reclining. 
Ivy  leaves  my  brow  entwining," 
While  my  soul  expands  with  glee. 
What  are  kings  and  crowns  to  me? 
If  before  my  feet  tliey  lay, 
I  would  spurn  them  all  away ! 
Arm  ye,  arm  ye,  men  of  niiglit. 
Hasten  to  the  sanguine  fight ;'" 
But  let  me,  my  budding  vine ! 
Spill  no  other  blood  th.in  thine. 
Yonder  brimming  goblet  sec. 
That  alone  shall  vanquish  me — 
Who  think  it  better,  wiser  far 
To  fall  in  banquet  than  in  w:u-. 


ODE  XLIX.""" 

When  B.acchus,  Jove's  immortal  boy 

The  rosy  harbinger  of  joy. 

Who,  with  the  sunshine  of  the  bow;, 

Tlurws  the  winter  of  our  soul — 

When  to  my  inmost  core  he  glides, 

And  bathes  it  with  his  ruby  tides, 

A  flow  of  joy,  a  lively  heat. 

Fires  my  brain,  and  wings  my  feet. 

Calling  up  round  me  visions  known 

To  lovers  of  the  bowl  alone. 

Sing,  sing  of  love,  let  music's  sound 
In  melting  cadence  float  around, 
While,  my  young  Venus,  thou  and  1 
Responsive  to  its  murmurs  sigh. 
Then,  waking  from  our  blissful  trance, 
Again  we'll  si)ort,  again  we'll  dance. 


ODE  L 


Wtikn  wine  I  qualT,  before  my  eyes 
Dreams  of  poetic  glory  rise;'" 
And  freshen'd  by  the  goblet's  dews. 
My  Houl  invokes  the  heavenly  Muse. 
When  wine  I  ilrink,  all  sorrow's  o'or; 
I  lliiiilv  (ifiluubts  iind  fuurs  no  mora 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


19: 


But  scatter  to  the  railing  wind 

ODE  LIL"" 

Eacli  gloomy  iili:uitom  of  tlie  mind. 

When  1  drinli  wine,  tli'  ethereal  boy, 

Away,  away,  ye  men  of  rules. 

Bacchus  himself,  partakes  my  joy; 

What  have  I  to  do  with  schools  ? 

And  while  we  dance  through  vernal  bowers,'"' 

They'd  make  me  learn,  they'd  make  me  thinii. 

Whose  ev'ry  breath  comes  fresh  from  flowers. 

But  would  they  make  me  love  and  drink  ? 

In  wine  he  makes  my  senses  swim, 

Teach  me  this,  and  let  me  swim 

Till  the  gale  breathes  of  naught  but  him ! 

My  soul  upon  the  goblet's  brim ; 

Teach  me  this,  and  let  me  twine 

Again  I  drink,— and,  lo,  there  seems 

Some  fond,  responsive  heart  to  mine. 

A  calmer  light  to  fill  my  dreams; 

For,  age  begins  to  blanch  my  brow. 

The  lately  ruffled  wreath  I  spread 

I've  time  for  naught  but  pleasure  now. 

With  steadier  hand  around  my  head ; 

Then  take  the  lyre,  and  sing  "  how  blest 

Fly,  and  cool  my  goblet's  glow 

The  life  of  him  who  lives  at  rest !" 

At  yonder  fountain's  gelid  flow; 

But  then  comes  witching  wine  again. 

I'll  quaff,  my  boy,  and  calmly  sink 

With  glorious  woman  in  its  train ; 

This  soul  to  slumber  as  I  drink. 

And,  wliile  rich  perfumes  round  me  rise, 

Soon,  too  soon,  my  jocund  slave. 

That  seem  the  breath  of  woman's  sighs, 

You'll  deck  your  master's  grassy  grave ; 

Bright  shapes,  of  every  hue  and  form. 

And  there's  an  end — for  ah,  you  know 

Upon  ray  kindling  fancy  swarm. 

They  drink  but  little  wine  below  !'°» 

Till  the  whole  world  of  beauty  seems 

To  crowd  into  my  dazzled  dreams! 

When  thus  I  drink,  my  heart  refines, 

And  rises  as  the  cup  declines ; 

Rises  in  the  gonial  flow, 

ODE  LTTI. 

Tliat  none  but  social  spirits  know. 

When,  with  young  revellers,  round  the  bowl. 

When  I  behold  the  festive  train 

The  old  themselves  grow  young  in  soul  I 

Of  dancing  youth,  I'm  young  again  ! 

Oh,  when  I  drink,  true  joy  is  mine, 

Memory  wakes  her  magic  trance, 

There's  bliss  in  every  drop  of  wine. 

And  wings  me  lightly  through  the  dance. 

All  other  blessings  I  have  known, 

Come,  Cybeba,  smiling  maid  ! 

I  scarcely  dared  to  call  my  own; 

Cull  the  flower  and  twine  the  braid  ; 

But  this  the  Fates  can  ne'er  destroy, 

Bid  the  blush  of  summer's  rose 

Til!  death  o'ershadows  all  my  joy. 

Burn  upon  my  forehead's  snows 

And  let  me,  while  the  wild  and  young 

Trip  the  mazy  dance  along. 

Fling  my  heap  of  years  away. 

And  be  as  wild,  as  young,  as  they, 

ODE  LI"" 

Hither  haste,  some  cordial  soul ! 

Help  to  my  lips  the  brimming  bowl , 

Flt  not  thus  my  brow  of  snow, 
Lovely  wanton  !  fly  not  so. 
Though  the  wane  of  age  is  mine. 
Though  youth's  brilliant  flush  be  thine, 
Still  I'm  doom'd  to  sigh  for  thee. 
Blest,  if  thou  couldst  sigh  for  me  I 

And  you  shall  see  this  hoary  sage 
Forget  at  once  his  locks  and  age. 
He  still  can  chant  the  festive  hymn, 
He  still  can  kiss  the  goblet's  brim  ; 
As  deeply  quaff,  as  largely  fill, 
And  play  the  fool  right  nobly  still. 

See,  in  yonder  flowery  braid. 

Cull'd  for  thee,  my  blushing  maid,'"* 

How  the  rose,  of  orient  glow 

Mingles  with  the  lily's  snow ; 

Jfark,  how  sweet  their  lints  agree, 
Just,  my  gir.  like  thee  and  me ! 

ODE  LIV. 

Methinks,  the  pictured  bull  we  see 

Is  amorous  Jove — it  must  be  he ! 

198 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


How  fondly  blest  he  seems  to  bear 
That  fairest  of  Phoenician  fair ! 
How  proud  he  breasts  the  foamy  tide, 
And  spurns  the  billowy  surge  aside ! 
Could  any  beast  of  vulgar  vein 
Undaunted  thus  defv  the  main  ? 
No :  he  descends  from  climes  above, 
He  looks  the  God,  he  breathes  of  Jove  ! 


ODE  LV. 

While  we  invoke  the  wreathed  spring, 

Resplendent  rose !  to  thee  we'll  sing : 

Whose  breath  perfumes  th"  Olympian  bowers  , 

\Vhose  virgin  blusli,  of  chasten'd  dye. 

Enchants  so  much  our  mortal  eye. 

When  pleasure's  springtide  season  glows, 

The  Graces  love  to  wreathe  the  rose ; 

And  Venus,  in  its  fresh-blown  leaves. 

An  emblem  of  herself  perceives. 

3ft  hath  tlie  poet's  magic  tongue 

The  rose's  fair  luxuriance  sung;'" 

And  long  the  Muses,  hcivenly  maids, 

Have  rear'd  it  in  their  tuneful  shades. 

When,  at  the  early  glance  of  morn, 

It  sleeps  upon  the  glittering  thorn, 

'Tis  sweet  to  dare  the  tangled  fence, 

To  cull  the  timid  flow'ret  thence, 

And  wipe  with  tender  hand  aw.iy 

The  tear  that  on  its  blushes  lay  ! 

'Tis  sweet  to  hold  the  infant  stems, 

Yet  dropping  with  Aurora's  gems. 

And  fresh  inhale  the  spicy  sighs 

That  from  the  weeping  buds  arise. 

When  revel  reigns,  when  mirth  is  high. 
And  Bacchus  beams  in  every  eye. 
Our  rosy  fillets  scent  exhale. 
And  fill  with  balm  the  fainting  gale. 
There's  naught  in  nature  bright  or  gay. 
Where  roses  do  not  shed  their  ray. 
When  morning  paijits  Ihe  orient  skies, 
I  lor  fingers  burn  with  roseate  dyes  ; 
Young  nymphs  betray  the  rose's  hue. 
O'er  whitest  arms  it  kindles  through. 
In  Cytheroa's  form  it  glowH, 
And  mingles  with  the  living  snows. 

The  roMi'  (liHliJM  a  healing  balm. 
Till'  beating  piiKc  of  pain  to  calm  ; 
I'rcHorveH  the  cold  inurncd  cl.ay,'" 
And  mockH  the  vcKligc  of  decay: 


And  when,  at  length,  in  p.ale  decline, 

Its  florid  beauties  fade  and  pine. 

Sweet  as  in  youth,  its  b.almy  breath 

Diffuses  odor  even  in  death  '."" 

Oh  !  whence  could  such  a  plant  have  sprung  J 

Listen, — for  thus  the  tale  is  sung. 

When,  humid,  from  tlie  silvery  stream, 

Effusing  beauty's  warmest  beam, 

Venus  appeiir'd,  in  flushing  hues, 

Mellow'd  by  ocean's  briny  dews; 

When,  in  the  starry  courts  above, 

The  pregnant  brain  of  mighty  Jove 

Disclosed  the  nymph  of  azure  glance. 

The  nympli  who  shakes  the  martial-  lance  ; — 

Then,  then,  in  strange  eventful  hour. 

The  earth  produced  an  infant  flower, 

Whicli  sprung,  in  blushing  glories  dress'd, 

And  wanton'd  o'er  its  parent  breast. 

The  gods  beheld  tliis  brilliant  birth. 

And  hail'd  the  Rose,  the  boon  of  earth  ! 

With  nectar  drojis,  a  ruby  tide, 

The  sweetly  orient  buds  they  dyed,"" 

And  bade  them  bloom,  the  flowers  divine 

Of  him  who  gave  the  glorious  vine  ; 

And  bade  them  on  the  spangled  thorp 

Expand  their  bosoms  to  the  morn. 


ODE  LVI. 

He,  who  instructs  the  youthful  crew 
To  bathe  them  in  the  brimmer's  dew, 
And  taste,  uncloy'd  by  rich  excesses. 
All  the  bliss  that  wine  possesses ; 
He,  who  inspires  the  youtli  to  bound 
Elastic  through  the  dance's  round, — 
Bacchus,  Ihe  god  again  is  here, 
And  leads  along  the  blushing  year  ; 
The  blushing  ye.ar  with  vintage  teems. 
Ready  to  shed  those  cordial  streams, 
Wliidi,  sparkling  in  the  cup  of  mirth, 
Illuminate  tlie  sons  of  earth  !'" 

Then,  when  the  ripe  and  vcriuil  wine,— « 
Ulest  infant  of  Ihe  pregnant  vino, 
Which  now  in  mellow  clusters  swells, — 
Oh!  when  it  burst.s  its  roseate  cells. 
Brightly  Ihe  joyous  slream  shall  flow, 
Ti)  balsam  every  inorl.il  woo  ! 
None  shall  bo  Ihon  cast  dcnvn  or  weak, 
For  lioaltli  and  joy  shall  light  e:ioh  cheek 
No  heart  will  Ihon  desponding  sigh. 
For  wine  Hliall  bid  dospondenco  fly. 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


199 


Thus — till  another  autumn's  glow 
Shall  bid  another  vintage  flow. 


ODE  Lvn. 

Whose  was  the  artist  hand  that  spread 

Upon  this  disk  the  ocean's  bed  V" 

And,  in  a  flight  of  fancy,  high 

As  aught  on  earthly  wing  can  fly, 

Depicted  thus,  in  semblance  warm, 

The  Queen  of  Love's  voluptuous  form 

Floating  along  tlie  silv'ry  sea 

In  beauty's  naked  majesty ! 

Oh  !  he  hath  given  th'  enamor'd  sight 

A  witching  banquet  of  delight, 

Where,  gleaming  through  the  waters  clear, 

Glimpses  of  undream'd  charms  appear. 

And  all  that  mystery  loves  to  screen, 

Fancy,  like  Faith,  adore,  i  unseen.'" 

Light  as  the  leaf,  thai  on  the  breeze 
Of  summer  skims  the  glassy  seas. 
She  floats  along  the  ocean's  breast. 
Which  undulates  "ii  sleepy  rest ; 
While  stealing  on,  she  gently  pillows 
Her  bosom  on  the  heaving  billows. 
Her  bosom,  like  the  dew-wash'd  rose, 
Her  neck,  like  April's  sparkling  snows. 
Illume  the  liquid  path  she  traces, 
And  burn  witliin  the  stream's  embraces. 
Thus  on  she  moves,  in  languid  pride. 
Encircled  by  the  azure  tide. 
As  some  fair  lily  o'er  a  bed 
Of  violets  bends  its  graceful  head. 

Beneath  their  queen's  inspiring  glance. 
The  dolphins  o'er  the  green  sea  dance. 
Bearing  in  triumph  young  Desire,"' 
And  infant  Love  with  smiles  of  fire  ! 
While,  glittering  through  the  silver  w.aves. 
The  tenants  of  the  briny  caves 
Around  the  pomp  their  gambols  play. 
And  gleam  along  the  watery  way. 


ODE  LVIIL"" 

When  Gold,  as  fleet  as  zephyr's  pinion. 
Escapes  like  any  faithless  minion. 
And  flies  me,  (as  he  flies  me  ever,)"' 
Do  1  pursue  liim  ?  never,  never  1 


No,  let  the  false  deserter  go, 

For  wlio  could  court  liis  direst  foe  ? 

But,  when  I  feel  my  lightcn'd  mind 

No  more  by  gr()V(^lliiig  gold  conliiied. 

Then  loose  I  all  such  clinging  cares. 

And  cast  them  to  the  vagrant  airs. 

Then  feel  I,  too,  the  Muse's  spell, 

And  wake  to  life  the  dulcet  shell, 

Which,  roused  once  more,  to  beauty  sings, 

While  love  dissolves  along  the  strings ! 

But  scarcely  has  my  heart  been  taught 
How  little  Gold  deserves  a  thought. 
When,  lo !  the  slave  returns  once  more, 
And  with  him  wafts  delicious  store 
Of  racy  wine,  whose  genial  art 
In  slumber  seals  the  anxious  heart. 
Again  he  tries  my  soul  to  sever 
From  love  and  song,  perhaps  for  ever ! 

Away,  deceiver  !  why  pursuing 
Ceaseless  thus  my  heart's  undoing? 
Sweet  is  the  song  of  amorous  fire. 
Sweet  the  sighs  tliat  thrill  the  lyre ; 
Oh !  sweeter  far  than  all  the  gold 
Thy  wings  can  waft,  thy  mines  can  hold. 
Well  do  I  know  thy  arts,  thy  wiles — 
They  wither'd  Love's  young  wreathed  smiles ; 
And  o'er  his  lyre  such  darkness  shed, 
I  thouglit  its  soul  of  song  was  fled  ! 
They  dash'd  the  wine-cup,  that,  by  him, 
Was  fiU'd  with  kisses  to  the  brim."' 
Go — fly  to  haunts  of  sordid  men. 
But  come  not  near  the  bard  again. 
Thy  glitter  in  the  Muse's  shade, 
Scares  from  her  bower  the  tuneful  maid; 
And  not  for  worlds  would  I  forego 
That  moment  of  poetic  glow, 
When  my  full  soul,  in  Fancy's  stream. 
Pours  o'er  tiie  lyre  its  swelling  theme. 
Away,  away  !  to  worldings  hence. 
Who  feel  not  this  diviner  sense ;  < 

Give  gold  to  those  \<'ho  love  that  pest, — 
But  leave  the  poet  poor  .and  blest. 


ODE  LIX. 

Ripen'd  by  the  solar  beam. 
Now  the  ruddy  clusters  teem, 
In  osier  baskets  borne  along 
By  all  the  festal  vintage  throng 
Of  rosy  youtlis  and  virgins  f  lir. 
Ripe  as  tlie  melting  fruits  they  bear. 


200 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Now,  now  they  press  the  pregnant  grapes. 

And  how  the  tender,  timid  maid 

And  now  the  captive  stream  escapes. 

Flew  trembling  to  the  kindly  shade. 

In  fervid  tide  of  nectar  gushing, 

Resign'd  a  form,  alas,  too  fair, 

And  for  its  bondage  proudly  blushing  I 

And  grew  a  verdant  laurel  there ; 

Wliile,  round  the  vat's  impurpled  brim, 

Whose  leaves,  with  symp.athetic  thrill. 

The  choral  song,  the  vintiige  hymn 

In  terror  seem'd  to  tremble  still  ! 

Of  rosy  youths  and  virgins  fair, 

The  god  pursued,  ^^^th  wing'd  desire ; 

Steals  on  the  charm'd  and  echoing  air. 

And  when  his  hopes  were  all  on  lire, 

Mark,  how  they  drink,  with  all  their  eyes, 

And  when  to  clasp  the  nymph  he  thought, 

The  orient  tide  that  sparkling  flies, 

A  lifeless  tree  was  all  he  caught ; 

The  infant  Bacchus,  born  in  mirth. 

And,  stead  of  sighs  that  pleasure  heaves. 

While  Love  stands  by,  to  hail  the  birth. 

Heard  but  the  west-wind  in  the  leaves ! 

When  he,  whose  verging  years  decline 

But,  pause,  my  soul,  no  more,  no  more — 

As  deep  into  the  vale  as  mine. 

Enthusiast,  whither  do  I  soar? 

When  he  inhales  the  vintage-cup, 

This  sweetl}'-madd'ning  dream  of  soul 

His  feet,  new-wing'd,  from  earth  spring  up. 

Hath  hurried  me  beyond  the  goal. 

And  as  he  dances,  the  fresh  air 

Why  should  I  sing  tlie  mighty  darts 

Plays  whispering  through  his  silvery  hair. 

Which  fly  to  wound  celestial  hearts. 

Meanwhile  young  groujjs  whom  love  invites, 

When  ah,  the  song,  with  sweeter  tone, 

To  joys  e'en  rivalling  wine's  delights. 

Can  tell  the  darts  that  wound  my  own  1 

Seek,  arm  in  arm,  the  shadowy  grove. 

Still  be  Anacreon,  still  inspire 

And  there,  in  words  and  looks  of  love, 

The  descant  of  the  Teian  lyre: 

Such  as  fond  lovers  look  .and  s.iy. 

Still  let  the  nectar'd  numbers  float, 

Pass  the  sweet  moonlight  hours  aw.iy. 

Distilling  love  in  every  note  ! 

And  when  some  youth,  whose  glowing  soul 

lias  felt  the  Paphian  star's  control. 
When  he  the  liquid  lays  shall  hear, 

ODE  LS.'" 

His  heart  will  flutter  to  his  ear. 

And  drinking  there  of  song  divine, 

Awake  to  life,  my  sleeping  shell. 

Banquet  on  intellectual  wine  !'" 

To  PhtEbus  let  thy  numbers  swell; 

And  though  no  glorious  prize  be  thine. 

No  Pythhin  wreath  around  thee  twine. 

Yet  every  hour  is  glory's  hour 

To  him  who  gathers  wisdom's  flower. 

ODE  LXI."' 

Then  wake  theo  from  thy  voiceless  slumbers, 

And  to  the  soft  and  Phrygian  numbers. 

Youth's  endearing  cli.arms  are  fled 

Which,  tremblingly,  my  lips  repeat, 

Hoary  locks  deform  my  head  ; 

Send  echoes  from  thy  chord  as  sweet. 

Bloomy  graces,  dalliance  gay. 

'Tis  thus  the  swan,  with  fading  notes, 

All  the  flowers  of  life  decay.'" 

Down  the  Cayster's  current  floats. 

Withering  age  begins  to  trace 

While  amorous  breezes  linger  round, 

Sad  memorials  o'er  my  face ; 

And  sigh  responsive  sound  for  sound. 

Time  has  shed  its  sweetest  bloom, 

All  the  future  must  be  gloom. 

Muse  of  the  L)to  !  illume  my  drenm, 

This  it  is  that  sets  me  sighing ; 

Thy  Pha^huH  is  my  fancy's  theme ; 

Dreary  is  thi'  thought  of  dying! 

And  Imllow'd  is  the  harp  I  bear. 

Lone  and  dismal  is  the  road. 

And  hftllow'd  is  the  wreath  I  wear. 

Down  to  Pluto's  dark  abode  ; 

ilftllow'd  by  him,  the  god  of  lays. 

And,  when  once  the  journey's  o'er, 

Who  modiilalus  the  choral  maze. 

Ah  1  wo  can  return  no  more  ' 

I  HJng  thn  love  which  D.iphne  twined 

Around  llic  godlicid's  yielding  mind; 

I  sinft  the  blushing  Daphne's  flight 

From  thin  ctliere.'il  son  of  Lijjhlj 

ODES  OF  ANACllEON 


201 


ODE  LXII.'" 

Fill  mo,  hoy,  ns  deep  a  draiiijlit, 

As  o'er  was  fiU'd,  as  e'er  was  quaff 'd  ; 

But  let  the  water  amply  flow, 

To  cool  the  grape's  intemperate  glow ;'" 

Let  not  the  fiery  god  be  single, 

But  witli  the  iiyrajihs  in  union  mingle. 

For  though  the  bowl's  the  grave  of  sadness. 

Ne'er  let  it  be  the  birth  of  madness. 

No,  banish  from  our  board  to-night 

The  revelries  of  rude  delight ; 

To  Scythians  leave  tliese  wild  excesses. 

Ours  be  tlie  joy  that  soothes  and  blesses  ! 

And  while  tlie  temperate  bowl  we  wreathe, 

in  concert  let  our  voices  breathe. 

Beguiling  every  hour  along 

With  liarmony  of  soul  and  song. 


ODE  LXIII. 

To  Love,  the  soft  and  blooming  child, 

I  toucli  the  harp  in  descant  wild ; 

To  Love,  the  babe  of  Cyprian  bowers. 

The  boy,  who  breathes  and  blushes  flowers ; 

To  Love,  for  heaven  and  eartli  adore  him. 

And  gods  and  mortals  bow  before  him  ! 


ODE  LXIV. 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  whose  wcU-aim'd  spear 

Wounds  the  fleeting  mountain-deer! 

Dian,  Jove's  immortal  child. 

Huntress  of  the  savage  wild! 

Goddess  with  the  sun-bright  hair ! 

Listen  to  a  people's  prayer. 

Turn,  to  Letlie's  river  turn. 

There  thy  vanquish'd  people  mourn  ! 

Come  to  Letlie's  wavy  shore, 

Tell  them  they  shall  mourn  no  more. 

Tliine  their  hearts,  theu-  altars  thine ; 

Must  they,  Dian — must  they  pine  ? 


ODE  LXV.'" 

Like  some  wanton  filly  sporting, 
Maid  of  Thrace,  thou  fly'st  my  courting. 
26 


Wanton  filly  !  tell  me  why 

Thou  tripp'st  away,  with  scornful  eye, 

And  seeni'st  to  thinlc  my  doating  heart 

Is  novice  in  the  bridling  art? 

Believe  mc,  girl,  it  is  not  so  ; 

Thou'lt  find  this  skilful  hand  can  throw 

The  reins  around  that  tender  form, 

However  wild,  however  warm. 

Yes — trust  me  I  can  tame  thy  force. 

And  turn  and  wind  thee  in  the  course. 

Though,  wasting  now  thy  careless  hoursi 

Thou  sport  amid  the  herbs  and  flowers. 

Soon  shalt  thou  feel  the  rein's  control, 

And  tremble  at  the  wish'd-for  goal ! 


ODE  LXVI.'^" 

To  thee,  the  Queen  of  nymphs  divine, 
Fairest  of  all  that  fairest  shine  ; 
To  thee,  who  rul'st  with  darts  of  fire 
This  world  of  mortals,  young  Desire  ! 
And  oil!  thou  nupti.al  Pov/er,  to  thee 
Who  bear'st  of  life  the  guardian  key. 
Breathing  my  soul  in  fervent  praise. 
And  weaving  wild  my  votive  l.ays, 
For  thee,  O  Queen  !  I  wake  the  lyre, 
For  thee,  thou  blushing  young  Desire, 
And  oh  !  for  thee,  thou  nuptial  Power 
Come,  and  illume  this  genial  hour. 

Look  on  thy  bride,  too  happy  boy. 
And  while  tliy  lambent  glance  of  J03 
Plays  over  all  her  blushing  charms. 
Delay  not,  snatch  her  to  tliine  arms, 
Before  the  lovely,  trembling  prey. 
Like  a  young  birdling,  wing  away  ! 
Turn,  Stratoeles,  too  happy  youth, 
Dear  to  the  Queen  of  amorous  truth. 
And  dear  to  her,  whose  yielding  zone 
Will  soon  resign  her  all  thine  own. 
Turn  to  Myrilla,  turn  thine  eye. 
Breathe  to  BIyrilla,  breathe  tliy  sigh. 
To  those  bewitching  beauties  turn  ; 
For  tliee  they  blush,  for  thee  they  b  irn. 

Not  more  the  rose,  tlie  queen  of  flowers, 
Outblushes  all  the  bloom  of  bowers, 
Than  she  unrivall'd  grace  discloses. 
The  sweetest  rose,  where  all  are  roses. 
Oh  !  may  the  sun,  benignant,  shed 
His  blandest  influence  o'er  tliy  bed  ; 
And  foster  there  an  infant  tree, 
To  bloom  like  her,  ."ind  tower  like  thee !'" 


202 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


ODE  LXVa'=' 

Rich  in  bliss,  I  proudly  scorn 
The  wealth  of  Amalthea's  horn  ; 
Nor  should  I  ask  to  call  the  throne 
Of  the  Tartessian  prince  my  own ;"' 
To  tottor  through  liis  train  of  years, 
The  rictim  of  declining  fears. 
One  little  hour  of  joy  to  me 
Is  worth  a  dull  eternity  ! 


ODE  LXVin. 

Now  Neptune's  month  our  sky  deforms, 
The  angry  night-cloud  teems  \\-itli  storms ; 
And  savage  winds,  infuriate  driven. 
Fly  howling  in  tlie  face  of  heaven  ! 
Now,  now,  my  friends,  the  gathering  gloom 
With  roseate  rays  of  wine  illume : 
And  while  our  wreaths  of  parsley  spread 
Their  fadeless  foliage  round  our  head. 
Let's  hymn  th'  almighty  power  of  wine. 
And  shed  libations  on  his  shrine ! 


ODE  LXIX. 

TiizY  wove  the  lotus  band  to  deck 
And  fan  with  pensile  wreath  each  neck ; 
And  every  guest,  to  sliade  his  head, 
Tliree  little  fragrant  chaplets  spread  ;'"' 
And  one  was  of  th'  Egyptian  leaf. 
The  rest  were  roses,  fair  and  brief: 
Wliile  from  a  golden  vase  profound. 
To  all  on  flowery  beds  around, 
A  Ilebe,  of  celestial  shape, 
Pour'd  the  rich  droppings  of  the  grape ! 


ODE  LXX. 

A  BnoKEit  cake,  with  honey  sweet, 
Is  all  my  spare  and  simple  treat : 
And  while  a  generous  bowl  I  crown 
To  float  my  Utile  banquet  down, 
I  take  the  soft,  the  amorous  lyre. 
And  (ting  of  love's  delicious  fire  : 
In  mirthful  mcnsurcH  warm  and  free, 
I  ding,  dear  mnid,  and  ning  for  thee ! 


ODE  LXXL 

With  twenty  chords  my  lyre  is  hung. 
And  while  I  wake  them  all  for  thee, 

Thou,  O  maiden,  wild  and  young, 
•Disport'st  in  airy  levity. 

The  nursling  fawn,  that  in  some  shade 
Its  antler'd  mother  le.aves  behind. 

Is  not  more  wantonly  afraid. 
More  timid  of  the  rustling  wind ! 


ODE  LXXIL 

Fare  thee  M'ell,  perfidious  maid, 

Sly  soul,  too  long  on  earth  dolay'd, 

Delay'd,  perfidious  girl,  by  thee. 

Is  on  the  wing  for  liberty. 

I  fly  to  seek  a  kindlier  sphere, 

Since  thou  hast  ceased  to  love  me  here ! 


ODE  Lxxm. 

Awhile  I  bloom'd,  a  happy  tUiwer, 
Till  Love  approach'd  one  fatal  hour, 
And  made  my  tender  branches  feel 
The  wounds  of  his  avenging  steel. 
Then  lost  I  fell,  like  some  poor  willow 
That  falls  across  the  wintry  billow  ! 


ODE  LXXIV. 

JIoNAUCH  Love,  resistless  boy. 

With  whom  the  rosy  Queen  of  .Toy, 

And  nymplis,  whose  eyes  have  Heaven's  hiei 

Disporting  Iread  the  monnlain-dew  ; 

Propitious,  oh!  receive  my  sighs, 

Whiih,  glowing  with  eiilroaty,  rise, 

That  thou  wilt  whisper  to  the  brea.st 

Of  her  I  love  thy  soft  behest ; 

And  counsel  her  to  learn  from  thee. 

That  lesson  thou  hast  taught  to  me. 

Ah  !  if  my  heart  no  llaltery  Icll, 

Thon'll  own  I've   earn'd  that  lesson  Weill 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


203 


ODE  LXXV" 

Spirit  of  Love,  whose  locks  unroll'd, 
Stream  on  the  breeze  like  floating  gold ; 
Come,  within  a  fragrant  cloud 
Blushing  witli  liglit,  thy  votary  sliroud ; 
And,  on  tliose  wings  that  sparkling  play. 
Waft,  oh,  waft  me  hence  away ! 
Love !  my  soul  is  full  of  thee. 
Alive  to  all  thy  luxury. 
But  she,  the  nymph  for  whom  I  glow, 
The  lovely  Lesbian  mocks  my  woe ; 
Smiles  at  the  chill  and  lioary  hues. 
That  time  upon  my  forehead  strews. 
Alas !  I  fear  she  keeps  her  charms. 
In  store  for  younger,  happier  arms ! 


ODE  LXXVI. 

Hither,  gentle  Muse  of  mine. 
Come  and  teach  thy  votary  old 

Many  a  golden  hymn  divine, 

For  the  nymph  with  vest  of  gold. 

Pretty  nymph,  of  tender  age. 
Fair  thy  silky  locks  unfold ; 

Listen  to  a  hoai-y  sago. 
Sweetest  maid  with  vest  of  gold ! 


ODE  LXXVII. 

Would  that  I  were  a  tuneful  lyre. 

Of  burnish'd  ivory  fair. 
Which,  in  the  Dionysian  choir. 

Some  blooming  boy  should  bear ! 

Would  that  I  were  a  golden  vase. 
That  some  bright  nymph  might  hold 

My  spotless  frame,  with  blushing  grace, 
Herself  as  pure  as  gold ! 


ODE  LXXVia 

When  Cupid  sees  how  thickly  now 
The  snows  of  Time  fall  o'er  my  brow. 
Upon  his  wing  of  golden  light. 
He  passes  with  an  eaglet's  flight, 


And  flitting  onward  seems  to  say, 

"  Faro  thee  well,  thou'st  had  thy  day  !" 


Cupid,  whose  lamp  has  lent  the  ray, 
That  lights  our  life's  meandering  way. 
That  God,  within  this  bosom  stealing, 
Hath  waken'd  a  strange,  mingled  feeling 
Which  pleases,  though  so  sadly  teasing. 
And  teases,  though  so  sweetly  pleasing ! 


Let  me  resign  this  wretched  breath. 
Since  now  remains  to  me 

No  other  balm  than  kindly  death, 
To  soothe  my  misery ! 


I  KNOW  thou  lov'st  a  brimming  measure, 
And  art  a  kindly,  cordial  host ; 

But  let  me  fill  and  drink  at  pleasure — 
Thus  I  enjoy  the  goblet  most. 


I  FEAR  that  love  disturbs  my  rest. 
Yet  feel  not  love's  impassion'd  caro  , 

I  think  there's  madness  in  my  breast, 
Yet  cannot  find  that  madness  there  V" 


From  dread  Leucadi.«.'s  frowning  steep, 
I'll  plunge  into  the  whitening  deep : 
And  there  lie  cold,  to  deatli  resign'd 
Since  Love  intoxicates  my  mind ! 


Mk  me,  child,  a  cup  divine. 
Crystal  water,  ruby  wine  : 
Weave  the  frontlet,  richly  flush  .ig, 
O'er  my  wintry  temples  blusliing. 
Mi.x  the  brimmer — Love  and  I 
Shall  no  more  the  contest  tr)'. 
Here — upon  this  holy  bowl, 
I  surrender  all  my  soul ! 


204 


MOOEE'S  WOKKS. 


Amosc  the  Epiijrams  of  the  Anthologia,  are 
found  some  panegyrics  on  Anacreon,  which  I  had 
translated,  and  origintllly  intended  as  a  sort  of 
Coronis  to  this  work.  But  I  found,  upon  consider- 
ation, that  they  wanted  variety;  and  that  a  frequent 
recurrence,  in  them,  of  the  same  thought,  would 
render  a  collection  of  such  poems  uninteresting. 
I  sh:ill  take  the  liberty,  however,  of  subjoining  a 
few,  selected  from  the  number,  that  I  may  not 
appear  to  have  totally  neglected  those  ancient  trib- 
utes to  the  fame  of  Anacreon.  The  four  epigrams 
which  I  give  are  imputed  to  Antipater  Sidonius. 
They  are  rendered,  perhaps,  with  too  much  free- 
dom ;  but  designing  origin.iUy  a  translation  .of  all 
that  are  extant  on  the  subject,  I  endeavored  to 
enliven  their  uniformity  by  sometimes  indulging  in 
the  liberties  of  paraphrase. 


ELEGY  ON  ANACREON. 

Aeound  the  tomb,  oh,  hard  divine ! 

Where  soft  tliy  hallow'd  brow  reposes, 
Long  may  the  deathless  ivy  twine. 

And  summer  spread  her  waste  of  ro.sea 

And  there  shall  many  a  fount  distil. 
And  many  a  rill  refresh  the  flowers; 

But  wine  shall  be  each  purple  rill, 
And  every  fount  be  milky  showers. 

Tlm.i,  slwde  of  him,  whom  Nature  taught 
To  tune  his  lyre  and  soul  to  i>!easure, 

Who  gave  to  love  his  tenderest  thought. 
Who  gave  to  love  Ids  fondest  measure, — 

Thus,  after  death,  if  shades  can  feel. 

Thou  ni.ay'st,  from  odortf  round  thee  streaming 
A  pulse  of  past  enjoyment  steal, 

And  live  again  in  blissful  dreaming! 


ON  ANACREON. 

IIkiu;  hlecp.M  Anacreon,  in  this  ivied  sh.-ide  ; 
Hi!-o  mute  in  de.itli  the  Teian  swan  is  laid.'" 


Cold,  cold  that  heart,  which  while  on  eartli  it  dwell 
All  the  sweet  frenzy  of  love's  passion  felt. 
And  yet,  o!i  Bard  I  tliou  art  not  mute  in  death. 
Still  do  We  catch  thy  lyre's  luxurious  breath;'" 
And  still  ihy  songs  of  soft  Ba'Jiylla  bloom, 
Green  as  tne  ivy  round  thy  mould'ring  tomb. 
Nor  yet  nas  death  obscured  thy  tire  of  love. 
For  still  it  lights  thee  through  thr  Elysian  grove ; 
Where  dreams  are  thine,  that  bless  ih'  elect  alone. 
And  Venus  calls  thee  even  in  death  liP*'  own  ! 


Oh  stranger !  if  An.icreon's  shel!'" 
Has  ever  taught  thy  heart  to  swell"' 
With  passion's  throb  or  pleasure's  siglu 
In  pity  turn,  as  wand'ring  nigh. 
And  drop  thy  goblet's  richest  tear'" 
In  tenderest  libation  here  ! 
So  shall  my  sleeping  ashes  tlmll 
With  visions  of  enjoyment  still. 
Not  even  in  death  can  I  resign 
The  festal  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
AVlien  harmonj'  pursued  my  ways. 
And  Bacchus  wantou'd  to  my  lays. 
Oh  !  if  delight  could  charm  no  more, 
If  all  the  goblet's  bliss  were  o'er, 
When  fate  had  once  our  doom  decreed, 
Then  dying  would  be  death  indeed  ; 
Nor  could  I  think,  nnbless'd  by  wino 
Divinilv  itself  divine  ! 


At  length  thy  golden  hours  have  wing'd  ihoir  lliunt. 
And  drowsy  death  that  eyelid  steei>cth  ; 

Thy  harp  that  whisper'd   tlu'ough  each   liii.';;erlng 
night,"' 
How  mutely  in  oblivion  sleejicth  ! 

She  too,  for  whom  that  harp  profusely  shod 

The  purest  nectar  of  its  numbers. 
She,  the  young  spring  of  thy  de.«ires,  hath  lied, 

And  Willi  lu'i-  blest  Anacreon  slumbers!"" 

Farewell  !  thou  haiist  a  pulse  for  every  dart 

Th;it  mighty  Love  could  scatter  from  his(iuiver; 

And  each  now  beauty  found  in  thee  n  leart. 

Which   thou,  with  all  thy  heart  and  soul,  didst 
give  her!"" 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


205 


NOTES. 


(1)  The  History  of  Anncreon,  by  Garon,  (lo  Poeto  sans  fard, 
as  he  styles  himself,)  is  professudly  a  romance;  nor  does 
Mademoiselle  Scuderi,  from  whom  he  borrowed  the  idea, 
pretend  to  historical  veracity  in  her  account  of  Anacreon  and 
Sappho.  These,  then,  are  allowable.  But  how  can  Barnes  be 
forgiven,  who,  with  all  the  confidence  of  a  biographer,  traces 
every  wandering  of  the  poet,  and  settles  him  at  last,  in  his  old 
age,  at  a  country  villa  near  T(^os? 

(2)  The  learned  Bayle  has  detected  some  infidelities  of  quo- 
tation in  Le  Fevre.  (Dictionnaire  Historique^  &c.)  Madame 
Dacier  is  not  more  accurate  than  her  father  :  they  have  almost 
made  Anacreon  prime  minister  to  the  monarch  of  Samoa. 

(3)  The  Asiatics  were  as  remarkable  for  genius  as  for  luxury. 
"Ingenia  Asiatica  inclyta  per  gentes  fecfire  Poetie,  Anacreon, 
inde  Mimnermus  et  Anlimachus,"  &c. — Sulinus. 

(4)  I  have  not  attempted  to  define  the  particular  Olympiad, 
but  have  adopted  the  idea  of  Bayle,  who  says,  "  Je  n^'ai  point 
marqti6  d''01ympiade  ;  car  poiu*  un  homme  qui  a  v6cu  85  ans, 
n  me  semble  que  Ton  ne  doit  point  s'cnfermer  dans  des 
bornes  si  i5troites." 

(5)  This  mistake  is  founded  on  a  false  interpretation  of  a 
very  obvious  passage  in  Plato's  Dialogue  on  Temperance;  it 
originated  with  Madame  Dacier,  and  has  been  received  im- 
plicitly by  many.  Gail,  a  late  editor  of  Anacreon,  seems  to 
claim  to  liiraself  the  merit  of  detecting  this  error ;  but  Bayle 
had  observed  it  before  him. 

(6)  In  the  romance  of  C'lelia,  the  anecdote  to  which  I  allude 
ia  told  of  a  young  girl,  with  whom  Anacreon  fell  in  love  while 
she  personated  the  god  Apollo  in  a  mask.  But  here  Made- 
moiselle Scuderi  consulted  nature  more  than  truth. 

(t)  Tliore  is  a  very  interesting  French  poem  founded  upon 
th.B  anecdote,  imputed  to  Dcsyvetaux,  and  called  "  Anacreon 
Citoyen." 

(8)  Fabricius  appears  not  to  trust  very  implicitly  in  this 
story.    It  must  be  confessed  that  Lucian,  who  tells  us  that 

■Sophocles  was  choked  by  a  grape-stone,  in  the  very  same 
treatise  mentions  the  longevity  of  Anacreon,  and  yet  is  silent 
on  the  manner  of  his  death.  Could  he  have  been  ignorant  of 
such  a  remarkable  coincidence,  or,  knowing,  could  ho  have 
neglected  to  remark  it?  See  Regnicr's  introduction  to  his 
Anacreon. 

(9)  Barnes  ia  convinced  (but  very  gratuitously)  of  the  syn- 
chronism of  Anacreon  and  Sappho.  Fabricius  thinks  that 
they  might  have  been  contemporary,  but  considers  their 
amour  as  a  tale  of  imagination.  Vossius  rejects  the  idea 
entirely  ;  as  do  also  Olaus  Borrichius  and  others. 

(10)  An  Italian  poet,  in  some  verses  on  Belleau's  translation 
of  Anacreon,  pretends  to  imagine  that  our  bard  did  not  feel 
zs  hR  wrote  .— 

To  I,ove  and  Bacchus  ever  young 
Wliile  sage  Anacreon  touch'd  the  lyre, 

He  neither  felt  the  loves  he  sung, 
Nor  fiU'd  his  bowl  to  Bacchus  higher. 


Those  flowery  days  had  faded  long. 
When  youth  could  act  the  lover's  part; 

And  passion  trembled  in  bis  song, 
But  never,  never,  reach'd  his  heart. 

(11)  Anacreon's  character  has  been  variously  colored, 
Bai'ncs  lingers  on  it  with  enthusiastic  admiration;  but  Jic  is 
always  extravagant,  if  not  sometimes  also  a  little  profane. 
Baillet  runs  too  much  into  the  opposite  extreme,  exaggerating 
also  the  testimonies  which  he  has  consulted ;  and  we  cannot 
surely  agree  with  him  when  he  cites  such  a  compiler  as 
Athenajus,  as  "un  des  plus  savans  critiques  de  I'antiquitO." 
— Judgment  des  Seavans,  M.  CV". 

Baines  could  hardly  have  read  the  passage  to  which  he 
refers,  when  he  accuses  Le  Fevre  of  having  censured  our 
poet's  character  in  a  note  on  Longinus;  the  note  in  question 
being  manifest  irony,  in  allusion  to  some  censure  passed  upon 
Le  Fevre  for  his  Anacreon.  It  is  clear,  indeed,  that  praise 
rather  than  censure  is  intimated.  See  Johannes  Vulpius, 
(de  Utilitate  Potiticea,)  who  vindicates  our  poet's  reputation. 

(12)  It  is  taken  from  the  Bibliotheca  of  Fulvius  Ursinus, 
Bellori  has  copied  the  same  head  into  his  Imagines.  Johan- 
nes Faber,  in  his  description  of  the  coin  of  Ursinus,  mentions 
another  head  on  a  very  beautiful  cornelian,  which  he  sup- 
poses was  worn  in  a  ring  by  some  admirer  of  tlie  poet.  In  the 
Iconograpbia  of  Canini  there  ia  a  youthful  head  of  Anacreon 
from  a  (Grecian  medal,  with  the  letters  TEIOS  around  it;  pn 
the  reverse  there  is  a  Neptimc,  holding  a  spear  in  his  right 
hand,  and  a  dolphin,  with  the  word  TIAN^N  inscribed,  in  the 
left;  "volendoci  denotare  (says  Canini^  che  quelle  cittadiui 
la  coniassero  in  honore  del  suo  compatriota  poeta."  There 
is  also  among  the  coins  of  De  Wilde  one,  which  though  it 
bears  no  efligy,  was  probably  struck  to  the  memory  of  Anac- 
reon. It  has  the  word  0IilN,  encircled  with  an  ivy  crown. 
'•At  quidni  respicit  ha;c  corona  Anacreontem.  nobilem  lyri- 
cura  T—Dc  Wilde. 

(13)  Besides  those  which  are  extant,  he  wrote  hj-mns,  ele- 
gies, epigrams,  &c.  Some  of  the  epigrams  still  exist.  Horace, 
in  addition  to  the  mention  of  him,  (lib.  iv.  od.  9.>  alludes 
also  to  a  poem  of  his  upon  the  rivalry  of  Circe  aud  Penelope 
in  the  affections  of  Ulysses,  lib.  i.  od.  17;  aud  the  scholiast 
upon  Nicander  cites  a  fragment  from  a  poem  upon  Sleep  by 
Anacreon,  and  attributes  to  him  likewise  a  medicinal  treatise, 
Fulgentivis  mentions  a  work  of  his  upon  the  war  between 
Jupiter  and  the  Titans,  and  the  origin  of  the  consecration  of 
the  eagle. 

(14)  "We  may  perceive,"' says  Vossius,  ^-that  the  iteration 
of  his  words  conduces  very  much  to  the  sweetness  of  his 
style."  Henry  Stephen  remarks  the  same  beauty  in  a  note  on 
the  forty-fourth  ode.  This  figure  of  iteration  is  his  mo»4 
appropriate  grace: — but  the  modern  writers  of  Juvenilia  ai^J 
Basia  have  adopted  it  to  an  excess  which  destroys  the  eHect 

(15)  Ronsai'd  commemorates  this  event:— 

Je  vay  boire  .'i  Henric  Etienne 

Qui  des  enfers  nous  a  rendu, 

Du  vieil  Anacreon  perdu, 

I-a  douco  lyre  Toionne.  Ode  xw  baofe  S 


206 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


I  fill  the  bowl  to  Stephen's  name, 
Who  rescued  from  the  gloom  of  night 

The  Teian  bard  of  festive  fame, 
And  brought  his  living  Ijtc  to  light. 

(16)  "La  fiction  de  ce  sonnet,  comme  Tattteur  mf^me  m'a 
dit,  est  prise  d'une  ode  d'Anacr6o».,  encore  non  imprim^e, 
qu'il  a  depoia  traduit." 

(17)  The  author  of  Nouvellcs  de  la  R6pub.  des  Lett,  bestows 
on  this  translation  mnch  more  praise  than  its  merits  appear  to 
me  to  justify. 

(18)  Philostratus  has  the  same  thought  in  one  of  his  E/iwraa 
where  he  speaks  of  the  garland  which  he  had  sent  to  his 
mistress.  "  If  thou  art  inclined  to  gratify  thy  lover,  send  him 
back  the  reraaius  of  the  garland,  no  longer  breathing  of  roses 
only,  but  of  thee !''  Which  pretty  conceit  is  borrowed  (as 
the  author  of  the  Observer  remarks)  in  a  well-known  liltle 
Boug  of  Ben  Jonson'a  :— 

**  But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 
And  sent  it  back  to  me  ; 
Since  when  it  looks  and  smells,  I  swear, 
Notof  itself,  but  thee!" 

(19j  Thi.3  tannaxaro  in  the  eclogue  of  Oallicio  nell'  Arca- 
dia:— 

Vegnan  li  vaghi  Amori 
Senza  Qammelle,  b  strali, 
Scherzando  insieme  pargoletti  e  nudi. 

Fluttering  on  the  busy  wing, 
A  train  of  naked  Cupids  carac. 

Sporting  around  in  harmless  ring, 
Without  a  dart,  without  a  flame. 

And  ti»uft  Oi  Ihe  Pervigilium  Veneris:— 

i:c  Dvmphu?,  posuit  arma,  feriatus  est  amor. 

I*ovo  is  disarmM— ye  nymphs,  in  safety  stray, 
Your  bosoms  now  may  boast  a  holiday! 

(50)  An  allusion  to  the  fable,  that  Apollo  had  killed  his 
beloved  J)oy  Hyacinth,  while  playing  with  him  at  quoits. 
"Tliis  (says  M.  La  Fosse)  is  assuredly  the  sense  of  the  text, 
and  It  cnnno'  ailmit  of  any  other." 

The  Italian  translators,  to  save  themselvea  the  trouble  of  a 
note,  have  l..tcen  the  liberty  of  making  Anacreon  himself 
explain  this  lablo.  Thus  Salvini,  the  most  literal  of  any  of 
them  :— 

Ma  cun  lor  nnn  ginochi  Apollo; 

Che  in  flern  risco 

Col  diiro  disco 

A  Giaclnto  flaccb  II  collo. 

(21)  TIiIb  bpnuliful  fiction,  which  tho  commonlalora  Imvo  at- 
tributed to  Julian,  a  royal  poet,  tlio  Vatican  MH.  pronounce! 
to  be  the  Ki'nuino  orTsprlng  of  Anacreon,  It  ha«,  indeed,  all 
the  features  of  Iho  parent:— 

ct  focllo  lusclls 
Noacllulur  ab  omnibus. 

1 23)  This  Idea  Is  prelUly  Imitated  In  the  rollowlng  optgrwii 
by  AndroRJi  Naugcrlus;— 

Florrnleii  diim  fnrto  vagnna  moa  llyelln  per  hortos 

Toxit  ndcprnlln  hiirt  cnnn  rotiiii, 
l>ro  runM  Inter  hititanli'm  Invcnlt  Amorom 

V.l  fflmiil  nmiexU  lloribuD  impllcult. 
LurlAliir  primo,  rt  conlrn  ullentibuii  alls 

IndumltuH  trntAt  lulYcru  vincia  puur: 


This  € 


Mox  ubi  lacteolas  et  dignas  matre  papillas 

Vidit  et  ora  ipsos  nata  movere  Deos, 
Xmpositosque  coma?  ambrosios  ut  senlit  oaorea 

Quosque  legit  diti  messe  beatus  Arabs ; 
"  I  (dixit)  mea,  qurere  novum  tibi,  mator,  Amorcm 

"  Imperio  sedes  base  erit  apta  mec." 

As  fair  Ilyella,  through  the  bloomy  grove, 
A  wreath  of  many  mingled  flowVels  wove, 
Within  a  rose  a  sleeping  Love  she  ff.und, 
And  in  the  twisted  wreaths  the  baby  bound. 
Awhile  he  struggled,  and  impatiert  tried 
To  break  the  rosy  bonds  the  virgiu  tied ; 
But  when  be  saw  her  bosom's  radiant  swells 
Her  features,  where  the  eye  of  Jove  might  dwell ; 
And  caught  th'  ambrosial  odors  of  hur  hair, 
Rich  OS  the  breathings  of  Aralian  air ; 
"Oh!  mother  Venus,"  (said  the  raptured  child, 
By  charms,  of  more  thau  mortal  bloom,  beguiled,) 
"  Go,  seek  another  boy,  thou'st  lost  thine  own, 
"  Hyella's  arms  shall  now  be  Cupid's  throne  I" 

epigram  of  Naugerius  is  iiuitatod  by  Lodovico  Dolce  ir*' 
a  poem,  beginning 

Mentrc  raccoglie  hor  uno,  hor  altro  fiore 
Vjcina  a  un  rio  di  chiai'e  et  lucid*  oude, 
Lidio,  &.C.,  &.C. 

(23)  Tontanus  has  a  very  delicate  thought  upon  the  subject 
of  old  age: — 

Quid  rides,  Malroua?  scnem  quid  tcmnis  amantem? 
Quisquis  amat  nulla  est  conditione  senex. 

Why  do  you  scorn  my  want  of  youth, 
.And  with  a  smile  my  brow  behold  ? 

Lady  deai-I  believe  this  truth, 
That  he  who  loves  cannot  bo  old. 

(21)  On  account  of  this  idea  of  perfuming  the  beard,  Corne- 
lius de  Pauw  pronounces  the  whole  ode  to  bo  the  spurious 
production  of  some  lascivious  monk,  who  was  nursing  his 
beard  with  unguents.  But  ho  should  have  known,  that  this 
was  an  ancient  eastern  custom,  which,  if  wo  may  believe  Sava- 
ry,  still  exists:  " Vous  voyez,  Monsieur,  (says  this  traveller,) 
que  I'usnge  antique  de  so  parfumer  la  tote  et  la  barbe,  celObrd 
par  lo  prophL'to  Pioi,  substste  encore  do  nos  jours."  Lettre  19. 
Savary  likewise  cites  this  very  odo  of  Anacreon.  Angerianus 
has  not  thought  tbu  idea  inconsistent,  having  introduced  it  io 
the  following  lines  : — 

Hicc  mihi  cura,  rosis  et  clngoro  tcmporn  myrto, 

Et  curas  multo  delapidaro  mero. 
Hu'c  mihi  cura,  comas  vi  barbam  (ingcro  succo 

Assyrio  et  dulces  couliumu'o  jucos. 

Tills  bo  my  care,  to  wreathe  my  brow  wilb  nowern, 
To  drench  my  sorrows  in  the  ample  bowl ; 

To  pour  rirh  pernimeB  o'er  my  heard  in  Bhowrrs, 
And  givu  full  loose  to  mirth  and  joy  uf  soul  1 

(2it)  Tlio  poet  j§  hero  In  a  ft-onxy  of  enjoyment,  and  it  lu,  In* 
deed)  "amabills  hiBanla:"— 

Furor  dl  poesin, 
1)1  limcivia,  edl  vino, 
Trlpllcato  furore, 
Bacchn,  Apolln,  et  Amum. 

Ititratti  del  Cavalier  Marino. 


Thin  in  truly,  as  Bcallger  oxproRHOB  tt, 

luhaolre  dulco 

V\  sapldum  f  jrvro  funirom 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


207 


(2(()  The  loquacity  of  th?  fiwallow  was  provcrbialized ;  thus 
Nicostratus:— 

If  in  pratiiif*  from  morning  lill  night 

A  sign  of  our  wisdom  there  he, 
The  swallows  are  wiser  by  right, 

For  they  prattle  much  faster  than  wc. 

(27)  Modern  poetry  has  confirmed  the  name  of  Philomel 
upon  the  nightingale  ;  but  many  reypectahle  authorities  among 
the  ancients  assigned  this  metamorphose  to  I'rogne,  and  made 
rhilomcl  the  swallow,  as  Anacreon  does  here. 

(28)  This  fountain  was  in  a  grove,  consecrated  to  Apollo, 
and  situated  between  Colophon  and  Lebedos,  in  Ionia.  The 
god  had  an  oracle  there.  Scaliger  thus  alludes  to  it  in  his 
Anacreontica: — 

Semel  ut  concitus  cestro, 
Veluti  qui  Clarias  aquas 
Ebibere  loquaces, 
Quo  plus  canunt,  phira  volunt. 

(29)  Longepiei-re  has  here  quoted  an  epigram  from  the  An- 
thologia,  in  which  the  poet  assumes  Reason  as  the  armor 
ftg&inst  Love : — 

With  Reason  I  cover  my  breast  as  a  shield. 
And  fearlessly  meet  little  Love  in  the  field ; 
Thus  fighting  his  godship,  I'll  ne'er  bo  disraay'd  ; 
But  if  BacchuE  should  ever  advance  to  his  aid, 
Alas!  then,  unable  to  combat  the  two, 
Unfortunate  warrior,  what  should  I  do? 

Tliis  idea  of  the  irresistibility  of  Cupid  and  Bacchus  united, 
Is  delicately  expressed  in  an  Italian  poem,  which  is  so  truly 
Anacreontic,  that  its  introduction  here  may  be  pardoned.  It 
ta  an  imitation,  indeed,  of  our  poet's  sixth  ode : — 

Lavossi  Amore  in  quel  ^icino  fiume 
Ove  giuro  (Pastor)  che  bevcnd'  io 
Bevei  le  fiamme,  anzi  I'istesso  Dio, 
Ch'or  con  I'humide  piume 
Laacivetto  mi  scherza  al  cor  intorno. 
Ma  che  sarei  s'io  Io  bevessi  un  giorno, 
Bacco,  nel  tuo  liquore  ? 
Sarei,  piu  che  non  sono  ebrc  d' Amore. 

The  urchin  of  the  bow  and  quiver 

Was  bathing  in  a  neighboring  river. 

Where,  as  I  drank  on  yester-eve, 

(Shepherd-youth,  the  tale  believe,) 

Twaa  not  a  cooling,  crystal  draught, 

'Twas  liquid  flame  I  madly  quaff'd; 

For  Love  was  in  the  rippling  tide, 

I  felt  him  to  my  bosom  glide ; 

And  now  the  wily,  wanton  minion 

Plays  round  my  heart  with  restless  pinion, 

A  day  it  was  of  fatal  star. 

But  ah,  'twere  e'en  more  fatal  far, 

If,  Bacchus,  in  thy  cup  of  fire, 

I  found  this  fluttering,  young  desire  : 

Then,  then  indeed  my  soul  would  prove, 

E'en  more  than  ever,  drunk  with  love! 

v30;  Drjdcn  has  parodied  this  thought  in  the  following  ex- 
travagant lines:— 

-  I'm  all  o'er  Love ; 


Nay,  I  am  Love,  Love  shot,  and  shot  so  fast. 
He  shot  himself  into  my  breast  at  last." 


(31)  Tiio  poet,  in  this  catalogue  of  his  mistresses,  means 
nothing  more  than,  by  a  lively  hyperbole,  to  inform  us,  that 
his  heart,  unfettered  by  any  one  object,  was  warm  with  devy. 
tion  towards  the  sex  in  general.  Cowley  is  indebted  to  this 
odo  for  the  hint  of  bis  ballad,  called  "  The  Chrnnicio/' 

The  learned  Menage  has  imitated  it  with  much  spirit:— 

Tell  the  foliage  of  the  woods, 
Tell  the  billows  of  the  fioods, 
Number  midnight's  starry  store, 
And  the  sands  that  crowd  the  shore. 
Then,  my  Bion,  thou  mayst  count 
Of  my  loves  the  vast  amount. 
I've  been  loving,  all  my  days. 
Many  nymphs,  in  many  ways  ; 
Virgin,  widow,  maid,  and  wife — 
I've  been  doting  all  my  life. 
Naiads,  Nereids,  nymphs  of  fountains. 
Goddesses  of  groves  and  mountains, 
Fair  and  sable,  great  and  small. 
Yes,  I  swear  I've  loved  them  all ! 
Soon  was  every  passion  over, 
I  was  but  tlie  moment's  lover ; 
Oh  !  I'm  such  a  roving  elf, 
That  the  Queen  of  lovo  herself. 
Though  she  practised  all  her  wiles, 
Rosy  blushes,  wreathed  smiles. 
All  her  beauty's  proud  endeavor 
Could  not  chain  my  heart  for  ever. 

(32)  This  figure  is  called,  by  rhetoricians,  the  Impossible, 
and  is  very  frequently  made  use  of  in  poetry.  The  amatory 
writers  have  exhausted  a  world  of  imagery  by  it,  to  express 
the  infinite  number  of  kisses  which  they  require  from  thy  hps 
of  their  mistresses :  in  this  Catullus  led  the  way  :— 

As  many  stellar  eyes  of  light, 

As  through  the  silent  waste  of  night, 

Gazing  upon  this  world  of  shade, 

Witness  some  secret  youth  and  maid. 

Who  fair  as  thou,  and  fond  as  I, 

In  stolen  joys  enamor'd  lie, — 

So  many  kisses,  ere  I  slumber. 

Upon  those  dew-bright  lips  I'll  number; 

So  many  kisses  we  shall  count. 

Envy  can  never  tell  th'  amount. 

No  tongue  shall  blab  the  sum,  but  mine; 

No  lips  shall  fascinate,  but  thine  ! 

(33)  "With  justice  has  the  poet  attributed  beauty  to  Iha 
women  of  Greece." — Degcn. 

M.  de  Pauw,  the  author  of  Dissertations  upon  the  Greeks, 
is  of  a  different  opinion;  he  thinks,  that  by  a  capricious  par- 
tiality of  nature,  the  other  sex  had  all  the  beauty  ;  and  by 
this  supposition  endeavors  to  account  fur  a  very  singular  de- 
pravation of  instinct  among  that  people. 

(34)  The  Gaditanian  girls  were  like  the  Baladieres  of  India, 
whose  dances  are  thus  described  by  a  French  author;  "Les 
danses  sent  presque  toutes  des  pantomimes  d'amour;  le  plan, 
le  dessein,  les  attitudes,  les  mesures,  les  sons  et  les  cadences  de 
ces  ballets,  tout  respire  cette  passion  et  en  exprime  les  volupt^B 
et  les  fureurs." — Histoirc  du  Commerce  des  Europ.  dans  les  dtuz 
Indes,     Raynal. 

The  music  of  the  Gaditanian  females  had  all  the  voluptuous 
character  of  their  dancing,  as  appears  from  Martial  >  — 

Cantica  qui  Nili,  qui  G.iditana  aunurrat. 

Lib.  ill.  epig.  63, 

Lodovico  Ariostohad  this  ode  of  our  ban!  in  his  mind  when« 
he  wrote  his  poem  *'  De  diver*is  nmoiibns."'  See  the  Anlholo- 
gia  Italonun. 


203 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


(35)  The  dove  of  Auacreon,  bearing  a  letter  from  the  poet  to 
his  mistress,  is  rout  by  a  stranger,  with  whom  this  dialogue  is 
imogined. 

The  ancients  made  use  of  letter-carrying  pigeons,  when  they 
went  any  distance  from  home,  as  the  most  certain  means  of 
conveying  intelligence  back.  That  tender  domestic  attachment, 
which  attracts  this  delicate  little  bird  through  every  danger 
and  difliciilty,  till  it  settles  in  its  native  nest,  affurds  to  the 
niiihor  of  '-The  Pleasures  of  Memory"  a  fine  and  jnleresling 
exerapllfica.ion  of  his  subject. 

"  Led  by  what  chart,  transports  the  timid  dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest,  or  the  vows  of  love  T' 

See  the  poem.  Daniel  Ileinsius,  in  speaking  of  Dousa,  who 
adopted  this  method  at  the  siege  of  Leyden,  expresses  a  simi- 
lar sentiment 

Quo  patriae  non  tendit  amor?    Mandata  referre 
Po5tquam  bominem  nequiit  mittere,  misii  avem. 

Fuller  tells  us,  that  at  the  siege  of  Jerusalem,  the  Christians 
intercepted  a  letter,  tied  to  the  legs  of  a  dove,  in  which  the 
Persian  Emperor  promised  assistance  to  the  besieged. — Holy 
War,  cap.  24,  book  i. 

(3G)  "This  passage  is  invaluable,  and  I  do  not  think  that  any 
thing  so  beautiful  or  so  delicate  has  ever  been  said.  What  an 
Idea  does  it  give  of  the  poetry  of  the  man,  from  whom  Venus 
herself,  the  mother  of  the  Graces  and  the  Pleasures,  purchases 
a  little  hymn  with  one  of  her  favorite  doves  1" — Lonfftpicrre. 

Do  Pauw  objects  to  the  authenticity  of  this  ode,  because  il 
makes  Anocreon  his  own  pancgj'rist ;  but  poets  have  a  license 
for  prmsin;*  themselves,  which,  with  some  indeed,  may  be 
considered  as  comprised  under  their  general  privilege  of  llc- 
tion. 

(37)  This  ode  and  the  next  may  bo  called  companion-pic- 
tures; tliey  arc  highly  finished,  and  give  us  nn  excellent  idea 
uf  the  taste  of  the  ancients  in  beauty.  I-'ronciscus  Junius 
quules  them  in  his  third  book  "De  Picturn  \'eterum.'' 

This  ode  bos  been  Imitated  by  Ronsard,  Ciuliano  G'oselini, 
A:c.,  &c.    t?caliger  alludes  to  it  thus  in  his  Anacrcuntica: — 

The  Teian  bard  of  former  days, 
Attuned  his  sweet  descriptive  lays, 
And  taught  the  painter's  hand  to  trace 
IIis  fair  beloved's  every  grace. 

Jn  the  dialogue  or  Caspar  liarheus,  entitled  "An  formosu  sit 
duceiido,"  the  reader  will  find  many  curious  ideas  and  descrip- 
liouB  of  womanly  beauty. 

(38)  I  htivo  followed  hero  the  rending  of  tho  Vatican  MS. 
Painting  is  called  "(he  rosy  art,"  cither  in  reference  to  color- 
ing, or  as  an  indefinite  L-pilhet  of  excellence,  from  the  u&)OCia- 
tion  of  bL-aTity  with  that  flower,  t^alvlni  has  adopted  this 
mailing  In  his  literal  translallun: — 

Dulla  rosea  arte  signore. 

(39)  If  this  portrait  of  the  poet's  mistress  bo  not  merely 
local,  the  omlwlnn  of  her  name  Is  much  U>  bo  regretted. 
MeteogtT,  In  on  epigram  on  Anacreon,  mcntloos  **ino  golden 
Eur)|>)le''  n.9  hit  nilvtreu. 

(40>  Th«  ancicnl.i  hnvi»  been  very  onthiininiillc  In  their 
prnl.4«4  iif  llin  ^ttauty  uf  hair.  Ajtulclim,  In  Ihe  second  book 
of  hi*  Mlk'^lnrji,  im>ii,  that  Venus  herself,  If  slio  were  bald, 
tiinuuli  fiiirroundi'd  by  the  (iraci-s  and  the  I#ovcs,  cuiild  not  bo 
pli'OHing  (>v<Mi  in  her  hunlmnd  Vulrnn. 

Tu  lliiii  poMJiago  (if  our  poet,  Heldon  alludod  hi  n  note  on  Iho 
Putyoibb  m  of  Drnj  tun,  Hong  thn  Heroiul,  whero  ol>M<rvlnKt  that 
tl.o  rplthel  "  binrk  haired"  woi  given  by  siimo  of  Ihu  amlunU 


to  the  goddess  Isis,  he  says,  "  Nor  will  I  swear,  but  that  Anao 
reon,  (a  man  verj'  judicious  in  the  provoking  motives  of  wan- 
ton love,)  intending  to  bestow  on  his  sweet  mistress  that  one 
of  the  titles  of  woman's  special  ornament,  well-haired,  Ibought 
of  this  when  he  gave  his  painter  direction  to  make  her  black- 
haired." 

(41)  Thus  Philostratus.  speaking  of  a  picture:  "I  admire 
the  dewiness  of  these  roses,  and  could  say  that  Ihcir  verv 
smell  was  painted." 

(42)  Marchetti  thus  explains  the  original:— 

Dipingili  umidcttl 
Tremuli  e  lascivetti, 
Quai  gli  ha  Ciprigua  Talma  Dea  d'Amore. 

Tosso  has  painted  in  the  same  manner  the  eyes  of  Armtda:  - 

Qual  raggio  in  onda  Ic  scintilla  un  riso 
NegU  umidi  occhi  tremulo  e  lascivo. 

Within  her  humid,  melting  eyes 
A  brilliant  ray  of  laughter  lies, 
Soft  as  the  broken  sohtr  beam, 
That  trembles  in  the  azure  stream. 

The  mingled  expression  of  dignity  and  tenderness,  whicn 

Anacreon  requires  the  painter  to  infuse  into  the  eyes  of  his 
mistress,  is  more  amply  described  in  the  subscctneiit  ode. 
Both  descriptions  are  so  exquisitely  touched,  that  Ihe  artist 
must  have  been  great  indued,  if  he  did  not  yield  in  paintina 
to  the  i)oet. 

(43)  Thus  Properlius,  eleg.  3,  lib.  ii.:— 

rtquo  rosie  puro  lacto  natant  folia. 

.A»d  Davenant,  in  a  little  poem  called  "The  Mistress," 

"Catch  as  it  falls  the  Pcythian  snow, 
Itring  blushing  roses  steep'd  in  milk." 

Thus  too  Taygetus:— 

Qua)  lac  atqiic  rosas  vincis  candore  rubenti. 

These  last  words  nuiy  perhaps  defend  the  "Hushing  while" 
of  the  translation. 

(41)  The  "lip,  provoking  kisses,"  in  the  original,  is  a  strong 
and  beautiful  expression.  .'Vchiiles  Talius  speaks  of  "  lips  soft 
and  delicate  for  kissing."  A  ^yaw  old  cornnienlatur.  Diniiysiui 
Lambinus,  in  his  notes  upon  Lucretius,  tells  us  with  the  ap- 
parent authority  of  experience,  that  "  Suuvius  viros  osculantur 
puelhe  Inbiosas  quam  quat  sunt  brovlbim  labris."  And 
A'neas  Sylvius,  iti  his  tedious  iininlt'resling  story  <tf  the  love* 
of  r.uryalus  and  Lucretia,  where  hu  particularizes  the  beau- 
lies  of  the  heroine,  (in  a  very  false  and  labored  st}le  of 
latlnity,)  describes  her  lips  thus: — "Os  pnrvuin  decensque, 
labia  corntlinl  coluria  ad  morsum  nptisi^ima."— Kpiitt.  114,  lib.  1. 

(4r»)  Madame  Dacier  has  quoted  Ikto  some  pretty  lines  of 
\'iirro  :— 

In  her  chin  Is  n  delicale  dimple, 

Hy  Cupid's  own  finger  Impress'd  ; 
Tiiere  Ileanty,  h(!witchlngly  simple, 
Mas  chutt<>n  tier  Inriocrnt  ne^t, 

(4(1)  TluH  di-liciite  nrt  of  defirrlpllnii.  which  leaves  itnaglna- 
tlon  to  cumph'le  the  picture,  has  been  seldom  tulopted  In  the 
ImitntinriM  of  this  bcauliful  poem.  KouMurd  in  o.Tce  p  tlon  obi  j 
minute;  and  INiUdanufi,  in  IiIh  charming  p  trirait  of  a  girl,  full 
of  rich  nnd  <*X(iult4|(o  illclinii,  hriH  lifted  ihe  \v\  nilher  too 
much.  The '*  <|ij(i«tit  chu  tu  m' Inlemli"  Hlionld  beiilwajs  lufl 
tu  foil 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


209 


(•17)  Tho  reader  who  wisbea  to  acquire  an  accurate  idea  of 
Ino  judf^mont  of  the  ancients  in  beauty,  will  bo  indulged  by 
conanUiiif^  Junius  do  Pictura  Vetcruiu,  lib.  iii.  c.  9,  where  ho 
will  liml  a  very  curious  selocUon  of  descriptions  and  epithets 
of  personal  perfections.  Junius  compares  this  ode  with  a 
description  of  Theodonc,  kin^c  of  the  Goths,  in  the  second 
opistle,  first  book,  of  Sidouius  ApoUinaris. 

(48)  He  here  describes  the  sunny  hair,  tho  "flava  coma," 
which  the  ancients  so  much  admired.  Tho  Romans  gave  this 
color  artificially  to  their  hair.  See  Slanisl,  Kobienzyck.  de 
Lnxu  Romanoruni. 

(49)  If  the  oritjinal  here,  which  is  particularly  beautiful,  can 
admit  of  any  additioiial  value,  that  value  la  conferred  by  Gray's 
admiration  of  it.    Sec  his  letters  to  West. 

Some  annotators  have  quoted  on  this  passage  the  description 
of  Photis'a  hair  in  Apiileius;  but  nothing  can  be  more  distant 
from  the  simplicity  of  our  poet's  manner,  than  that  affectation 
of  richness  which  distinguishes  the  style  of  Apuleiua. 

(50)  Tasso  gives  a  similar  character  to  tho  eyes  of  Clorinda: — 

Lampeggiar  gli  occhi,  e  fulgorar  gU  sguardi 
Doici  ne  V  ira. 

Her  eyea  were  flashing  with  a  heavenly  heat, 
A  fire  that,  even  in  anger,  still  was  sweet. 

The  poetess  A''eronica  Cambara  is  more  diffuse  upon  this 
variety  of  expression  :— 

Ohl  tell  me,  brightly-beaming  eye, 
^Vlience  in  your  little  orbit  lie 
So  many  different  traits  of  fire, 
Expressing  each  a  new  desire. 
Now  with  pride  or  scorn  you  darkle. 
Now  with  love,  with  gladness,  sparkle, 
WTiile  we  who  view  the  varying  mirror, 
Feel  by  turns  both  hope  and  terror. 

^51)  In  the  original,  as  in  the  preceding  ode,  Pitho,  the  god- 
dess of  persuasion,  or  eloquence.  It  was  worthy  of  the  deli- 
cate imagination  of  the  Greeks  to  deify  Persuasion,  and  give 
lier  the  lips  for  her  throne.  VVe  are  here  reminded  of  a  very 
interesting  fragment  of  Anacreon,  preserved  by  the  acholioflt 
upon  Pindar,  and  supposed  to  belong  to  a  poem  reflecting 
with  some  severity  on  Simonides,  who  was  the  first,  we  are 
toid,  that  ever  made  a  hireling  of  his  muse:— 

Nor  yet  had  fair  Persuasion  shone 
In  silver  splendors,  not  her  own. 

(52)  The  mistress  of  Petrarch  "paria  con  silenzio,"  which  is 
perhaps  the  best  method  of  female  eloquence. 

(53)  In  Shakspeare's  Cymbeliuc  there  is  a  similar  method 
of  description: — 

" this  is  his  hand, 

His  foot  mercurial,  his  martial  thigh. 
The  brawns  of  Hercules." 

We  find  it  likewise  in  Hamlet.  Longepierre  thinks  that  the 
hands  of  Mercury  are  selected  by  Anacreon,  an  account  of 
the  graceful  gestures  which  were  supposed  to  characterize  the 
god  of  eloquence  ;  but  Mercury  was  also  the  patron  of  thieves, 
and  may  perhaps  be  praised  as  a  light-fingered  deity. 

(54)  The  abrupt  turn  here  is  spirited,  but  requires  some  ex- 
planation. While  the  artist  is  pursuing  the  portrait  of  Bathyl- 
lus,  Anacreon,  we  must  suppose,  turns  round  and  sees  a  pic- 
ture jf  Apollo,  which  waa  intended  for  an  altar  at  Samos.  He 
then  instantly  tells  tie  painter  to  cease  his  work;  that  this 

27 


picture  will  Dcrvo  for  Bathyllus;  and  that,  when  ho  goes  to 
Sainos,  he  may  make  an  Apollo  of  the  ]iortrait  of  tho  boy 
which  he  had  begun. 

"■  llathyilus  (saya  Rlad.ame  Dacier)  could  not  be  moro  ele- 
gantly praised,  and  this  one  passage  docs  hini  more  honor 
than  the  statue,  however  beautiful  it  might  be,  wliich  Poly- 
crates  raised  to  him." 

(55)  Tho  amystis  was  a  method  of  drinking  used  among  the 
Thracians.  Thus  Horace,  "Threiciil  vincat  amyatide."  Mad. 
Dacier,  Longepierre,  &c.,  &,c. 

Parrhasiiia,  in  his  twcnty-sixlh  epistle,  (Theaaur.  Critic,  vol. 
i.,)  explains  tho  atnystis  as  a  draught  to  be  exhausted  without 
drawing  breath,  "  uno  haustu."  A  note  in  the  margin  of  this 
epistle  of  Parrhasius  says,  "Politianus  vestem  esse  putabat," 
but  adds  no  reference, 

(56)  There  are  some  beautiful  lines,  by  Angeriauua,  upon 
a  garland,  which  I  cannot  resist  quoting  here: — 

By  Celia's  arbur  all  the  night 

Hang,  humid  wreath,  the  lover's  vow  ; 

And  haply,  at  the  morning  light. 
My  lovo  shall  twine  thee  round  her  brow. 

Then,  if  upon  her  bosom  bright 

Some  drops  of  dew  shall  fall  from  tliee. 

Tell  her,  they  are  not  drops  of  night. 
But  tears  of  sorrow  shed  by  me ! 

In  the  poem  of  Mr.  Sheridan's,  "Uncouth  is  this  mosa- 
covered  grotto  of  stone,"  there  is  an  idea  very  singularly  co» 
incident  with  this  of  Angerianus: — 

"  And  thou,  stony  grot,  in  thy  arch  may'st  preserve 
Some  lingering  drops  of  the  night-fallen  dew  ; 
Let  them  fall  on  her  bosom  of  snow,  and  they'll  servo 
As  teai's  of  my  sorrow  intrusted  to  you." 

(57)  Tlie  transition  here  is  peculiaiiy  delicate  and  impas- 
sioned ;  but  the  commentators  have  perplexed  the  sentiment 
by  a  variety  of  readings  and  conjectures. 

(58)  The  description  of  this  bower  is  so  natural  and  anl 
mated,  that  wo  almost  feel  a  degree  of  coolness  and  freshneaa 
while  we  peruse  it.  Longepierre  has  quoted  from  the  first 
book  of  the  Anthologia,  the  following  epigram,  as  somewha) 
resembling  this  ode: — 

Come,  sit  by  the  shadowy  pine 

That  covers  my  sylvan  retreat ; 
And  see  how  the  branches  incline 

The  breathing  of  zephyr  to  meet. 

See  the  fountain  tliat,  flowing,  diffuses 

Around  me  a  glitleiing  spray; 
By  its  brink,  as  the  traveller  muses, 

I  soothe  him  to  sleep  with  my  lay, 

(59)  Tlie  Vatican  MS.  reads,  PaOvWov^  which  renders  the 
whole  poem  metaphorical.  Some  commentator  suggests  th© 
reading  o(  /3adv\\ov^  which  makes  a  pun  upon  the  name; 
a  grace  that  Plato  himself  lias  condescended  to  in  writing  of 
his  boy  Aarrip.  See  the  epigram  of  this  philosopher,  which  I 
quote  on  the  twenty-second  ode. 

TTieie  is  an  epigram  by  Plato,  preserved  in  Laortioa, 
which  turns  upon  the  same  word  : — 

In  life  thou  wert  my  morning  star. 
But  now  that  death  baa  stolen  thy  light, 

Alas!  thou  ahinest  dim  and  far, 
Like  the  pale  beam  that  weeps  at  night. 

In  the  Veneres  Blyenburgicre,  under  the  head  of  •'  AIlu- 
eiones,"  we  find  a  number  of  such  frigid  conceits  upon  namea, 
selected  from  the  poets  of  the  miildle  aces. 


210 


MOOEE'S  WOKKS. 


(60)  The  poet  appears,  ia  this  graceful  allegory,  to  describe 
Ihe  softeaing  influence  which  poetry  holds  over  the  mind,  in 
making  ii  peculiarly  susceptible  lo  the  impressions  of  beauty. 
In  the  following  epigram,  however,  by  the  philusopher  Flato» 
(Diog.  Laerl.  lib.  3,)  the  Muses  are  represented  as  disavowing 
the  iulluence  of  Love : — 

«  Yield  lo  my  gentle  power,  Parnassian  maids  ;" 
Thus  to  the  Muses  spoke  the  Queen  of  Charms— 

"  Or  Love  shall  flutter  through  yoiu-  classic  shades 
'^And  make  your  grove  the  camp  of  Puphian  arms!*' 

**No,"  said  the  virgins  of  the  tuuefid  bower, 
**  We  scorn  thme  own  and  all  thy  urchin's  art ; 

"Tiiough  Mars  has  trembled  at  Iho  infant's  power, 
"His  shall  is  poiulless  o'er  a  Muse's  heiirl  1" 

Tl.ere  is  a  sonnet  by  Benedetto  Guidi,  the  thought  of  which 
(»as  suggested  by  this  ode  :— 

Scherzava  dentro  all'  auree  chiome  Amoro 

DeU'  alma  donna  delta  vita  mia: 
E  tanta  era  il  piacer  ch'  ei  ne  sentia, 

Che  nou  sapea,  ue  voiea  uscirne  fore. 

Quando  ecco  ivi  annodar  si  scnte  11  core, 
Si,  che  per  forza  ancor  convieu  cho  alia: 

Tai  lacci  alta  bellute  ordili  uvia 

Del  crcspo  criu,  per  farsi  etemo  onore. 

Onde  ofTre  infin  dal  ciel  degna  mcrcedc, 

A  chi  sciogtie  it  figliuol  la  bella  dea 

Da  tunti  uudi,  in  ch'  clla  stretlo  il  vede. 
&Ia  ei  vinto  a  due  ocuhi  V  arme  cede  : 

El  t'uffutichi  iniiarno,  Cilerea; 

Clie  8'  nltri  '1  scioglie,  vgll  a  legar  si  riede. 

Love,  wandering  tlirough  the  golden  maze 

or  my  beloved's  hair, 
Found,  at  each  step,  such  sweet  delays. 

Thai  rapt  he  llngerM  there. 

And  how,  indeed,  was  Love  to  lly, 

Or  bow  his  freedom  And, 
When  every  ringlet  was  a  lie, 

A  chain,  by  Beauty  twined. 

Id  vain  to  seek  her  boy's  release 

Comes  Venus  from  above : 
Fund  mother,  let  thy  oCTorls  cease, 

liovu's  now  Ihe  slave  of  Love. 
And,  should  we  loose  his  golden  chain, 
The  prisoner  would  return  again  I 

(Gl>  In  the  first  Idyl  of  Moschus,  Venus  thus  proclaims  the 
f  oward  for  her  fugitivo  child : — 

On  him,  who  the  haunts  of  my  Ciipid  can  show, 

A  kiss  of  the  lenderest  stamp  I'll  bestow  ; 

IJut  he,  who  can  bring  back  the  urchin  in  chains, 

h'ball  recoivu  even  sumelhLug  more  sweet  for  his  pains. 

(62)  Those  critlcn  who  have  endeavored  lo  throw  the  chaine 
of  precision  over  the  Hpirit  of  this  beautirtil  trille-,  require  too 
much  from  Anncrcoiilic  philoHophy.  Among  olherH,  Call, 
Tery  snplL-ntly  thinkn  thai  the  puft  uses  the  epilhct  ncXatvnt 
hccQufw  black  enrth  nbt^orbs  molHturo  moro  quickly  than  any 
othrr;  and  nrcordlUKly  ho  Indulgen  unwilh  an  experimental 
itlii(|UlHition  on  the  8uliJect.~See  (•'uirii  notes. 

One  of  the  Capllupl  hiu  Imllalcd  Ihls  ode,  In  an  epitaph  on 
tUMnknrd:— 

While  life  wns  mine,  the  lltlUi  hour 

In  drlnklnt;  xllll  unvaried  Hew  ; 
I  drank  ai  corth  luibllMn  tint  shower, 

Or  ai  tito  rainbow  driukn  Iho  dow ; 


As  ocean  quaffs  the  river  up. 

Or  flushing  sun  inhales  the  sea : 
Silenus  trembled  at  my  cup, 

And  Bacchus  was  outdone  by  mo! 

I  cannot  omit  citing  those  remarkable  lines  of  Shakspeare, 
where  the  thoughts  of  the  ode  before  us  are  preserved  with 
such  striking  similitude : — 

'"  ril  example  you  with  thievery. 
The  sun's  a  thief,  and  with  his  great  attraction 
Robs  the  vast  sea.    The  moon's  an  arrant  thief, 
And  her  pale  Are  she  snatches  from  the  sun. 
The  sea's  a  thief,  whose  liquid  surge  resolves 
The  mounds  into  salt  tears.    The  earth's  a  lliief. 
That  feeds,  and  breeds  by  a  composture  stolen 
From  general  excrements." 

Timon  of  .iihens^  act  iv.  sc.  3. 

(63)  Niobe. — Ogilvie,  in  his  Essay  on  the  Lyric  Poetry  of  the 
Ancients,  in  remarking  upon  the  Odes  of  Anacreoo,  says:  "In 
some  of  his  pieces  there  is  exuberance  and  even  wildness  of 
imagination;  in  that  particularly,  which  is  addressed  to  a 
young  girl,  where  he  wishes  alternately  to  be  transformed  to  a 
mirror,  a  coat,  a  stream,  a  bracelet,  and  a  pair  of  shoes,  for  the 
different  purposes  which  he  recites:  this  is  mere  sport  and 
wantonness." 

It  is  the  wantonness,  however,  of  a  very  graceful  Muse  ; 
"  ludit  amabiliter,"  The  compliment  of  this  ode  is  exquisitely 
delicate,  and  so  singular  for  the  period  in  wliich  Anacreon 
lived,  when  the  scale  of  lo\  e  had  not  yet  been  graduated  into 
all  its  little  progressive  relinements,  that  if  we  were  inclined 
to  question  the  authenticity  of  the  poem,  we  should  tind  a 
much  more  plausible  argument  in  the  features  of  modern 
gallantry  which  it  hears,  than  in  any  of  thoso  fastidious  co:;- 
jectures  upon  which  some  commentators  have  presumed  wj 
far.  Degan  thinks  it  s))urious,  and  Do  Pauw  pronounces  il 
to  be  miserable.  Longepicrre  and  Biu^nes  refer  us  to  several 
imitations  of  this  ode,  from  which  I  shall  only  select  the  fol 
lowing  epigram  of  Dionysitis  :— 

I  wish  I  could  like  zephyr  steal 

To  wanton  o'er  thy  mazy  vest ; 
And  thou  would'st  ope  thy  bosom-veil, 

And  take  me  panting  lo  thy  breast ! 

I  wish  I  might  a  rose-bud  grow, 
And  thou  wouldst  cuU  lue  from  the  bower, 

To  i)lace  mu  on  that  breast  of  enow, 
Where  1  should  bloom,  a  wintry  (lower. 

I  wish  I  were  the  lily's  leaf. 

To  fade  upon  that  bosom  warm. 
Content  to  wither,  jiale  and  brief. 

The  trojihy  of  thy  fairer  form  I 

I  moy  odd,  that  Plato  has  expressed  as  fanciful  n  wish  In  a 
distich  preserved  by  Laerllus:— 

TO    STEt.I.A, 

Why  dont  thou  gaze  upon  Iho  sky? 

Oh  I  that  I  were  thai  sjiangti'd  (•phere, 
And  evi-ry  htar  should  be  an  eyc% 

To  wonder  on  Ihy  hraulies  hero! 

(Ttl)  TIiIn  was  a  ribbon,  or  band,  called  by  the  Romrms  fascii 
and  htrophlntn,  which  the  wontfu  wore  for  the  purponu  ol 
rrslraintng  tliu  exuberance  of  lliu  iMtKom.  Viile  Poltuc.  Onn 
mant.    ThUH  Martial: — 

FoHCifVcreseenlefl  dominie  conipence  papillai. 

The  women  of  CJrei'Co  not  only  wnro  (hU  zone,  biil  con 
(IrniiH-d  IhcrnHrlvrM  lo  fiii<tlng,  And  nmde  use  of  certain  driigi 
and  powders  fur  Iho  inrae  purpose.    To  Iheso  expedients  they 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


211 


were  compelled,  in  cousequonco  of  thdr  inelegant  fashion  of 
compressing  the  wnist  into  u  very  narrow  compass,  which 
necessarily  caused  an  excessive  tumidity  in  the  bosom.  Sco 
Dioscorides,  lib.  v. 

(65)  Tho  sophist  Ptiilostratus,  in  one  of  his  love-letters,  has 
borrowed  this  thought :  "  Oh  lovely  feet !  oh  excellent  beauty  I 
Dh !  thrice  happy  and  blessed  should  I  bo,  if  you  would  but 
(read  on  mo  1"  Jn  Shakspeare,  Romeo  desires  to  be  a  glove  :— 

"^  Oh  I  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 
That  I  might  kiss  that  cheek !" 

And,  in  his  Passionate  Pilgrim,  we  meet  with  an  idea  some- 
what like  that  of  the  thirteenth  lino:— 

"  He,  spying  her,  boimced  in,  where  as  ho  stood, 
'  O  Jove  I'  quoth  she, '  why  was  not  I  a  flood  ?' " 

In  Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  that  whimsical  farrago 
of  "all  such  reading  as  was  never  read,"  we  lind  a  translation 
of  this  ode  made  before  1032. — «  Englished  by  Mj-.  B.  Holiday, 
in  his  Teci'.nog.  act  i.  scene  7." 

(66)  Henry  Stephen  has  imitated  the  idea  of  this  ode  in  the 
iJoIlowing  lines  of  one  of  his  poems  :— 

Provida  dat  cunctis  Natura  animantibus  arma, 

Et  sua  foemineura  possidet  arma  genus, 
Unguliique  ut  defendit  equuni,  atque  ut  cornua  taurura, 

Armata  est  forma  fiemina  pulchra  sua. 

And  the  same  thought  occurs  in  those  lines,  spoken  by 
Oorisca  in  Pastor  Fido  :— 

Cosi  noi  la  bellezza 

Oh'  e  vertu  nostra  cosi  propria,  como 

La  forza  del  leone, 

E  IMngegno  de  1'  huomo. 

The  lion  boasts  his  savage  powers. 
And  lordly  man  his  strength  of  mind ; 

But  beauty's  charm  is  solely  ours, 
Peculiar  boon,  by  Heav'n  nssiguM. 

(67)  Longepiorre's  remark  here  is  ingenious:  "The  Ro- 
mans," says  he,  "were  so  convinced  of  the  power  of  beauty, 
that  they  used  a  word  implying  strength  in  the  place  of  the 
epithet  beautiful.    Thus  Plautus,  act  2,  scene  2.    Bacchid. 

^^68)  Thus  Love  is  represented  as  a  bird,  in  an  epigram  cited 
by  Longepierre  from  the  Anthologia : — 

'Tis  Love  that  murmurs  in  my  breast, 

And  makes  me  shed  the  secret  tear ; 
Nor  day  nor  night  my  soul  hath  rest, 

For  night  and  day  his  voice  I  hear. 

A  wound  within  my  heart  I  find. 
And  oh  1  His  plain  where  Love  has  been ; 

For  still  he  leaves  a  wound  behind. 
Such  as  within  my  heart  is  seen. 

Oh,  bird  of  Love!  with  song  so  drear. 

Make  not  my  soul  the  nest  of  pain ; 
But,  let  the  wing  which  brought  thee  here, 

In  pity  waft  thee  hence  again! 

(69)  Longepierre  has  quoted  part  of  an  epigram  from  the 
seventh  book  of  the  Anthologia,  which  has  a  fancy  something 
Ike  this:— 

Archer  Love!  though  slyly  creeping. 

Well  I  know  where  thou  dost  lie; 
I  saw  thee  through  the  curtain  peeping, 

That  fringes  Zenophelia's  eye. 


Tho  poets  aboiiiul  with  concoita  on  the  archery  of  the  eyes, 
but  few  have  turned  tho  thouglit  bo  naturally  jib  AnacreoDu 
Ronsard  gives  to  the  eyes  of  his  mistress  "un  petit  camp 
d'amours." 

(70)  "V/e  cannot  sec  into  tho  heart,"  says  Madame  Dacier 
But  the  lover  answers — 

II  cor  ne  gli  occhi  et  no  la  frontu  ho  scrilto. 

M.  La  Fosse  has  given  tho  following  lines,  as  enlarging  oo 
the  thought  of  Anacreon : — 

Lorsque  je  vols  un  amant, 
H  cache  en  vain  eon  tourmcnt, 
A  le  trahir  tout  conspire, 
Sa  langueur,  son  embarras, 
Tout  cc  qu'il  pent  fairo  ou  dire, 
Mfime  ce  qu'il  ne  dit  pas. 

In  vain  the  lover  tries  to  veil 

Tho  flamo  that  in  his  bosom  lies ; 
His  cheeks'  confusion  tells  the  tale, 

We  road  it  in  his  languid  eyes : 
And  while  his  words  the  heart  betray, 
Hi.s  silence  speaks  e'en  more  than  they, 

(71)  ThusClaudian:— 

In  Cyprus'  isle  two  rippling  fountains  fall, 
The  one  with  honey  flows,  and  one  with  gall ; 
In  these,  if  we  may  take  tlie  tale  from  fame, 
The  son  of  Venus  dips  his  darts  of  flame. 

Secundus  has  borrowed  this,  but  has  somewhat  softened  the 
image  by  the  omission  of  the  epithet  "  cruenta." 

Fallor  an  ardentes  acuebat  cote  sagittas?    Eleg.  1. 

(72)  The  following  Anacreontic,  addressed  by  Menage  to 
Daniel  Huet,  enforces,  with  much  grace,  tho  "  necessity  0) 
loving  :"— 

Thou!  of  tuneful  bai-ds  the  first. 
Thou !  by  all  the  Graces  nursed ; 
Friend  !  each  other  friend  above. 
Come  with  me,  and  learn  to  love. 
Loving  is  a  simple  lore. 
Graver  men  have  learn'd  before ; 
Nay,  the  boast  of  former  ages. 
Wisest  of  the  wisest  sages, 
Sophroniscus'  prudent  son, 
Was  by  love's  illusion  won. 
Oh  I"  how  hea^-y  life  would  move, 
If  we  knew  not  how  to  love ! 
Love's  a  whetstone  to  the  mind 
Thus-'tis  pointed,  thus  refined. 
When  the  soul  dejected  lies. 
Love  can  waft  it  to  the  skies; 
■\Vhen  in  languor  sleeps  the  heart, 
Love  can  wake  it  with  his  dart ; 
^Vhen  the  mind  is  dull  and  dark. 
Love  can  light  it  with  his  spark! 
Come,  oh !  come  then,  let  us  haste 
All  the  bliss  of  love  to  taste  ; 
Let  us  love  both  night  and  day, 
Let  us  love  our  lives  away  ! 
And  when  hearts,  from  loving  free, 
(If  indeed  such  hearts  there  he.) 
Frown  upon  our  gentle  flame. 
And  the  sweet  delusion  blame  ; 
This  shall  be  my  only  curse, 
(Could  I,  could  I  wish  them  worsi  Y) 
May  they  ne'er  the  rapture  prove, 
Of  the  smile  from  lips  we  love  1 


212 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


rrS)  Bamea  imagiaca  from  tbia  nHegory,  that  our  poet 
married  very  late  in  life.  But  I  see  nothing  in  the  ode  which 
alludes  to  matrimony,  except  it  be  the  lead  upon  the  feet  of 
Cupid;  ami  I  agree  in  tlie  opinion  of  Madame  Dacier,  in 
ber  life  of  the  poet,  that  he  was  always  too  fond  of  pleasure  to 
marry. 

(74)  The  desi^  of  this  little  fiction  is  to  intini  ite,  that  much 
greater  pain  attends  insensibility  than  can  ever  result  from  the 
tenderest  impresaions  of  love.  Longepierre  has  quoted  an 
ancient  epigram  which  bears  some  similitude  to  this  ode : — 

rpon  my  couch  I  lay,  at  night  profound. 

My  languid  eyes  in  magic  slumber  hound, 

When  Cupid  came  and  snalch'd  me  from  my  bed. 

And  forced  me  many  a  weary  way  to  tread. 

'■What  I  (said  the  god,1  shall  you,  wliose  vows  are  known, 

"  Who  love  so  many  nymphs,  thus  sleep  alone  V" 

1  rise  and  follow;  all  the  night  I  stray, 

I'nshelter'd,  trembling,  doubtful  of  my  way; 

Tracing  with  naked  foot  the  paiuful  track, 

I-oath  to  proceed,  yet  fearful  to  go  back. 

Yes,  at  that  hour,  when  Nature  seems  interred, 

Nor  warbling  birds,  nor  lowing  flocks  are  heard, 

I,  I  alone,  a  fugitive  from  rest, 

Passion  my  guide,  and  madness  in  my  breast, 

Wander  the  world  around,  unknowing  where, 

The  slave  of  love,  the  victim  of  despair! 

(75)  In  the  original,  he  says,  his  heart  flew  to  his  nose  ;  but 
our  manner  more  naturally  transfere  it  to  llie  lips.  Such  is  the 
effect  that  Plato  tells  us  he  t'vU  from  a  kiss,  in  a  distich  quoted 
by  Aulus  Gellius: — 

Whene'er  tliy  nectar'd  kiss  I  sip. 
And  drink  thy  breath,  in  trance  divine. 

.My  soul  then  flutters  to  my  lip, 
Heady  to  fly  and  mix  with  thine. 

Aniua  Gellius  stibjoins  a  paraphrase  of  this  opigrnm,  In 
which  wo  And  a  number  of  those  mis'nardisrs  of  expression, 
which  mark  the  effemination  of  the  Latin  language.  - 

(76)  "The  facility  with  which  Cupid  recovers  him,  signifies 
that  the  eweels  of  love  make  us  easily  forget  any  solicitudes 
which  ho  may  occaeion."— /.a  Fos^^e. 

(77)  We  here  have  the  poet,  in  his  true  attributes,  reclining 
upon  myrtles,  with  Cupid  for  his  cupbearer.  Some  inter- 
preters have  ruined  the  picture  by  making  F.fjuif  the  namo  of 
his  slave.  None  but  Lovo  should  All  the  goblet  of  Anacreon. 
Hnpphn,  In  ono  of  her  fragments,  has  iiasigncd  this  ofllc«  to 
Venua.-— 

Hither,  Venus,  queen  of  kisses. 
This  shall  be  tho  night  of  blisses ; 
Tills  the  night,  to  rrlendship  deiir, 
Tlinu  nhalt  be  our  llebo  hen>. 
Fill  tho  gulden  brimmer  high, 
IM  It  sparkle  liko  thino  <'yo; 
Bill  the  roJ<y  nirri'nl  gunth, 
l<ol  it  mantle  liku  thy  blush, 
fiocJdess,  hniit  thou  e'er  nhovu 
Peon  n  feast  wi  rich  In  lovo? 
Not  n  soul  that  Is  not  mine! 
Not  n  snril  that  is  not  thine! 

(TB)  Peo  tho  benutlfitl  ilcitrriptiftn  of  Cupid,  by  Moscliui,  In 
^h  Oral  Idyl. 

nV)  In  n  l-ntifi  <.«!.■  ii'liln-ii»nd  to  llio  grnsshnppnr,  Kjipiii  biu 
twrifvpi\  e*imo  of  Ihp  thouglitfl  of  our  author  :— 


O  quie  virenti  graraiois  in  toro, 
Cicada,  blonde  sidis,  et  herbidos 

Saltus  oberras,  otiosos 

IngenJosa  ciere  caiitus. 
Sen  forte  adultis  floribus  incubas, 
Cteli  caducis  ehria  fletibus.  &c. 

Oh  thou,  that  on  the  grassy  bed 
\\liicli  Nature's  vernal  hand  has  spreaa, 
Reclincst  soft,  and  tun'st  thy  song. 
The  dewy  herbs  and  leaves  among! 
^^^lether  thou  li'st  on  springing  flowers. 
Drunk  with  the  balmy  morning-showers, 
Or,  &c. 

See  what  Licetus  says  about  grasshoppers,  cap.  93,  and  iEd. 

(80)  "Some  authors  have  afllrmed,  (says  Madame  Dacier,* 
that  it  is  only  male  grasshoppers  which  sing,  and  that  the 
females  arc  silent ;  and  on  this  clrcumslnnce  is  founded  a  bon- 
mot  of  Xenarchus,  the  comic  poet,  who  says,  'are  not  the 
grasshoppers  happy  in  having  dumb  wi\cs':""  Tliis  note  is 
originally  Henry  Stephen's;  but  I  chose  rather  to  make  a  lady 
my  authority  for  it. 

(81)  Longepierre  has  quoted  the  two  first  lines  of  an  epi- 
gram of  Antipater,  from  the  first  book  of  the  Anthologia, 
where  he  prefei-s  the  grasshopper  to  the  swan  :— 

In  dew,  that  drops  from  morning's  wings, 

Tlie  gay  Cicada  sipping  floats  ; 
And,  drunk  with  dew,  his  matin  sings    • 

Sweeter  than  any  cygnet's  notes. 

(82)  Theocritus  has  imitated  this  beautiful  ode  in  !iia  nine- 
teenth idyl;  but  is  ^ery  inferior.  1  think,  to  bis  original,  in 
delicacy  of  point  and  naivete  of  expression.  Spenser,  in  o  le 
of  his  smaller  compositions,  has  sported  more  difTusoly  on  f.ho 
same  subject.    The  poem  to  which  I  allude,  begins  thus:- 

"  Upon  a  day,  as  Love  lay  sweetly  slumbering 
All  in  his  mother's  lap  ; 
A  gentle  bee,  with  his  loud  trumpet  murmuring. 
About  him  flew  by  hap."  &c.,  &c. 

In  Almeloveen's  collection  of  epigrams,  there  is  one  hj 
I^uxorius,  correspondent  somewhat  with  the  turn  of  .Anao- 
rcon,  where  Love  complains  to  his  mullier  of  being  wounded 
by  a  rose. 

The  ode  before  us  is  the  very  flower  of  simplicity.  Tho  in- 
fantile complainings  of  the  little  god,  and  the  natural  and  im- 
pressive reflections  which  they  draw  from  Venn;*,  are  beautlet 
of  inimitable  grace.  1  may  be  pardoned,  perhaps,  lor  intro- 
ducing hero  another  of  Menage's  Anacreonties.  not  Air  Its 
simililudf  to  tlii>  sn:>|ect  of  this  ode,  but  for  ^(.Mne  faint  traces 
of  llu!  same  natural  simplicity,  which  it  appears  Ui  me  to  have 
preserved : — 

As  dancing  o'er  llu'  euauuH'd  plain. 
The  flow'rel  of  the  virgin  train, 
My  soul's  CorlniMi  lightly  play'd, 
Yfiung  Cupid  faw  the  graceful  initld  ; 
Ho  saw,  and  In  a  moment  flew, 
And  rounti  her  neck  his  arms  he  threw 
Saying,  with  smiles  of  infiint  Joy, 
"  (>h  !  klM  m»\  nmllier,  kif"«  thy  boy  I" 
rnconj»cli)iiF»  uf  a  mfplher'w  nnuif, 
Thi<  nuxlent  virgin  blush 'd  with  shnmo! 
Ami  angry  Cupid,  scarce  believing 
Tliyt  vihltm  could  be  so  deceiving— 
Thus  In  mistake  Ids  Cyprian  dame  t 
It  made  ev'n  Cupid  blush  with  slmivah 
"  He  not  nshamed,  my  boy,"  I  ;rled 
Tor  I  wan  lingering  by  hlf  slUd 


ODES  OF  ANACREON. 


213 


"Corinna  and  thy  lovely  mother, 
"Bolieve  me,  are  bo  like  each  othnr 
"That  clearest  eyes  arc  oft  belray'il, 
*'  And  tuko  thy  Venus  for  the  maiti." 

(83)  This  comraunion  of  friendship,  -which  sweetened  the 
bowl  of  Anaereon,  has  not  buen  forgotten  by  the  author  of  the 
following'  scholium,  ^v^lerc  the  blfasin^'s  of  life  are  enumorated 
wilh  proverbial  simplicity:— 

Of  mortal  blessings  here  tlie  first  is  health, 
And  next  those  cliarms  by  which  the  eye  we  move; 

The  third  is  wealth,  unwounding  guiltless  wealth, 
And  then,  sweet  intercourse  with  those  we  love! 

(84)  "Compare  with  this  ode  the  beautiful  poem  'der 
Traum'  of  Uz." — Dfisciu 

Le  Favre,  in  a  note  upon  this  ode,  enters  into  an  elaborate 
and  learned  justification  of  drunkenness;  and  this  is  probably 
the  cause  of  the  eeveie  reprehension  which  ho  appears  to 
have  suffered  for  liis  Anacreon.  "  Fuit  olim  fateor,  (says  he 
in  a  note  upon  Lonsinus,")  cura  Sapphonem  ainabara.  Sed  ex 
quo  ilia  me  perditissima  fiemina  pene  miserum  pcrdidit  cum 
aceleratissimo  suo  congerrone,  (Anacreontem  dice,  si  nescis, 
Lector,)  noli  sperare,"  &c.,  &c.  He  adduces  on  this  ode  the 
authority  of  Plato,  who  allowed  ebriety,  at  the  Dionya'an 
festivals,  to  men  arrived  at  their  fortieth  year.  lie  likoWise 
quotes  the  following  line  from  Alexis,  which  he  says  no  on3, 
whp  is  not  totally  ignorant  of  the  world,  can  hesitate  to  con- 
fess the  truth  of:— 

"  No  lover  of  drinking  was  ever  a  vicious  man." 

(K5)  Nonnus  says  of  Bacchus,  almost  in  the  same  words 
that  Anacreon  uses: — 

Waking,  he  lost  the  phantom's  charms, 
The  nymph  bad  faded  from  his  arms ; 
Again  to  slumber  he  essay'd, 
Again  to  clasp  the  shadowy  maid. 

(80)  Doctor  Johnson,  in  his  preface  to  Shakspeare,  animad- 
verting upon  the  commentators  of  that  poet,  who  pretended, 
in  every  little  coincidence  of  thought,  to  detect  an  imitation 
of  some  ancient  poet,  alludes  in  the  following  words  to  the 
line  of  Anacreon  before  us: — "I  have  been  told  that  when 
Caliban,  aftef  a  pleasing  dream,  says,  <■  I  cried  to  sleep  again,' 
the  author  imitates  Anacreon,  who  had,  liice  any  other  man, 
the  same  wish  on  the  same  occasion." 

(87)  The  bre\  ity  of  life  allows  arguments  for  the  voluptuary 
as  well  as  the  moralist.  Among  many  pni'allel  passages  which 
Longepierre  has  adduced,  I  shall  content  myself  with  this 
epigram  from  the  Anthi)Iogia,  of  whicli  the  following  is  a 
parajihraso : — 

Let's  fly,  my  love,  from  noonday's  beam, 
To  plunge  us  in  yon  cooling  stream ; 
Then,1iastening  to  the  festal  bower. 
We'll  pass  in  mirth  the  evening  hour; 
Tis  thus  our  age  of  bliss  shall  fly. 
As  sweet,  though  passing  as  that  sigh, 
AVhich  seems  to  whisper  o'er  your  lip, 
"Come,  while  you  may,  of  rapture  si])." 
For  age  will  steal  the  graceful  form, 
Will  chill  the  pulse  while  throbbing  warm  ; 
And  death— alas!  that  hearts,  which  thrill 
i^ike  yom-s  and  mine,  should  e'er  be  still! 

(88)  Saint  Tuvin  makes  the  ?a»ie  di^l'nclion  in  a  sonnet  to  a 
young  girl  :- 


Je  sais  bien  que  les  destinies 
(>iit  mat  compass!^  nos  annees; 
Ne  regardez  quo  mon  amour; 
Peut-elre  on  serez  vous  emuc. 
II  est  jeune  et  n^est  que  du  jour, 
Belie  Iris,  que  je  vous  ai  vuc, 

Fair  and  young  thou  blooraest  now, 
And  i  full  many  a  year  have  told  ; 

Bui  read  the  heart  and  not  the  brow, 
Thou  Shalt  not  find  my  love  is  old. 

My  love's  a  child ;  and  thou  canst  say 

How  much  his  little  age  may  be, 
For  he  was  born  the  very  day 

When  first  I  set  my  eyes  on  thcol 

(80)  Longepierre  quotes  here  an  epigram  from  the  An 
Ihologia,  on  account  of  the  similarity  of  a  particular  pLrate. 
Though  by  no  means  anacreontic,  V.  is  marked  by  an  inter- 
esting simplicity  which  has  induced  me  to  paraphr:u5e  it,  and 
may  atone  for  its  intrusion : — 

At  length  to  Fortune,  and  to  you, 
Delusive  Hope!  a  last  adieu. 
The  charm  that  once  beguiled  is  o'er, 
And  I  have  reach'd  my  destined  shore. 
Away,  away,  youi-  Ihittering  arts 
IMay  now  betray  some  simpler  hearts, 
And  you  will  smile  at  their  believing. 
And  they  shall  weep  at  your  deceiving! 

(90)  The  same  commentator  lias  quoted  an  epitaph,  written 
upon  om*  poet  by  Julian,  in  which  he  makes  him  promulgate 
the  precepts  of  good  fellowship  even  from  the  tomb* — 

This  lesson  oft  in  life  I  sung, 
And  from  my  gra^'e  I  still  shall  cry, 

"Drink,  mortal,  drink,  while  time  is  young, 
"  Ere  death  has  made  thee  cold  as  I." 

(91)  The  character  of  Anacreon  is  here  very  strik)uglv  de- 
picted. His  love  of  social,  harmonized  pleasures,  is  ex- 
pressed with  a  warmth,  amiable  and  endearing.  Amonp  -bo 
epigrams  imputed  to  Anacreon  is  tlie  following  ;  it  is  the  aly 
one  worth  translation,  and  it  breathes  the  same  sentiir  nte 
with  this  ode:— 

When  to  the  lip  the  brimming  cup  is  press'd. 
And  hearts  are  all  afloat  upon  its  stream. 

Then  banish  from  my  hoard  th'  unpolish'd  guest, 
Who  makes  the  feats  of  war  his  barbarous  thomo^ 

But  bring  the  man,  who  o'er  his  goblet  wreathes 
The  Muse's  laurel  wilh  the  Cyprian  flower  ; 

Oh  !  give  me  him,  whose  soul  expansive  breathes 
And  blends  refinement  with  tlie  social  hour. 

(92)  Respecting  the  barbiton,  a  host  of  authorities  may  lio 
collected,  which,  after  all,  leave  us  ignorant  of  the  nature  of 
the  instrument.  There  is  scarcely  any  point  upon  which  wc 
ai'e  so  totally  uninformed  as  the  music  of  the  ancients.  Tho 
authors  extant  upon  the  subject  are,  I  imagine,  little  under- 
stood ;  and  certainly  if  one  of  their  moods  was  a  progression 
by  quarter-tones,  which  we  are  told  was  the  nature  of  the  en- 
harmonic scale,  simplicity  was  by  no  means  the  chai'acteristif 
of  their  melody;  for  this  is  a  nicely  of  progression  of  whicl 
modern  music  is  not  susceptible. 

The  invention  of  the  baibilon  is,  bj'  Athenieus,  attributec 
to  Anacreon.  Neanthes  of  Cyzicus,  as  quoted  by  Gyraldus, 
asserts  the  same.  Vide  Chabot,  in  Herat,  on  the  words  '■  Les- 
boum  barbiton,"  in  the  first  ode. 


214 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


(TO)  Lonnepierre  has  quoted  here  an  epigram  from  the  An- 
tbologia,  ol  which  the  following  paraphrase  may  give  some 
idea : — 

The  kiss  that  she  left  on  my  lip, 
Like  a  dewdrop  shall  lingering  lie  ; 

Twas  nectar  she  gave  me  to  sip, 
Twaa  nectar  I  drank  in  her  sigh. 

From  the  moment  she  printed  that  kiss, 
Nor  reason,  nor  rest  has  been  mine ; 

My  whole  soul  has  been  drunk  with  the  bliss, 
And  feels  a  deUrium  divine  ! 

(W)  Comns,  the  deity  or  genius  of  mirth.  Philostratus,  in 
Ihe  third  of  his  pictiu-es,  gives  a  very  lively  description  of 
this  god. 

(95)  This  spirited  poem  is  a  eulogy  on  the  rose ;  and  again, 
In  the  fifty-liflh  ode,  we  shall  find  our  author  rich  in  the  praises 
43T  that  (lower.  In  a  fragment  of  Sappho,  in  the  romance  of 
Achilles  Tatiiis,  to  which  Barnes  refers  us,  the  rose  is  fanci- 
fully styled  »*the  eye  of  flowers;"  and  the  same  poetess,  in 
another  fragment,  calls  the  favors  of  the  ISIuse  "the  roses  of 
Picria."    See  the  notes  on  the  flfty-fiflh  ode. 

"Compare  with  this  ode  (says  the  German  aiinotator)  the 
beautiful  ode  of  Uz, '  die  Rose.* " 

(9G)  Barnes  conjectures,  in  his  life  of  our  poet,  that  this  ode 
was  written  after  he  had  returned  from  Athens,  to  settle  in 
his  paternal  seat  at  Teos ;  where,  in  a  little  villa  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  city,  commanding  a  view  of  the  *Egean  Sea  and 
Uio  islands,  he  contemplated  the  beauties  of  nature  and  en- 
joyed the  felicities  of  retirement.  Vide  Barnes,  in  Anac.  Vila, 
I  XXXV.  This  supposition,  however  unauthenticated,  forms 
a  pleasing  association,  which  reuders  the  poem  more  inter- 
esUug. 

(97)  Ac-«os  was  a  kind  of  leathern  vessel  for  wine,  very 
much  in  use,  as  should  seem  by  the  proverb  up^os  xat  ^uXajcflj, 
which  was  applied  to  those  who  were  intemperate  in  eating 
and  drinkini;.  This  proverb  is  menlioited  in  some  verses 
quoted  by  Allieu:eus,  from  the  llesloue  of  Alexis. 

(9fl)  **The  i^^r  was  consecrated  to  Bacchus,  (says  Montfau- 
con,)  because  he  formerly  lay  hid  under  that  tree,  or,  as  others 
will  have  it,  because  its  leaves  re.sernbte  those  of  the  vino." 
Other  reasons  for  its  consecration,  and  the  use  of  it  in  garlands 
at  banquets,  may  be  found  in  Longepicrre,  Barnes,  &.C.,  &c. 

(M)  I  havo  adopted  the  interpretation  of  Keguier  und 
olhcre:— 

Altri  segua  Marto  fero ; 

Chu  sol  Bacco  e  M  niiu  conforlo. 

(100>  Thill,  (ho  preceding  ode,  and  a  Tev  more  of  tbo  samo 
character,  nro  merely  choriaoria  A  bolrc ;  tlio  olTuBionB  prob- 
ably of  the  moment  of  conviviality,  antl  afterwards  sung,  wo 
may  imagine,  with  rapture  throughout  fJreeco.  Bui  that 
Interesting  association,  by  which  they  always  recalled  Iho 
:Miiivivial  emotions  that  produced  them,  can  now  bo  IKllo  felt 
even  by  thu  munt  enttiuHliiHtlc  render;  und  much  less  by  a 
phlegmatic  tcrammnrinn,  who  Kcn  iiolhing  in  them  but  diu- 
lectn  and  parllclen. 

(lOlj  **^\nacreon  Ih  not  Iho  only  one  (nays  Kon(;ej>Icrrti) 
whom  wine  hiui  ln<<piriMl  with  poetry,"  We  find  an  epigram  In 
lliM  flmt  book  of  Ihi'  AntholngiiL,  which  begins  thus:^ 

If  with  water  you  (111  up  your  glnAseii, 

Viiiril  never  write  any  thing  wliu!; 
l-'or  wlm>*ii  the  true  hornn  of  I'nrnnMUB, 

^viitch  carrleg  a  bard  to  tltu  vkl'*^ ' 


(102)  If  some  of  the  translators  had  observed  Doctor  Trapp'a 
caution,  with  regard  to  '"Cave  ne  ccelum  intelligas,"  thoy 
would  not  have  spoiled  the  simplicity  of  Anacreon's  fancy 
by  such  extravagant  conceptions  as  the  following : — 

Quand  je  bois,  mon  ceil  s'imagine 
Que,  dans  uu  tourbillon  plein  de  pai-fums  divers, 
Bacchus  m'emporte  dans  les  airs, 
Rcnipli  do  sa  liqueur  divine. 


Indt  mi  mena 
Mentre  Heto  ebro,  deliro, 
Baccho  in  giro 
Per  la  vaga  aura  serena 

(103)  Albert!  has  imitated  this  ode;  and  CapiUipus,  iu  (be 
following  epigram,  has  given  a  version  of  it: — 

Oh !  why  repel  my  soul's  impassionM  vow, 
And  Ily,  beloved  maid,  these  longing  arms? 

Is  it,  that  wintry  time  has  strew'd  my  brow. 

While  thine  ore  all  the  summer's  roseate  charmaV 

See  the  rich  garland  cuU'd  in  vernal  weather, 
Where  the  young  rosebud  with  the  lily  grows; 

So,  in  Love's  wreath  we  both  may  twine  together, 
And  I  the  lily  be,  and  thou  the  rose. 

(104)  "In  the  samo  manner  that  Anacrcou  pleads  for  the 
whituncss  of  his  locks,  from  the  beauty  of  tho  color  in  gar- 
lands, a  shepherd,  in  Theocritus,  endeavors  to  recommend 
his  black  hair." — J.ouircpicrrc^  Ilaritcs,  ^c. 

(105)  "This  is  doubtless  the  work  of  a  more  modern  poet 
than  Auacreon ;  for  at  the  period  when  he  lived  rhetoricians 
were  not  known." — Dfiren. 

Though  this  ode  is  loinid  in  the  Vatican  mauuriicript,  I  am 
much  inclined  to  agree  in  this  argument  against  its  authen- 
ticity ;  for  though  tho  dawnings  of  the  art  of  rlietoric  might 
already  havo  appeared,  the  llrst  who  gavo  it  any  celebrity  was 
Corox  of  Syracuse,  and"  he  nourished  in  tbo  century  after 
Anacrcou. 

Our  poet  anticipated  the  ideas  of  Kpicurus,  iu  hia  aversion 
to  thu  labors  of  learning,  as  well  as  his  devotion  to  voUiptuous* 
ncss. 

(lOG)  Thus  Mainard:— 

La  Mort  nous  guotle ;  et  quand  ses  lois 
Nous  ont  enferm^s  uno  foia 
Au  scin  d'nne  fosse  profonde, 
Adieu  boiis  vins  el  bon  repus; 
Ma  science  ne  trouvo  pas 
Des  cabarets  en  Paulro  niondo. 

From  Mainard,  fiombauld,  and  De  Cailty,  old  Fronrh  poe(«^ 
some  of  the  best  epigrams  of  the  Knglish  language  Inivu  boou 
borrowed. 

(107)  Tho  following  in  a  ffngmeut  of  tho  Iirsblaii  pietess. 
It  ia  cited  in  tho  romance  nf  Achilles  Tatiiis,  who  ajipcars  to 
have  renolved  the  numbers  Into  prose  : — 

If  Jove  would  give  the  lea(y  bowera 
A  queen  for  all  Ihi^lr  world  of  (lowen», 
Tho  roNO  would  bo  the  choice  of  Jove, 
And  blush,  the  queen  of  every  grove. 
HweeleHt  child  of  weeping  morning, 
Cein,  the  vest  ofenrlh  mlorning, 
Kyo  of  gru'ibmii,  tight  of  hnvn^, 
Nurnting  of  dofl  auninirr  dawns  : 
I.ove*M  own  enrlloBt  nigh  it  breathm, 
llonuty'a  brow  with  lustre  wi-uatheti 


ODES  OF  ANACEEON. 


215 


And,  to  young  Zcpliyr's  wnrm  caressea, 
S'prcacls  abroad  iln  venlant  tresses, 
Till,  blushing  wilh  tho  wanton's  play, 
Ita  check  wears  u'eii  a  richur  ray  I 

(lOS)  IIo  hero  alludes  to  the  use  of  tUe  rose  in  embalming; 
antl,  perhaps,  (as  narnos  thinUs,)  to  the  rosy  unguent  with 
^hich  \'unu8  nnoinlod  tho  corpse  of  Hector. — Ilomer'a  Hind. 
U  may  likewise  regard  the  ancient  practice  of  putting  garlands 
of  roses  on  the  dead,  as  in  Statius,  Theb.  lib.  x.  782. 


-hiserlis,  hi  veris  honore  soluto 


Accumulant  artus,  patria'que  in  sede  reponunt 
Corpus  odoratum. 

Where  "  veris  honor,"  though  it  mean  every  kind  at  flowers, 
may  seem  more  particularly  to  refer  to  tho  rose.  We  read, 
In  the  Ilierogl)'phic3  of  Pierius,  lib.  Iv.,  that  some  of  the 
ancients  used  to  order  in  their  wills,  that  roses  should  be 
annually  scattered  on  their  tombs,  and  Pierius  has  adduced 
Bome  sepulchral  inscriptions  to  this  purpose. 

(109)  Tlius  Casper  Barheus,  in  his  Ritus  Nnptlarum  :— 

Nor  then  the  rose  its  odor  loses. 
When  all  its  flushing  beauties  die ; 

Nor  less  ambrosial  balm  diffuses, 
^Vheu  wither'd  by  tho  solar  eye. 

i.ilO)  The  author  of  the  "Pervigilium  Veneris,"  (a  poem 
attributed  to  Catullus,  the  style  of  which  appears  to  me  to 
have  all  the  labored  luxuriance  of  a  much  later  period) 
ascribes  the  tincture  of  the  rose  to  the  blood  from  the 
wound  of  Adonis — 

ross 

Fusa?  aprino  de  cruore— 

according  to  the  emendation  of  Lipsius.  In  the  following 
epigram  this  hue  is  diflferently  accounted  for: — 

\Miile  the  enamorM  queen  of  joy 
Flies  to  protect  her  lovely  boy, 

On  whom  the  jealous  ^'ar-god  rushes; 
She  treads  upon  a  thomcd  rose. 
And  while  the  wound  with  crimson  flows. 

The  snowy  flow'ret  feels  bcr  blood,  and  blushes. 

(Ul)  Madame  Daeicr  thinks  that  the  poet  here  had  the 
nepenth6  of  Homer  in  his  mind.  Odyssey,  lib.  iv.  Tliis 
nepenth6  was  a  something  of  exquisite  charm,  infused  by 
Helen  into  the  wine  of  her  guests,  which  had  the  power  of 
dispelling  every  anxiety.  A  French  writer,  De  fller6,  conjec- 
tures that  this  spell,  which  made  the  bowl  so  beguiling, 
was  the  charm  of  Helen's  conversation.  See  Bale.  art. 
Heleno. 

(112)  This  ode  ia  a  very  animated  description  of  a  picture 
of  Venus  on  a  discus,  which  represented  the  goddess  in  her 
first  emergence  from  the  waves.  About  two  centuries  after 
our  poet  wrote,  tho  pencil  of  the  artist  Apelles  embellished 
this  subject,  in  his  famous  painting  of  the  Venus  Anady- 
omen^,  the  model  of  which,  as  Pliny  informs  us,  was  the 
beautiful  Campaspe,  given  to  him  by  Alexander:  though, 
according  to  Natalia  Comes,  lib.  vii,  cap.  16,  it  was  Phrjno 
who  sat  to  Apelles  for  the  face  and  breast  of  this  Venus, 

(113)  Tlie  abruptness  of  apa  rts  rtipzvac  ttovtov  is  finely  ex- 
pressive of  sudden  admiration,  and  is  one  of  those  beauties 
which  wc  cannot  but  admire  in  their  source,  though,  by  fre- 
quent imitation,  they  are  now  become  familiar  and  imim- 
pressive. 

(U-1)  The  picture  hero  has  all  the  delicate  cliaracter  of  the 
•eini-reducta  Venus,  and  afl^ords  a  happy  specimen  of  what  the 


poetry  of  passion  ovifht  to  be— glowing  but  through  a  veil, 
and  Btealiug  upon  tho  heart  from  concealment.  Few  of  the 
ancients  have  attained  this  modesty  of  description,  which,  like 
tho  golden  cloud  that  hung  over  Jujiiter  and  Juno,  is  imper- 
vious to  every  beam  but  that  of  fancy. 

(115)  In  the  original  'lyf/i';^,  who  was  the  same  deity  with 
Jocus  among  the  Romans.  Aureliua  Augurellus  has  a  poemi 
which  Parnell  bus  closely  imitated  : — 

"  Gay  Bacchus,  liking  Estcourt's  wine, 
A  noble  meal  bespoke  us  ; 
And  for  the  guests  that  were  to  dine, 
Brought  Comus,  Love,  and  Jocus,''  &.c. 

(IIG)  I  have  followed  Barnes's  arrangement  of  this  ode, 
whirh,  though  deviating  somewhat  from  the  Vatican  MS., 
appears  to  me  the  more  natural  order. 

(1'7)  This  grace  of  iteration  has  already  been  taken  notice 
of.  tliough  sometimes  merely  a  playful  beauty,  it  is  peculiar- 
ly e  pressive  of  impassioned  sentiment,  and  we  may  easily 
belii.ve  that  it  was  one  of  the  many  sources  of  that  energetic 
sensibility  which  breathed  through  the  style  of  Sappho.  See 
Gyrald.  Vet.  Poet.  Dial.  9.  It  will  not  be  said  that  this  is  a 
mechanical  ornament  by  any  one  who  can  feel  its  charm  in 
those  lines  of  Catullus,  where  he  complains  of  the  infidelity 
of  his  mistress,  Lesbia: — 

Cceli,  Lesbia  nostra,  Lesbia  ilia, 
Ilia  Lesbia,  quam  Catullus  unam, 
Plus  quam  se  atque  suos  amavit  omnes. 
Nunc,  &;c. 

Si  sic  omnia  dixisset ! — but  the  rest  docs  not  boar  citation. 

(118)  Horace  has  "Desideriqtie  temperare  poculum,"  not 
figm-atively,  however,  like  Anacreon,  but  importing  the  love- 
philtres  of  the  witches.  By  "cups  of  kisses"  our  poet  may 
allude  to  a  favorite  gallantry  among  the  ancients,  of  drinking 
where  the  lips  of  their  mistresses  had  touched  the  brim  •- 

"  Or  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup, 
And  ril  not  ask  for  wine." 

As  in  Ben  Jonson's  translation  from  Philostratus;  and  Lucmn 
has  a  conceit  upon  the  same  idea,  "  that  you  may  at  once  both 
drink  and  kiss.'' 

(119)  This  hymn  to  Apollo  is  supposed  not  to  have  been 
written  by  Anacreon;  and  it  is  undoubtedly  rather  a  sublimer 
flight  than  the  Teian  wing  is  accustomed  to  soar.  But,  in  a 
poet  of  whose  works  so  small  a  proportion  has  reached  us, 
diversity  of  style  is  by  no  means  a  safe  criterion.  If  we  knew 
Horace  but  as  a  satirist,  should  we  easily  believe  there  could 
dwell  such  animation  in  his  lyre?  Suidas  says  that  our  poet 
wrote  hymns,  and  this  perhaps  is  one  of  them.  We  can  per- 
ceive in  what  an  altered  and  imperfect  state  his  works  are  at 
present,  when  we  find  a  scholiast  \ipon  Horace  citing  an  ode 
from  the  third  book  of  Anacreon. 

(120)  Here  ends  the  last  of  the  odes  in  the  Vatican  MS., 
whose  authority  helps  to  conlirm  the  genuine  antiquity  of 
them  all,  though  a  few  have  stolen  among  the  number,  which 
we  may  hesitate  in  attributing  to  Anacreon. 

(121)  The  intrusion  of  this  melancholy  ode,  among  the  care- 
less levities  of  our  poet,  reminds  us  of  the  skeletons  which 
the  Egyptians  used  to  hang  up  in  their  banquet-rooms,  to  in- 
culcate  a  thought  of  mortality  even  amidst  the  dissipations  of 
mirth.  If  it  were  not  for  the  beauty  of  its  numbers,  the  Teian 
Muse  should  disown  this  ode.  "  Quid  habot  illius,  illias  qus 
spirabal  amoresV" 

To  Stobieus  wo  are  inilcbted  for  it 


216 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


(la-J)  Horace  often,  with  feeling  and  elegance,  doplores  the 
fugacjty  of  human  enjojTnenls.  See  book  ii.  ode  H  ;  and  thus 
in  the  second  epistle,  book  ii. : — 

Singula  de  nobis  anni  praedantur  euntes ; 
Eripuere  jocos,  venerem,  convivia,  ludum. 

The  wing  of  every  passing  day 
Withers  some  blooming  joy  away ; 
And  wafts  from  our  enamor'd  arros 
The  banquet's  mirth,  the  virgin's  charms. 

(123)  This  ode  consists  of  two  fragments,  which  arc  to  be 
found  in  Athenn?us,  book  x.,  and  which  Barnes,  from  the 
similarity  of  their  tendency,  has  combined  into  one.  I  think 
this  a  verj-  justifiable  liberty,  and  have  adopted  it  in  some 
other  fragments  of  our  poet. 

Degen  refers  us  here  to  verses  of  Uz,  lib.  iv.,  "der  Triuker." 

(124)  It  was  Amphictyon  who  first  taught  the  Greeks  to  mix 
water  with  their  wine;  in  commemoration  of  which  circum- 
stance they  erected  altars  to  Bacchus  and  the  nymphs.  On 
this  mythological  allegory  the  following  epigram  is  founded:— 

Ardentem  ex  utero  Semeles  hivere  Lyieum 
Naiades,  extincto  fiilminia  igne  sacri ; 

Cum  nympliia  igitur  tractabilis,  at  sine  nymphis 
Candcnti  rursus  fulmine  corripitur. 

PlERIUS  VALERIANUi. 

Which  is,  non  verbum  verbo, — 

While  heavenly  lire  consumed  his  Theban  dame, 
A  Nuiiid  caught  young  Bacchus  from  the  flame, 

And  dipp'd  him  burning  in  her  purest  lymph; 
Hence,  still  he  loves^the  Naiad's  crystal  urn, 
And  when  his  native  fires  too  fiercely  burn, 

Seeks  the  cool  waters  of  the  fountain-nymph. 

(1*35)  This  ode,  which  is  addressed  to  some  Thracian  girl, 
exisia  in  lleraclides,  and  has  been  imitated  very  frequently  by 
Horace,  as  all  the  annotators  have  remarked.  Madame  Daoier 
rejects  the  allegorj*,  which  runs  so  obviously  through  the 
poem,  nnd  supposes  It  to  have  been  addressed  to  a  yoimg 
mare  belonging  to  Polycrales. 

Pierius,  in  the  fourth  book  of  his  Hieroglyphics,  cites  this 
ode,  and  informs  us  that  the  horse  was  the  hloroglyphical 
emblem  of  pride. 

(120)  This  ode  is  introduced  in  the  Romance  of  Tlieodorus 
Prodromus,  and  is  that  kind  of  epithalamium  which  was  sung 
like  a  scolium  at  the  nuptial  banquet. 

Among  the  many  works  of  tho  Impassioned  Sappho,  of 
which  time  nnd  ignorant  superstition  have  deprived  us,  ttio 
loss  of  hor  epithalamiiims  is  nut  one  of  ttic  least  that  wo  de- 
plore. 

(127>  I  may  remark,  In  passing,  that  the  nutlior  of  the  (Jreek 
vention  of  this  charming  odo  of  Ciittilliis,  has  neglected  n 
more  striking  nnd  anacreontic  hoauly  In  those  verseh,  "  Ul 
Qoi  In  ncpli8,"&r.,  which  Is  the  repetillon  of  the  line, "Mull! 
lum  puerl.  mulla?  oplnv/-ro  puellir,"  with  tho  slight  iillern- 
Uonnfnulli  nnd  nullie.  Ciitullus  hlmKelf,  liowever,  has  been 
rqtmlly  Injudicious  In  his  vi-mlon  of  the  famous  odo  of  Hap- 
phn  ;  having  translated  >fAf.»Tfij  lytc^rtci',  but  omitte<l  all  notice 
of  l)tenrc<»mpnn}ing  chann,('ii^v  ip(t)vovaai,  Horace  bnj  caught 
Ih.'  lii.irU  i.f  It  more  rallhfully  :— 

I)uli-e  ridenlcm  Lnlngcn  nroaboi 
Diiico  loquenlom. 

(I2H)  TIii»  rrnicmrnt  Is  preserved  In  (he  third  book  of 
■Unbo. 


(129)  He  here  «Jludes  to  Arganthonius,  who  lived,  accord 
ing  to  Lucian,  a  hundred  aud  lifiy  years;  anil  reigned,  accord- 
ing to  Herodotus,  eighty.     See  Biu-iies. 

(130)  Lougepierre,  to  give  on  idea  of  the  luxurious  cstimoF 
tion  in  which  garlands  were  held  by  the  ancients,  reiales  an  ■ 
anecdote  of  a  courtesan,  wlio,  in  order  to  gratify  three  lovers, 
without  Jeaving  cause  for  jealousy  with  any  of  iheni,  gave  a 
kiss  to  one,  lei  the  other  drink  alter  her,  aud  put  a  garland 
on  the  brow  of  the  third;  so  that  each  was  satislied  with  his 
favor,  and  llaltered  himself  with  tho  preference. 

This  circumstance  rcsemb.Ies  very  much  the  subject  of  one 
of  the  tensotis  of  Savari  do  Ulauli^oD,  a  troubadour.  See 
L'Histuire  Littt'rairo  des  Troubadours.  The  recital  is  a  curious 
picture  o4'  the  puerile  gallantries  of  chivalry. 

(131)  This  fragment,  which  is  extant  in  Athena'us,  (Barnes, 
101,)  is  supposed,  on  tiie  authority  of  Chanueleon,  to  have 
been  addressed  to  Sappho.  We  have  also  a  stanza  attributed 
to  her,  which  some  romancers  have  supposed  to  be  her  imswor 
to  Anacreon.  ".Mais  par  malheur,  {as  Bayle  says.)  Sapplw 
vint  au  monde  environ  cent  ou  six  vingt  nus  avant  Anacreon, 
— A''auveUes  de  la  litp  ties  LHt.  torn.  ii.  de  Novenibre,  1G84. 
The  following  is  her  fragment,  the  coniplinient  of  which  is 
finely  imagined;  she  supposes  that  the  Muse  has  dictated  the 
verses  of  Anacreon  :— 

Oh  Muse!  who  sitt'st  on  golden  throne, 
Tnll  many  a  hymn  of  witching  tone 

The  Teian  sage  is  taught  by  tlieo ! 
But,  Goddess,  from  thy  throne  of  gold, 
The  sweetest  hymn  thou'st  ever  told, 

Ho  lately  lenrn'd  and  sung  for  me. 

(132)  Found  in  Hepha'Slion,  (see  Barnes,  OjIIi.)  and  reminds 
one  somewhat  of  the  following:— 

t>di  et  amo;  qunre  id  faciam  fortasse  roquiris; 
Nescio:  sed  fieri  seniio,  et  excrucior.  Oarm.  53. 

I  love  thee  and  hate  thco,  but  if  I  can  tril 

The  cause  of  my  love  imd  my  hate,  may  1  die. 
1  can  feel  it,  alas!  1  can  feel  it  too  well. 

That  I  love  thee  and  hate  thee,  but  cannot  tell  wli^. 

(13:i)  Tlius  Horace  of  Pindar: — 

Multa  Dirc;i'uni  levat  aiirii  cycnuin. 

A  swan  was  the  hieroglyphical  emblem  of  a  poet.  Anacrooo 
has  been  called  the  swanof  Teos  by  another  of  his  eulogists:— 

God  of  the  grape  !  thou  hast  bt-tray'd 

In  wine's  bewildering  dream, 

The  fairest  swan  that  ever  plyy'd 

.\Ioiig  the  MuMc's  stream  I — 

Tho  Teian,  nur.-ied  with  all  those  honey'd  boys, 

Tho  young  Desires,  light  I.ovcs,  and  roso-Ilpp'd  .Toys! 

(131)  Thus  Slmonldes,  speaking  of  our  poet:— 

Nor  yet  are  nil  his  numbers  mut*», 
Though  (lark  wllliln  the  tomb  he  lies: 

But  living  Hiitt,  his  amorous  Into 
Will)  sleeplcHA  animation  (tlgliH* 

Tlds  Is  tho  famous  Slmonldes,  whom  Plato  styled  "divine.*' 
though  Le  I'evre,  In  his  Poi  tes  Greet,  HUpp(»i<en  that  the  epi- 
grnmn  under  bis  name  are  all  faUely  Imputed.  The  most 
ooMHidenibte  of  his  remains  Is  n  sullrleal  poem  upon  wtnneii 
pn'ii4Tve<l  by  Hlobieiis. 

Wo  may  Judge  from  the  lines  I  have  Juf-I  quoleil,  and  tho 
Import  f»r  the  eplgriim  before  us,  that  Ihif  works  of  Anaen-oii 
were  pi>rfect  In  the  times  uf  Simonides  and  Antlpater.  Ob. 
BopAMis,  tho  cominentnlor  hen*,  Appears  to  exult  In  tbetr  d<^ 


ODES  OF  ANACEEON 


217 


itruction,  and  tollinf?  us  thoy  were  burnod  by  the  bishops  and 
patriarchs,  ho  athls,  "ncc  sano  id  necquicquam  fixernnt," 
attributing  to  this  outrage  an  ctfect  which  it  could  not  possi- 
bly havo  produced. 

(135)  The  spirit  of  Anacreon  is  supposed  to  uttor  those 
vei-ses  from  the  tomb,— somewhat  *'  miilatus  ab  illo,"  at  least 
In  simplicity  of  expression. 

(13G)  We  may  guess  from  the  words  ck  pip'Xuy  ejirov^  that 
Anacreon  was  not  merely  a  writer  of  billets-doux,  as  some 
French  critics  have  called  bim.  Among  these  ftlr.  Lo  T'evro, 
with  all  his  professed  admiration,  has  given  our  poet  a  charac- 
ter by  no  means  of  an  elevated  cast:— 

Aussi  c'est  pour  cela  quo  la  posttirit6 
L'a  toujours  justement  d'aj;e  en  age  chant6 
Comme  un  franc  goguenard,  ami  de  goinfrerie, 
Ami  de  billets-doux  et  de  badinerie. 

Bee  the  verses  prefixed  to  his  Poetes  Grecs.  This  is  unlike 
the  language  of  Theocritus,  to  whom  Anacreon  is  indebted 
for  the  following  simple  eulogtum : — 

Upon  the  Statue  of  Anacreon. 
Stranger  I  who  near  this  statue  chance  to  roam, 

Let  it  awhile  your  studious  eyes  engage ; 
That  you  may  say,  returning  to  your  home, 

^'I've  seen  the  image  of  the  Teian  sage, 

"  Best  of  the  bai-ds  who  deck  the  Muse's  page." 
Then,  if  you  add,  "  That  striplings  loved  him  well,'* 

You  tell  them  all  he  was,  and  aptly  tell. 

I  have  er  deavored  to  do  justice  to  the  simplicity  of  this  in- 
scription ly  rendering  it  as  literally,  I  believe,  as  a  verso  trans- 
lation will  allow. 

(13r*)  This  Simouides,  in  another  of  his  epitaphs  on  our 
poe*  — 

Let  TiE3s,  in  clust'ring  beauty  wreathed, 

Dyer  3^-  their  treasures  on  his  head, 

28 


WTiose  lips  a  dew  of  sweetness  breathed, 
Richer  than  vino  hath  ever  shed ! 

(138)  In  another  of  these  poems,  the  "nightly-speaking 
lyre''  of  the  bard  is  represented  q3  not  yet  silent  even  after  his 
death  :- 

To  beauty's  smile  and  wine's  delight, 
To  joys  he  loved  on  earth  so  well, 

Still  shall  his  spirit,  all  the  night, 
Attune  tho  wild,  atrial  shell ! 

(139)  We  regret  that  such  praise  sliould  bo  lavished  so 
preposterously,  and  feel  that  the  poet's  mistress  Eurypyle 
would  have  deserved  it  better.  Her  name  has  been  told  us 
by  Meleager,  as  already  quoted,  and  in  another  epigram  by 
Antipater  :— 

Long  may  the  njTnph  around  thee  play, 

Eurypyle,  thy  soul's  desire. 
Basking  her  beauties  in  the  ray 

That  lights  thine  eye's  dissolving  fire! 

Sing  of  her  smile's  bewitching  power, 
Her  every  grace  that  warms  and  blesses; 

Sing  of  her  brow's  luxuriant  flower. 
The  beaming  glury  of  her  tresses. 

(140)  This  couplet  is  not  otherwise  warranted  by  the  ort 
ginal,  than  as  it  dilates  the  thought  which  Antipater  has  fig- 
uratively expressed  :— 

Teos  gave  to  Greece  her  treasure. 

Sage  Anacreon,  sage  in  loving  ; 
Fondly  weaving  lays  of  pleasure 

For  the  maids  who  blush 'd  approving. 

When  in  nightly  banquets  sporting, 
Wliere's  the  guest  could  ever  fly  him  ? 

When  with  love's  seduction  courtiiig, 
Where's  the  nymph  coidd  o'er  decy  Mint 


SATIEICiL  AID  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


EDITOR'S  REMARKS. 


We  can  scarcely  regard  Moore  in  tlie  light  of  a 
satirist,  if  we  apply  tliat  term  to  Juvenal,  Horace, 
and  Aristophanes  of  anciemt  times,  and  Dryden, 
Butler,  and  Pope  of  modern  days. 

There  is  a  peculiarity  in  Moore's  satirical  wri- 
tings which  render  liim  unlike  any  of  those  who 
have  8^  'rted  with  the  vices  and  failings  of  their 
contemp  iraries.  It  is  difficult  to  define  what  tho 
precise  distinctive  difTcrcnco  is,  but  it  exists,  never- 
theless:  possibly  it  may  consist  in  a  combination 
of  minor  features,  wiiich  so  entirely  change  the 
aspect,  as  to  render  it  a  totally  dilTerent  being. 

The  chief  ingredient  is  a  playful  wit,  which, 
while  sufficiently  keen  to  make  itself  felt,  is  too 
polished  to  be  cruel — Moore  uses  the  lancet,  .and 
not  the  tomahawk,  and  yet  lie  draws  blood  very 
freely  for  .all  that. 

Another  rcmiirkable  feature  in  his  8.atire  is  the 
ahnost  total  absence  of  invectisc,  or  vituperation: 
his  happiest  and  consequently  most  fatal  assaults 
are  achieved  by  his  finished  sarcasms,  which  are 
too  politely  done  to  be  considered  slaughter ;  in- 
deed they  may  rather  be  called  playful  assassina- 
tions, than  deliberate  murders ;  in  addition  to  these 
gmceful  executions,  there  is  frequently  an  allegory 
or  fable  highly  cliaracteristic  of  the  viitimizcd  de- 
lii.qucnt. 

We  might  instimco  among  hundreds  the  verses 
coninicnciiig, 

"Hlr  lliitlKon  I.OWO.  HIr  IIiKlson  /.ow, 
Uj  ^amf^  but  mert  by  nature  to  1^ 


Here  the  fable  and  the  sarcasm  are  so  exquisitely 
blended,  as  to  render  this  poem  equal  in  polish  to 
any  Horatian  ode  extant. 

Equal  to  this  in  finish,  but  superior  in  malice 
prejiense,  are  the  verses  to  Leigh  Hunt,  entitled 
"  The  Living  Dog  and  Dead  Lion."  The  writer 
of  this  five  or  six  years  since  heard  Leigh  Hunt 
himself  re.ad  these  lines,  and  can  testily  to  tlie 
equanimity  and  admiration  he  displayed:  among 
other  hits,  the  victim  particularly  praised 

"Tlioujjli  ho  roared  prt'tly  well — Uii3  tlie  puppy  ulloW8 — 

It  was  all,  ho  snya,  borrowM — all  aocoud-hand  roar ; 

And  ho  vastly  prefers  his  own  little  bow-wows. 

To  the  loftiest  war-noto  tho  Lion  could  pour! 
•  •••••* 

Ho  lifts  up  his  log,  at  tho  noblo  bard*a  carcass, 

And  docs  all  a  dog,  so  diminutive,  can.** 

Our  re:ulcrs  will  no  doubt  recollect  that  this  satire 
wjLs  occasioned  by  Hunt's  book,  called  "  Byron 
and  some  of  his  contemporaries." 

Another  of  Jloore's  most  felicitous  satires  are 
his  lines  "  How  to  Write  by  Proxy."  These  versos 
were  provoked  by  Lord  Londonderry's  book  on 
the  Peninsula  Campaigns,  which  was  entirely  re- 
written by  Mr.  Gleig,  of  Chelsea  Hospital,  and 
author  of  tho  "  Subaltern."  Even  Londonderry 
himself  must  have  Binilcd  over  the  poet's  b.adin.ago, 
as  ho  read 

"  Tlio  Hubaliern  comes— pees  his  Genornl  seated, 
In  all  the  self-Rlof)'  of  authorship  swelling  ; — 
'Tliere  look,*  sailli  his  lonlxlilp,  *  my  work  Is  completod, 
*  11  wants  nothing  now,  but  tho  grainuiar  and  spelling.* 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


219 


But,  I>  I  a  IVosh  puzzlement  starts  up  to  view — 
New  toil  for  llio  Sub,— for  tlio  lord  now  expense : 

'Tis  discover'd  tliat  raendinj?  tlio  grammar  won't  do, 
As  the  Su)vUterii  also  must  And  him  in  sense." 

Indeed,  nothiiinr  comes  amiss  to  our  great  Lyric : 
oven  tlie  "  Woods  and  Forests"  are  turned  into  a 
ioke,  ecce  signum : — 

"  Long,  in  your  golden  shade  reclined, 
Like  him  of  fair  Armida's  bowers, 
May  Wellington  some  icood-nymph  find, 
To  cheer  his  dozenth  lustrum's  hours. 

Oh  long  may  Woods  and  Forests  be. 
Preserved  in  all  their  teeming  graces, 

To  shelter  Tory  bards,  like  me, 
Who  take  delight  in  SyUmn  Places  " 

It  may  be  perliaps  necessary  to  remind  the  reader 
tliat  there  is  a  department  of  the  British  govern- 
ment called  "  Woods  and  Forests,"  wliich  has  the 
nontrol  of  public  buildings,  land  revenues,  &c. 

It  is  seldom  that  Moore  allows  his  bitterness  to 
overpower  his  badinage :  this  however  now  and 
then  happens,  as  in  his  "  Incantation,"  in  imitation 
of  the  witch  scene  in  "  Macbeth." 

In  this  celebrated  parody  he  thus  boldly  stig- 
matized the  duke  of  Cumberland.  The  death  of 
the  duke's  valet,  Sellis,  will  no  doubt  be  ever 
shrouded  in  obscurity,  without  his  royal  highness, 
like  Webster,  m.ikes  a  de.ath-bed  confession  ;  the 
tacts  of  the  case  are  briefly  these  : — The  household 
were  alarmed  in  the  middle  of  the  night  by  the 
duke  rushing  out  of  his  bedroom  wounded  and 
bleeding — upon  tlieir  going  to  Ins  apartment  they 
found  Sellis  dead  on  the  floor : — the  duke's  ac- 
count was,  that  ho  was  awakened  by  some  one 
attempting  to  murder  him  ;  starting  up,  the  duke 


seized  his  sword,  and  beat  ofT  his  assailant,  whom 
he  saw  was  his  valet — his  conclusion  was,  that 
Sellis,  foiled  in  his  purpose  of  murdering  his 
master,  destroyed  himself  wliile  he  ran  ofl".  Scan- 
dal reported  that  Sellis  had  a  very  handsome  wife, 
and  that  he  had  detected  the  duke  intriguing  witli 
her.  Popular  opinion  ran  so  strongly  against  the 
royal  duke,  aa  to  almost  banish  him  from  society. 
Moore  thus  alludes  to  it: — 

"  Squeeze  o'er  all  that  Orange  juice. 
Which  Cumberland  keeps  corked  for  use  : 
Which,  to  work  the  better  spell,  is 
Coloured  deep  with  blood  of  Sellis  I" 

But  the  Prince  Regent  was  one  of  those  wliom 
our  poet  most  deliglited  to  satirize,  and  here  his 
blows  told,  since  every  allusion  was  understood  by 
the  public. 

When  the  bill  for  restricting  the  royal  pre- 
rogative was  being  discussed,  he  published  liis 
celebrated  parody  on  the  Regent's  letter  to  the 
duke  of  York.  He  thus  alludes  to  the  madness  of 
tlie  king: — 

"  A  straight  waistcoat  on  him — and  restrictions  on  me, 
A  more  limited  monarchy  scarce  well  can  be  !" 

George  the  Fourth  has  certainly  as  fair  a  cliance 
of  immortality  as  any  sovereign  that  ever  lived, 
since  Byron  and  Sloore,  the  two  wittiest  and  most 
popular  poets  of  his  times  have  made  him  the  sub- 
ject of  their  unsparing  sarcasms.  In  another  of 
Moore's  epistles,  alluding  to  the  Prince  Regent 
being  stunned  in  a  fight,  lying  insensible,  he  says — 

"  But  every  means  failed  to  bring  him  to  life, 
Till  Liverpool  whispered, '  By  heavens !  here's  your  wife !' " 


The  following  trifles,  having  enjoyed,  in  their 
circulation  through  the  newspapers,  .all  the  ce- 
lebrity and  length  of  life  to  which  they  were  en- 
titled, would  h.ave  been  suffered  to  pass  quietly 
into  oblivion  \vithout  pretending  to  any  further 
distinction,  h.ad  they  not  already  been  published, 
in  a  collective  form,  botli  in  London  and  Paris, 


and,  in  each  case,  been  mixed  up  with  a  number  of 
other  productions,  to  which,  whatever  m.ay  be  their 
merit,  the  author  of  the  following  pages  h.as  no 
claim.  A  natural  desire  to  separate  his  own  prop- 
erty, worthless  as  it  is,  from  that  of  others,  is,  he 
begs  to  siiy,  the  eliief  motive  of  the  publication  of 
tilts  volume.  T.  JI. 


220 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


TO  SIR  HUDSON  LOWR 

EfTare  causam  Qominis^ 
Utrumquo  mores  hoc  tui 
Nomen  dedere,  an  nomea  hoc 
Stfcuta  morum  regulo.  AcaoNiDS. 

1816. 
Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  Sir  Hudson  Low, 
(By  name,  but  more  by  nature  so,) 
A3  thou  .irt  fond  of  persecutions. 
Perhaps  thou'st  read,  or  heard  repeated, 
How  Captain  Gulliver  was  treated. 
When  thrown  among  the  Lilliputians. 

They  tied  him  down — these  little  men  did — 
And  having  valiantly  ascended 

Upon  the  Mighty  ilan's  protuberance, 
They  did  so  strut ! — upon  my  soul. 
It  must  have  been  extremely  droll 

To  see  their  pigmy  pride's  exuberance ! 

And  liow  tlie  doughty  mannikins 
Amused  themselves  with  sticking  pins 

And  needles  in  the  great  man's  breeches : 
And  how  some  vcnj  little  things. 
That  pass'd  for  Lords,  on  scaffoldings 

Got  up,  and  worried  him  with  speeches. 

Alas,  alas  !  that  it  should  h.ippen 

To  mighty  men  to  be  caught  napping ! — 

Though  diflerent,  too,  these  persecutions ; 
For  Gulliver,  there,  took  the  nap, 
VVIiile,  liere  the  Nap,  oh  s.ad  mishap, 

Is  Liken  by  the  Lilliputians ! 


AilATORY  COLLOQUY  BETWEEN  BANK 
AND  GOVERNMENT. 

1820. 
Bake. 

Is  all  then  forgotten?  those  amorous  pranks 
You  and  I,  in  our  youth,  my  dear  Government, 
play'd ; 

When  you  call'd  mo  the  fondest,  the  truest  of  B.mks, 
Anil  cnjoy'd  the  endearing  advances  I  made ! 

When  led  lo  oiirHoIvet,  unmoleslcd  and  free, 
To  ilo  all  that  n  dashing  young  couple  should  do, 

A  law  ngainst  paijinfr  was  laid  upon  me, 

Hut  none  against  nwing,  dear  helpmate,  on  you. 


And  is  it  then  vanisli'd? — that  "hour  (.as  Othello 
So  happily  calls  it)  of  Love  and  Direction .'"' 

And  must  we,  like  other  fond  doves,  my  dear  fellow 
Grow  good  in  our  old  age,  and  cut  the  con. 
nection  1 

GOVEBNMEXT. 

Even  so,  my  beloved  Mrs.  Bank,  it  must  be ; 

Tliis  p.ajing  in  cash  plays  the  devil  with  wooing :' 
We've  both  had  our  swing,  but  1  plainly  foresee 

There  must  soon  be  a  stop  to  our  bill-ing  and 
cooing. 

Propagation  in  reason — a  sm.all  child  or  two — 
Even  Reverend  Malthua  himself  is  a  friend  to; 

The  issue  of  some  folks  is  moderate  and  few — 
But  ours,  my  dear  corporate  Bank,  there's  no  end 
to! 

So — hard  tliough  it  be  on  a  pair,  who've  already 
Disposed  of  so  many  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  ; 

And,  in  spite  of  that  pink  of  prosperity,  Freddy,* 
So  lavish  of  cash  and  so  sparing  of  sense — 

The  day  is  at  hand,  my  Papyria*  Venus, 

When — high   as   wo    once   used    to   carry    oui 
capers — 
Those  soft  billet-doux  we're  now  pissing  between 
us, 
Will  serve  but  to  keep  Mrs.  Coutts  in  curl-papers ; 

And  wlien — if  wo  still  must  continue  our  love, 
(After  all  that  has  p.ass'd,) — our  amour,  it  is  clear, 

Like  that  which  Jliss  Daniio  tuan.-igcd  with  Jove, 
Must  all  be  transacted  in  bullion,  my  dear  I 

Feliruttnj,   ISifl. 


DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  A  SOVEREIGN  AND 
A  ONE  I'OUND  NOTE. 

**0  ogo  noi)  Tullx,  qtinm  In  Tui^lit,  ut  parol  ncros 
Agnu  lupoB,  caprowquo  Icoiios."  Ilrii. 

Said  a  Sov'rcign  to  a  Note, 

III  the  pocket  of  my  coat, 
Where  they  met  in  a  noal  jinrse  of  Icallier, 

"How  haiipcns  il,  I  jirilliee, 

"Thai,  though  I'm  wedilod  with  thee, 
"  Fair  Pound,  wp  can  never  live  together* 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOEOUS  POEMS. 


221 


"Like  your  sex,  fond  of  change, 

Why  bore  thorn  so  rudely,  each  night  of  your  life. 

"Willi  silver  you  can  range, 

On  a  question,  my  Lord,  there's  so  ranch  to  abhor 

"  And  of  lots  of  young  sixpences  be  mother ; 

in? 

"  While  with  me — upon  my  word. 

A    question — like    asking    one,   "  How    is    you' 

"  Not  my  Lady  and  my  Lord 

wife?"— 

"Of  Westmcath  see  so  little  of  each  other!" 

At  once  so  confounded  domestic  and  foreign. 

The  indignant  Note  replied. 

As  to  weavers,  no  matter  how  poorly  they  feast ; 

(Lying  crumpled  by  his  side,) 

But  Peers,  and  sucli  animals,  fed  up  i'or  show. 

"  Shame,  shame,  it  is  yourself  that  roam,  Sir — 

(Like  the  well-physick'd  elephant,  lately  deceased,) 

"  One  cannot  look  askance. 

Take  a  wonderful  quantum  of  cramming,  you 

"  But,  whip !  you're  off  to  France, 

know. 

'Leaving  nothing  but  old  rags  at  homo.  Sir. 

You  might  see,  my  dear  Baron,  how  bored  and  di.'i- 

"  Your  scampering  began 

tress'd 

"  From  the  moment  Parson  Van, 

Were  their  high  noble  hearts  by  your  merciless 

"  Poor  man,  made  us  one  in  Love's  fetter ; 

tale. 

" '  For  better  or  for  worse' 

When  the  force  of  the  agony  wrung  even  a  jest 

"  Is  the  usual  marriage  curse. 

From  the  frugal  Scotch  wit  of  my  Lord  Lau- 

" But  ours  is  all '  wor^e'  and  no  '  better.' 

derdale  i' 

"In  vain  are  laws  pass'd. 

Bright  peer !   to   whom  Nature  .and  Berwickshire 

"  There's  nothing  holds  you  fast. 

gave 

"  Tho'  you  know,  sweet  Sovereign,  I  adore  you — 

A  humor,  endovi-'d  with  effects  so  provoking. 

"  At  the  smallest  hint  in  life, 

That,  when  the  whole  House  looks  unusually  grave, 

"  You  forsake  your  lawful  wife. 

You  may  always  conclude  that  Lord  Lauderdale'."! 

"  As  other  Sovereigns  did  before  you. 

joking! 

« I  flirt  with  Silver,  true— 

And  then,  those  unfortun.ite  weavers  of  Perth — 

"  But  what  can  ladies  do. 

Not   to   know   the    v.ast    difference   Providence 

"  When  disown'd  by  their  natur.il  protectors  ? 

dooms 

"And  as  to  falsehood,  stuff! 

Between  weavers  of  Perth  and  Peers  of  high  birth, 

"I  shall  soon  he  false  enough, 

'Twi.\t  those  who  have  heir-looms,  and   those 

"  When  I  get  among  those  wicked  Bank  Direc- 
tors." 

who've  but  looms ! 

"  To  talk  now  of  starving !" — as  great  Atliol  said — ' 

The  Sovereign,  smiling  on  her, 

(And  the  nobles  all  cheer'd,  and  the  bishops  all 

Now  swore,  upon  his  honor. 

wonder'd,) 

To  be  henceforth  domestic  and  loyal ; 

"  When,  some  years  ago,  he  and  others  had  fed 

But,  within  an  hour  or  two. 

"  Of  these  same  hungry  devils  about  fifteen  hun- 

Why — I  sold  hun  to  a  Jew, 

ored !" 

And  he's  now  at  No.  10  Palais  Royal. 

It  follows  from  hence — and  the  Duke's  very  words 

Should  be  publish'd  wherever  poor  rogues  of  this 

craft  are — 

That  weavers,  once  rescued  from  starving  by  Lords, 

AN  EXPOSTULATION  TO  LORD  KING. 

Are  bound  to  be  starved  by  said  Lords  ever  after. 

''  Queni  das  finem,  Rex  magne,  laboruin  ?"    Virgil. 

Wlien  Rome  was  uproarious,  her  knowing  patri- 

1826. 

cians 

How  can  you,  my  Lord,  thus  delight  to  torment  all 

Made  "Bread  and  the  Circus"  a  cure  for  each 

The  Peers  of  the  realm  about  cheapening  their 

row; 

corn,' 

But  not  so  the  plan  of  our  noble  physicians. 

When  you  know,  if  one  hasn't  a  very  liigh  rental. 

"  No  Bread  and  the  Tread-mill's"  the  RcgimeD 

'Tis  hardly  worth  while  being  very  high  born  ? 

now. 

222 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


So  cease,  my  dear  Baron  of  Ockham,  your  prose, 

Shall  be  paid,  with  thanks, 

As  I  shall  my  poetry — neither  conrinces ; 

In  the  notes  of  banks. 

And  all  we  have  spoken  and  written  but  shows, 

Whose  Funds  have  all  learn'd  "  the  Art  of  Sinkbig." 

When  you  tread  on  a  nobleman's  corn,'  how  he 

winces. 

Oyes!  Oyes! 

Can  any  body  guess 

What  the  devil  has  become  of  tliis  Treasury  won. 
der? 

It  has  Pitt's  name  on't. 

THE  SINKTT^G  FUND  CRIED. 

All  brass,  in  the  front. 

And  Robinson's,  scrawl'd  with  a  goose-quill,  under. 

"  Now  what,  we  aak,  is  become  of  Ihis  Sinking  Fund— these 

eight  millions  of  surplus  above  e.xpendilure,  which  were  to 

reduce  the  interest  of  the  national  debt  by  tlie  amount  of  four 

hundred  thousand  pounds  annually?    'Where,  indeed,  is  the 

BinkingFunditseirS"— r/ic  Times. 

Take  your  bell,  take  your  bell. 

Good  Crier,  and  tell 

ODE  TO  THE  GODDESS  CERES. 

To  the  Bulls  and  the  Bears,  till  their  c:ir3  are 

stunn'd, 

BY  SIR   TH0M.1S    LETUBRIDGE. 

That,  lost  or  stolen. 

Or  iall'n  through  a  hole  in 

"Legiferie  Cereri  Phceboque."           Virgil. 

The  Treasury  floor,  is  the  Sinking  Fund ! 

Deak  Goddess  of  Corn,  whom  the  ancients,  wo 

O  yes !  0  yes ! 

know. 

Can  any  body  gu'ess 

(Among    other   odd    wliims    of    those   comical 

What  the  deuce  has  become  of  this  Treasury  won- 

bodies,) 

der? 

Adorn'd  with  somniferous  poppies,  to  show 

It  has  Pitt's  name  on't. 

Thou  wert  always  a  true  Country-gentleman't 

All  brass,  in  the  front. 

Goddess. 

And  Robinson's,  scrawl'd  with  a  goose-quill,  under. 

Behold,  in  his  best  shooting-jacket,  before  thee. 

Folks  well  knew  what 

An  eloquent  'Squire,  who  most  humbly  bosceche.v 

Would  soon  be  its  lot. 

Great  Queen  of  JIark-lanc,  (if  the  tiling  doesn'x 

When  Frederick  and  Jenky  set  hob-nobbing,' 

bore  thee,) 

And  said  to  each  other. 

Thou'lt   read    o'er  the    last   of  his — ncirr-lasi 

"  Suppose,  dear  brother. 

speeches. 

We  make  this  funny  old  Fund  worth  robbing." 

Ah!  Cores,  thou  know'st  not  the  slaiulei  and  .scorn 

We  are  come,  alas! 

Now   henp'd   upon   England's   'Scinire.inhy,   so 

To  a  very  pretty  pass — 

bo.astcd ; 

Kight  Hundred  Millions  of  score,  to  pay, 

Improving  on  Hunt,'"  'tis  no  longer  the  Corn, 

With  but  Five  in  the  till. 

'Tis  the  growers  of  Corn  tliat  are  now,  alas! 

To  discharge  the  bill. 

roasted. 

And  even  that  Five,  too,  whipp'd  away  I 

In  speeches,  in  books,  in  all  shapes  Ihoy  attack  tis — 

Slop  thief!  slop  thief!— 

Reviewers,  economists — fellows,  no  doubt. 

From  the  Sub  to  the  Chief, 

That  you  my  dear  Ceres,  and  Venus,  and  Bacchus, 

These  Qemrmn  of  Finance  are  plundering  cattle — 

And  Gods  of  high  fit-shion  know  little  almnl. 

Call  the  watch — call  Brougham, 

Tell  Joseph  Ilume, 

There's  Bentham,  whose   Knglish   is  all   his  own 

That  best  of  Cliurleys,  to  spring  his  rattle. 

inakin;,', — 

Who  thinks  just  as  little  of  settling  a  nation 

Whoever  will  bring 

As  he  would  of  »mi)king  his  pipe,  or  of  taking 

This  ufures;iid  thing 

(What  he,  himself,  calls)   his  "  posl-prandial  vi 

To  Uie  VKJI-known  house  of  Robinson  and  Jenkin, 

bration."" 

SATIKICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


223 


There  are  two  Mr.  Mills,  too,  whom  those  that 
love  reading 
Through  all  that's  unreadable,  call  very  clever ; — 
\nd,  whereas  Mill  Senior  makes  war  on  good  breed- 
ing, 
Mill  Junior  makes  war  on  all  breeding  whatever! 

fn  sliort,  my  dear  Goddess,  Old  England's  divided 

Between  ultra  blockheads  and  superfine  sages ; — 

With  which  of  these  classes  we,  landlords,  have 

sided 

Thou'lt  find  in  my  Speech,  if  thou'lt  read  a  few 

pages. 

For  therein  I've  proved,  to  my  own  satisfaction. 
And  that  of  all  'Squires  I've  the  honor  of  meet- 
ing. 
That  'tis  the  most  senseless  and  foul-mouth'd  de- 
traction 
To  say  that  poor  people  are  fond  of  cheap  e.ating. 

On  the  contrary,  such  tha  "  chaste  notions'"^  of  food 
That  dwell  in  eacli  pale  manufacturer's  heart, 

They  would  scorn  any  law,  be  it  ever  so  good, 
That  would  make  thee,  dear  Goddess,  less  dear 
than  tliou  art ! 

And,  oh  !  for  Monopoly  wliat  a  blest  day. 
When  the  Land  and  the  Silk'^  shall,  in  fond  com- 
bination, 
f  Like  Sulky  and  Silky,  that  pair  in  the  play,'*) 
Cry  out,  witli  one  voice,  for  High  Rents  and 
Starv.ation ! 

Long  life  to  the  Minister ! — no  matter  who, 
Or  how  dull  he  may  be,  if,  with  dignified  spirit, 
he 
Keeps  the  ports  shut — and  the  people's  mouths, 
too, — 
We  sliall  all  have  a  long  run  of  Freddy's  pros- 
perity. 

And,  as  for  myself,  who've,  like  Hannibal,  sworn 
To  hate  the  whole  crew  who  would  take  our 
rents  from  us, 
Had  England  but  One  to  stand  by  thee,  Dear  Corn, 
That    last,    honest    Uni-Corn"    would    be    Su- 
Thomas ! 


A  HYMN  OF  WELCOME  AFTER  THE  RECESS 

"  Auiinus  sapientiores  fieri  quiescendo." 

And  now — cross-buns  and  pancakes  o'er — 
Hail,  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  once  more ! 

Thrice  hail  and  welcome,  Houses  Twain! 
The  short  eclipse  of  April-Day 
Having  (God  grant  it!)  pass'd  away. 

Collective  Wisdom,  shine  again ! 

Come,  Ays  and  Noes,  through  thick  and  thin. — 
With  Paddy  Holmes  for  whipper-in, — 

Whate'er  the  job,  prepared  to  back  it; 
Come,  voters  of  Supplies — bestowers 
Of  jackets  upon  trumpet-blowers. 

At  eighty  mortal  pounds  the  jacket !"" 

Come — free,  at  length,  from  Joint-Stock  cares — 
Ye  Senators  of  many  Shares, 

Whose  dreams  of  premium  knew  no  boundary  j 
So  fond  of  aught  like  Company, 
That  you  would  even  have  taken  tea 

(Had  you  been  ask'd)  with  Mr.  Goundry." 

Come,  matchless  country-gentlemen ; 
Come,  wise  Sir  Thomas — wisest  then, 

When  creeds  and  corn-laws  are  debated ; 
Come,  rival  even  the  Harlot  Red, 
And  show  how  wholly  into  bread 

A  'Squire  is  transubstantiated. 

Come,  Lauderdale,  and  tell  the  world. 
That — surely  as  thy  scrafcli  is  curl'd. 

As  never  scratch  was  curl'd  before — 
Cheap  eating  does  more  harm  than  good. 
And  working-people,  spoil'd  by  food, 

Tlie  less  they  eat,  will  work  the  more. 

Gome,  Goulbourn,  with  thy  glib  defence 
(Which  thou'dst  have  made  for  Peter's  Penie) 

Of  Church-Rates,  wortliy  of  a  halter ; 
Two  pipes  of  port  (old  port,  'twas  said 
By  honest  Newiiorl")  bought  and  paid 

By  Papists  for  the  Orange  Altar !" 

Come,  Horton,  with  thy  plan,  so  merry, 
For  peopling  Canada  from  Kerr}- — 

Not  so  much  rendering  Ireland  quiet, 
As  grafting  on  the  dull  Canadians 
That  liveliest  of  earth's  contagions, 

The  iifW-pock  of  Hibernian  riot ! 

Come  all,  in  short,  ye  wondrous  men 
Of  wit  and  wisdom,  come  again  ; 

Though  short  your  absence,  all  deplore  it— 


224 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Oh,  come  and  show,  whate'er  men  say. 
That  you  can,  after  April-day, 
Be  just  as — sapient  as  before  it. 


MEIIORAEILIA  OF  LAST  WEEK. 

MOXDAT,    lIAKCa    13,    1S26. 

The  Budget — quite  charming  and  witty — no  hear- 
in?. 
For  plaudits  and  laughs,  the  good  tilings  that 
were  in  it ; — 
Great  comfort  to  find,   though   the  Speecli  isn't 
cheering, 
Tliat  all  its  gay  auditors  icere,  every  minute. 

What,  still  more  prosperity  ! — mercy  upon  us, 
"  This  boy'll  be  the  death  of  me"— oft  as,  al- 
ready. 

Such  smooth  Budgetcers  have  genteelly  undone  us. 
For  Ruin  made  easy  there's  no  one  like  Freddy. 

TUBSDAT. 

Much  gi-ave  apprehension  expross'd  by  the  Peers, 
Lest — calling   to    life   the    old   Peacliums  and 
Lockitts — 
The  large  stock  of  gold  we're  to  have  in  three 
years, 
Should  all  find  its  way  into  highwaymen's  pock- 
eta!" 


WEDNESDAY. 

Little  doing — ^for  sacred,  oli  Wednesday,  thou  art 
To  the  seven-o'clock  joys  of  full  many  a  table — 

When  the  Members  all  meet,  to  make  much  of  that 
part. 
With  which  they  so  rashly  fell  out,  in  the  Fable. 

It  nppcar'd,  tliough,  lo-nlglit,  that — as  church-war- 
dens, yearly. 

Eat  up  a  sm.all  b.iby — those  cormorant  sinners, 
1  he  Bankrupt-Commissioners,  boll  very  nearly 

A  modcralc-sizcd  bankrupt,  tout  chaud,  for  their 
dinners !" 
Nola  bene — n  rumor  to-day,  in  the  Cily, 
"  Mr.  Robinson  just  has  resign'd" — what  n  pity  ! 
The  Bulls  and  (he  Bears  all  fell  n  sobbing, 
When  ilipy  heard  of  llie  fate  of  poor  ("ock  Robin; 
While  thus,  to  the  nursery  tune,  so  pretty, 
A  murmurinjf  UtocMoye  breathed  licr  ditty  : — 


Alas,  poor  Robin,  he  crow'd  so  lont; 

And  as  sweet  as  a  prosperous  Cock  could  cronr 
But  his  note  was  small,  and  the  goZd-finch'j  song 

Was  a  pitch  too  high  for  Robin  to  go. 

Who'll  make  his  aliroud  ? 

"  I,"  said  the  Bank,  "  though  he  play'd  mo  a  prank, 
"Wliilelhave  a  rag,  poor  Roh  shall  be  roUd 
in't, 

"  With  many  a  pound  I'll  paper  him  round, 
"Lilce  a  plump  rouleau — without  the  gold  in't' 


ALL  DT  THE  FAMILY  WAY. 

A    NEW    r.VSTORAL    BALLAD. 
(SP.SO   IN   THE   CHARACTER  OF  BRITANNIA.) 

"Tlie  Public  Debt  is  due  from  ourselves  to  ourselves,  ami 
resolves  itself  into  a  Family  Account." — Sir  liobcrt  PeePt 
L,ctlcr. 

Tune. — My  hanUs  arc  all  furnislCd  tcith  bees. 

My  banks  arc  all  furnisird  witli  rags. 

So  thick,  even  Freddy  can't  tliin  'em ; 
I've  torn  up  my  old  money-bags. 

Having  little  or  naught  to  put  in  'era. 
My  tradesmen  aa'o  smashing  by  dozens. 

But  tliis  is  .all  nothing,  they  say ; 
For  bankrupts,  since  Adam,  are  cousins, — 

So,  it's  all  in  the  family  way. 

My  Debt  not  a  penny  takes  from  me, 

As  sagos  the  matter  e.vplaiii ; — 
Bob  owes  it  to  Tom,  and  then  Tonnny 

Just  owes  it  to  Bob  back  again. 
Since  all  have  thus  taken  to  owinc;, 

There's  nobody  left  that  can  jmy, 
And  this  is  the  way  to  keep  going, — 

."Ml  ([uite  in  the  family  way. 

My  senators  vole  away  millions, 

To  put  in  I'lospcrity's  budget; 
And  though  it  were  billions  or  trillions, 

The  generous  rogues  wouldn't  grudge  iU 
'Tis  all  but  a  family  hop, 

'Tw.'is  Pitt  began  dancing  the  hay; 
Hands  round  ! — why  the  deuce  should  we  sl(  p 

'Tis  all  in  the  family  way. 

My  laborers  useil  to  eat  mutton, 

As  any  gre.il  min  of  llie  Stale  .Iocs; 

And  now  the  poor  devils  are  |)ut  on 
Small  rations  of  tea  and  potatoes. 


SATIEIOAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


22r 


But  flieer  ii]i,  .lulm,  S.iwiiey,  and  Paddy, 
The  King'  is  your  father,  they  say ; 

So,  ev'n  if  you  starve  tor  your  Daddy, 
'Tis  all  iu  the  family  way. 

My  rich  manufacturers  tumble, 

My  poor  ones  have  nothing  to  ehow ; 
And,  even  if  themselves  do  not  grumble. 

Their  stomachs  undoubtedly  do. 
But  coolly  to  fast  enfamille. 

Is  as  good  for  the  soul  as  to  pray ; 
And  famine  itself  is  genteel, 

Wlien  one  starves  in  a  family  way. 

I  have  found  out  a  secret  for  Freddy, 
A  secret  for  next  Budget  day ; 

Though,  perhaps,  he  may  know  it  already, 
As  /if,  too,  's  a  sago  in  his  way. 

When  next  for  the  Treasury  scene  he 
Announces  "  the  Devil  to  pay," 

Let  him  write  on  the  bills,  "Nota  bene, 
■  "  'Tis  all  in  the  f^imily  way." 


BALLAD  FOR  THE  CAMBRIDGK  ELECTION. 

"I  authorized  my  Committee  to  take  the  step  which  they 
did,  of  proposing  a  fair  comparison  of  strength,  upon  tlie  un- 
derstanding tliat  whichever  of  tlie  two  should  prove  to  he  the 
weakest,  should  give  way  to  the  other." — Extract  from  Mr. 
IV.  J.  Banl:es^s  Letter  to  Mr.  Qaudhourn. 

Bankes  is  weak,  and  Goulbourn  too, 

No  one  e'er  the  fact  denied ; — 
Whicli  is  "  weakest'"  of  the  two, 

Cambridge  can  alone  decide. 
Choose  between  them,  Cambridge,  pray, 
Which  is  weakest,  Cambridge,  say. 

Goulbourn  of  the  Pope  afraid  is, 

Bankes,  as  much  afraid  as  he ; 
Never  yet  did  two  old  ladies 

On  this  point  so  w'ell  agree. 
Choose  between  them,  Cambridge,  pray, 
Which  is  weakest,  Cambridge,  say. 

Each  a  different  mode  pursues. 
Each  the  same  conclusion  reaches ; 

Bankes  is  foolish  in  Reviews, 

Goulbourn,  foolish  in  his  speeches. 

Clioosc  between  them,  Cambridge,  pray, 

Which  is  weakest,  Cambridge,  say. 

Each  a  different  foe  doth  damn, 

When  his  own  affairs  have  gone  ill ; 

Bankes  he  damneth  Buckingham, 
Goulbourn  damnelh  Dan  O'Connell. 
29 


Choose  between  (hem,  Cambridge,  pray. 
Which  is  weakest,  Cambridge,  say. 

Once,  we  know,  a  horse's  neigh 
Fix'd  th'  election  to  a  throne, 
So,  whichever  first  shall  bray. 

Choose  him,  Cambridge,  for  thy  own. 
Choose  liim,  choose  him  by  his  bray. 
Thus  elect  him,  Cambridge,  pray, 
June,  1820. 


MR.  ROGER  DODSWORTII. 


1826. 


TO   THE    EDITOR   OF  THE    TIMES. 

Sir, — Having  just  heard  of  the  wonderful  resurrection  of 
Mr.  Roger  Dodsworth  from  under  an  avtUanche,  where  hij 
had  remained,  t/icti  frappe,  it  seems,  for  llie  last  1G6  years,  1 
hasten  to  impart  to  you  a  few  reflections  on  tlic  subject. — 
Yours,  &c.  Laudator  Te.mporis  Acti. 

What  a  lucky  turn  up  I^Just  as  Eldon's  ■with- 
drawing. 
To  find  thus  a  gentleman  froz'n  in  the  year 
Sixteen  hundred  and  sixty,  who  only  wants  thawing, 
To   serve  for  our  times   quite   as  well  as  the 
Peer; — 

To  bring  thus  to  light,  not  the  Wisdom  alone 
Of  our  Ancestors,  such  as  'tis  found  on   our 
shelves, 

But,  in  perfect  condition,  full-wigg'd  and  full-grown. 
To  shovel  up  one  of  those  wise  bucks  themselves  1 

Oh  thaw  JMr.  Dodsworth,  and  send  him  safe  home — 

Let  him  le.arn  nothing  useful  or  new  on  the  way ; 

With  his  wisdom  kept  snug  from  the  light  let  Iiim 

come, 

And  our  Tories  will  hail  him  with  "  Hear !"  and 

"  Hurra !" 

What  a  God-send  to  them ! — a  good,  obsolete  man, 
Who  has  never  of  Locke  or  Voltaire  been  a 
reader ; — 
Oh  thaw  Mr  Dodsworth  as  fast  as  you  can, 

And  the  Lonsdales  and  Hertfords  shall  choose 
him  for  leader. 

Yes,  sleeper  of  ages,  thou  shalt  be  their  chosen ; 

And  deeply  with  thee  will  they  sorrow,  good 
men. 
To  think  that  all  Europe  has,  since  thou  wert  frozen, 

So  alter'd,  thou  hardly  wilt  know  it  again. 

And  Eldon  will  weep  o'er  each  sad  innovation 
Such  oceans  of  tears,  thou  wilt  fancy  that  he 

Has  been  also  laid  up  in  a  long  congelation, 

And  is  only  now  thawing,  dear  Roger,  like  thee 


226 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


COPY  OF  AN  DfTERCEPTED  DISPATCH. 

FBOM   HIS    EXCELLENCY    DON'    STREPITOSO    DUBOLO,  E.VTOY 
EXTRAORDIXAKT    TO    HIS    SATAXIO    SLUESTT. 

St.  James's  Street,  July  1,  1826. 
Gkeat  Sir,  having  just  had  the  good  lucli  to  catch 

An  official  young  Demon,  preparing  to  go, 
Ready  booted  and  spurr'd,  with  a  hlack-leg  dispatch. 
From  tlie  Hell  here,  at  Crockford's,  to  our  Hell, 
below — 

I  write  these  few  lines  to  your  Highness  Satanic, 
To  say  tliat,  fii-st  having  obey'd  your  directions, 

And  done  all  the  miscliiefl  could  in  "the  Panic," 
My  next  special  care  was  to  lielp  the  Elections. 

Well  knowing  how  dear  were  those  times  to  thy 
soul. 
When  every  good  Christian  tormented  his  bro- 
ther, 
And  caused,  in  tliy  realm,  such  a  saving  of  co.al. 
From  all  coming  down,  ready  grill'd  by  each 
other ; 

RcmemVring,  besides,  how  it  pain'd  thee  to  part 
With  the  Old  Penal  Code— tliat  chef-d'ceuvre  of 
Law, 
In  which  (though  to  own  it  too  modest  thou  art) 
We  could  plainly  perceive  tlie  fine  touch  of  thy 
claw ; 

1  thought,  as  we  ne'er  can  those  good  times  revive, 
(Though  Eldon,  with  help  from  your  Highness 
would  try,) 

'Twould  still  keep  a  taste  for  Hell's  music  alive. 
Could  we  get  up  a  tliund'ring  No-Popery  cry ; — 

That  yell  which,  when  chorus'd  by  laics  and  clerics, 
So  like  is  to  rmrs,  in  its  spirit  and  tone. 

That  I  often  nigh  laugh  myself  into  hysterics. 
To  think  that  Religion  siiould  make  it  her  own. 

3o,  having  sent  down  for  th'  original  notes 

Of  the  chorns,  as  sung  by  your  Majesty's  choir. 

With  a  few  pints  of  lava,  to  gargle  the  throats 
Of  myself  and  some  others,  who  sing  it  "  with 
(ire,"" 

lliought  I,  "  if  the  Marseillois  Hymn  could  com- 
mand 
"Such  audience,  though  ycll'd  by  a  Sans-culolle 
crew, 
*  What  wonders  sliatl  we  do,  who've  men  in  our 
band, 
"Tliat  not  only  wear  breeches,  but  petticoats 
too." 


Such  then  were  my  hopes;  but,  with  sorrow,  you. 
Highness, 
Fm  forced  to  confess — be  the  cause  what  it  will, 
Whether  fewness  of  voices,  or  hoarseness,  or  shy- 
ness,— 
Our  Beelzebub  chorus  has  gone  off  but  ill. 

The  truth  is,  no  placeman  now  knows  his  right  key 
The  Treasury  pitch-pipe  of  late  is  so  various ; 

And  cert;iin  base  voices,  that  look'd  for  a  fee 
At  the  York  music-meeting,  now  think  it  pre- 
carious. 

Even  some  of  our  Reverends  might  have   been 
warmer, — 
Though  one  or  two  capital  roarers  we've  had ; 
Doctor  Wise"''  is,  for  instance,  a  charming  perfor- 
mer, 
And  Huntingdon  Jlaberley's  yell  was  not  bad  \ 

Altogether,  however,  tlie  thing  was  not  liearty  ; — 
Even  Eldon  allows  we  got  on  but  so  so ; 

And  when  next  we  attempt  a  No-Popery  party, 
We  must,  please  your  Highness,  recruit  from 
below. 

But,  hark,  the   young   Black-leg  is  cracking  his 
whip — 
Excuse  me,  Great  Sir — there's  no  time  to  be 
civil ; — 
The  next  opportunity  shan't  be  let  slip. 
But,  till  then, 

Fm,  in  haste,  your  most  dutiful 

Devil. 

July,  1820. 


THE  MILLENNIUM. 

SUGGESTED    BY   THE    LATE   WOllK    OK  TIIK   HKVEEKND 

Ma.  ittviNG  "ox   rUOl'UlCCY." 

1806, 

A  JIiLLENNiuM  at  hand  ! — I'm  delighted   to   hoaf 
it — 

As  mailers,  both  public  and  private,  now  go, 
With  niulliludes  round  us  all  starving,  or  near  it, 

A  good  rich  Millennium  will  come  d  propos. 

Only  think,  MnHtcr  Fred,  wh.at  deliglil  to  behold, 
Iiisle.'id  of  Ihy  bankrupl  old  Cily  of  l{ags, 

A  bran-new  .lerus.ili'm,  bnill  all  of  gold, 

Sound  bulliiin  Ihronghmil,  IVimii  Ihc  roiif  lo  Ihe 
flags— 


bATIEICAL  AND  UUMOKOUS  POEMS. 


227 


A  City,  where  wine  and  dienp  corn"  shall  abound — 

A  celestial  Cocaigne,  on  whose  buttery  shelves 
We  may  swear  the  best  things  of  this  world  will 
be  found, 
As  your  Saints  seldom  fail  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves ! 

Thanks,  reverend  expounder  of  raptures  Elysian," 
Divine  Squintifobus,  who,  placed  witliin  reach 

Of  two  opposite  worlds,  by  a  twist  of  your  vision. 
Can  cast,  at  the  same  time,  a  sly  look  at  each ; — 

Thanks,  thanks  for  the  hopes  tliou  affordest,  that  we 
■  May,  ev'n  in  our  own  times,  a  Jubilee  share. 
Which  so  long  has  been  promised  by  propliets  like 
thee. 
And  so  often  postponed,  we  began  to  despair. 

■*'here  was  Wliiston,-°  who  learnedly  took  Prince 

Eugene 

For  the  man  who  must  bring  tlie  Jlillennium 

about ; 

■"here's  Faber,  whose  pious  productions  have  been 

All  belied,  ere  his  book's  first  edition  was  out ; — 

There  was  Counsellor  Dobbs,  too,  an  Irish  M.  P., 
Who  discoursed  on  the  subject  with  signal  eclat, 

And,  each  day  of  his  life,  sat  expecting  to  see 
A  Millennium  break  out  in  the  town  of  Armagh !"' 

There  was  also — but  why  should  I  burden  my  bay 
With  your  Brotherses,  Southcotes,  and  names 
less  deserving. 
When  all  past  Millenniums  henceforth  must  give 
way 
To  the  last  new  Millennium  of  Orator  Irving. 

Go  on,  mighty  man — doom  them  all  to  the  shelf, — 
And  when  next  thou  with  Prophecy  troublest  thy 
sconce, 
Oh  forget  not,  I  pray  thee,  to  prove  that  thyself 
A.ri  the  Beast  (Chapter  iv.)  that  sees  nine  ways  at 
once. 


THE  THREE  DOCTORS. 
Doctoribus  la?tamiir  tribiis. 

Though  many  great  Doctors  there  be. 
There  are  three  that  all  Doctors  out-top, 

Doctor  Eady,  that  famous  M.  D., 

Doctor  Southey,  and  dear  Dc  ctor  Slop."' 


1326. 


Tlie  purger — tlie  proser — the  bard — 

All  quacks  in  a  dilTerent  style  ; 
Doctor  Southey  writes  books  by  the  yard, 

Doctor  Eady  writes  puHs  by  the  mile !"' 

Doctor  Slop,  in  no  merit  outdone 

By  his  scribbling  or  physicking  brother. 

Can  dose  us  with  stuU'like  tlie  one. 

Ay,  and  doze  us  with  stulT  like  the  oilier. 

Doctor  Eady  good  company  keeps 

With  "  No  Popery"  scribes  on  the  walla ; 

Doctor  Southey  as  gloriously  sleeps 

Willi  "  No  Popery"  scribes,  on  the  stalls. 

Doctor  Slop,  upon  subjects  divine. 

Such  bedlamite  slaver  lets  drop, 
That,  if  Eady  should  take  the  Tnad  line. 

He'll  be  sure  of  a  patient  in  Slop. 

Seven  millions  of  Papists,  no  less. 

Doctor  Southey  attacks,  like  a  Turk  ;"' 

Doctor  Eady,  less  bold,  I  confess. 
Attacks  but  his  maid-of-all-work.^' 

Doctor  Southey,  for  his  grand  attack, 
Both  a  laureate  and  pensioner  is  ; 

While  poor  Doctor  Eady,  alack, 

Has  been  had  up  to  Bow-street,  for  his ! 

And  truly,  the  law  does  so  blunder. 

That,  though  little  blood  has  been  spilt,  he 

May  probably  suft'er  as,  under 

The  Chalking  Act,  known  to  be  guilty. 

So  much  for  the  merits  sublime 

(With  whose  catalogue  ne'er  should  I  stop) 
Of  the  three  greatest  lights  of  our  time. 

Doctor  Eady,  and  Southey,  and  Slop  ! 

Should  you  ask  me,  to  7chich  of  tlie  three 
Great  Doctors  tlie  preference  should  fall, 

As  a  m.atler  of  course,  I  agree 
Doctor  Eady  must  go  to  the  wall. 

But  as  Southey  with  laurels  is  crown'd. 
And  Slop  with  a  wig  and  a  tail  is. 

Let  Eady's  bright  temples  be  bound 

With  a  swingeing  "  Corona  Muralis .'"" 


228 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  TUFT-HUNTER. 

Lament,  lament,  Sir  Lsaae  He.ird, 

Put  mourning  round  thy  p.ige,  Debrett, 

For  here  lies  one,  who  ne'er  preferr*!! 
A  Viscount  to  .a  Marquis  yet. 

Beside  liim  pl.ice  the  God  of  Wit, 

Before  him  Beauty's  rosiest  girls. 
Apollo  for  a  star  he'd  quit, 

And  Love's  own  sister  for  an  Earl's. 

Did  niggard  fate  no  peers  afford, 

He  took,  of  course,  to  peers'  relations  ; 

And,  rather  than  not  sport  a  Lord, 
Put  up  with  even  the  last  creations. 

Even  Irish  names,  could  he  but  tag  'em 

With  "  Lord"  and  "  Duke,"  were  sweet  to  call ; 

And,  at  a  pincli,  Lord  Ballyraggum 
Was  better  than  no  Lord  at  all. 

Heaven  grant  him  now  some  noble  nook, 

For,  rest  his  soul !  he'd  ratlier  be 
Genteelly  d.imn'd  beside  a  Duke, 

Than  saved  in  vulgar  company. 


ODE  TO  A  II.\T. 


iGdlflcat  caput.' 


'  alttiin 

JOVENAl.. 


1820. 


IFaii.,  reverend  Hat  I — sublime  'mid  all 
The  minor  fells  that  round  thee  grovel; — 

Thou,  that  the  Gods  «  a  Deltiv"  call, 

Wliile  meaner  mortals  c.iU  thee  "  shovel." 

When  on  Ihy  sh.-ipe  (like  i>yramid. 

Cut  horizontally  in  two)" 
I  r.ipt-ured  g.-izo,  what  dreams,  unbid. 

Of  stalls  and  mitres  bless  my  view  ! 

T'lat  brim  of  brims,  so  sleekly  good — 
Not  flapji'd,  like  dull  Wcsleyans',  down, 

But  hioking  (as  all  cliureliineji's  should) 
Dcvoiilly  upward — towards  the  crown. 

•  iods!  when  I  gaze  upon  that  brim, 

So  redolent  of  Church  nil  over, 
What  Hwanns  of  Tithes,  in  vision  dim, — 
Hjme  pig-tnil'd,  some  like  cherubim, 

Wltli  dncklin^K*  wiiign — around  it  hover! 


Tenths  of  all  dead  and  living  things, 
That  Nature  into  being  brings. 
From  calves  and  corn  to  chitterlings. 

Say.  holy  Hat,  that  hast,  of  cocks, 
The  very  cock  most  orthodox. 
To  jehich,  of  all  the  well-fed  throng 
Of  Zion,'*  joy'st  thou  to  belong  ? 
Tliou'rt  not  Sir  Harcourt  Lees's — no — 

For  hats  grow  like  the  heads  that  wear  'em ; 
And  hats,  on  heads  like  his,  would  grow 

Particularly  liarum-scarum. 
Who  knows  but  thou  may'st  deck  the  p.ato 
Of  that  filmed  Doctor  Adamthwaite, 
(The  reverend  rat,  whom  we  saw  stand 
On  his  hind-legs  in  Westmoreland.) 
Who  changed  so  quick  from  Hue  to  yellow^ 

And  would  from  yellow  back  to  blue, 
And  back  again,  convenient  fellow, 

If  'twere  his  interest  so  to  do. 

Or,  haply,  smartest  of  triangles, 

Thou  art  the  hat  of  Doctor  Owen ; 
The  hat  that,  to  his  vestry  wrangles, 

That  venerable  priest  doth  go  in, — 
And,  then  and  there,  amid  the  stare 
Of  all  St.  Olave's,  takes  the  chair, 
And  quotes,  with  phiz  right  orthodo.\ 

Th'  example  of  his  reverend  brothers. 
To  prove  that  priests  all  llocco  their  iloc  <.s. 

And  he  must  fleece  as  well  as  others. 

Bless'd  Hat!  (whoe'er  thy  lord  m.ay  be) 
Thus  low  I  take  off  mine  to  thee, 
The  homage  of  a  layman's  castor. 
To  the  spruce  delta  of  his  pastor. 
Oh  mayst  thou  be,  as  tliou  procecdcst. 

Still  smarter  cock'd,  still  brush'd  the  brighter 
Till,  bowing  all  the  w.ny,  thou  loadest 

Thy  sleek  possessor  to  .1  mitre ! 


NEWS  FOR  COUNTRY, COUSINS. 

vna. 
Dear  Coz,  as  I  know  neither  you  nor  Miss  Draper, 
When  Parliament's  up,  ever  lake  in  a  paper. 
But  trust  for  your  news  to  such  stray  odds  ;ind  endii 
As  you  chance  to  |)ii-k  up  from  polilical  friends — 
Being  one  of  this  well-lnform'd  class,  I  sit  down 
To  transmit  you  the  last  newest  news  that's  in  town. 

As  to  Greece  and   Lord  Cochrane,  things  conld'rit 
look  belter — 
His  Lordship  (who  prDmisos  now  to  fight  faster"" 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOEOUS  POEMS. 


ri9 


Has  just  taken  Rliodes,  and  dispatch'd  off  a  letter 

To  Daniel  O'Connell,  to  make  him  Grand  Master; 
Engaging  to  eliange  the  old  name,  if  he  can, 
From  tlie  Knights  of  St.  Jolm  to  (lie  Kniglits  of 

St.  Dan  ;— 
Or,  if  Dan  slionid  prefer  (as  a  still  better  whim) 
Being  made  the  Colossus,  'tis  all  one  to  him. 

From  Russia  the  last  accounts  are  tliiit  tlie  Czar — 

Most  generous  and  kind,  as  all  sovereigns  are. 

And  whose  first  princely  act  (as  you  know,  I  sup- 
pose) 

Was    to    give    away    all    his    late    brotlicr's    old 
clothes—" 

[s  now  busy  collecting  with  brotherly  care. 
The   late  Emperor's   nightc.ips,  and   tliinks  of 
bestowing 

One  nightcap  apiece  (if  lie  has  them  to  spare) 
On  all  the  distingiiish'd  old  ladies  now  going. 

(While  I  write,  an  arriv.al  from  Rig.a — tlie  "Bro- 
thers"— 

Having  nightcaps  on  board   for  Lord   Eldoii  and 
others.) 

Last  advices  from  India — Sir  Archy,  'tis  thought, 
W.as  near  c.atcliing  a  Tartar,  (the  first  ever  caught 
In  N.  Lat.  21) — and  his  Highness  Burmese, 
Being  very  hard  press'd  to  shell  out  the  rupees. 
And  not  having  rhino  sufficient,  they  say,  meant 
To  pawn  his  august  Golden  Foot^"  for  the  p.ayment. 
(How  lucky  for  monarchs,  that  thus,  when   they 

choose. 
Can  establisli  a  running  .account  with  the  Jews !) 
The  security  being  what  Rothschild  calls  "  goot," 
A  loan  will  be  shortly,  of  course,  set  on  foot; 
The  parties  are  Rothschild,  A.  Baring  iind  Co. 
With  three  other  great  pawnbrokers :  each  takes  a 

toe, 
And  engages  (lest  Gold-foot  sliould  give  us  leg-haW, 
As  he  did  once  before)  to  pay  down  on  tlie  nail. 

Tills  is  .all  for  the  present — what  vile  pens  and  p.aper ! 
Yourt  truly,  dear  Cousin — best  love  to  3Iiss  Draper. 

September,  1820. 


A  VISION. 

BY   THE    AliTIIOE    OF    CHRISTABEL. 

"Up!"  s.aid  the  Spirit,  .and,  ere  I  could  pray 
One  hasty  orison,  whirl'd  me  away 
To  a  Limbo,  lying — I  wist  not  where — 
Above  or  below,  in  earth  or  air; 


For  it  glimmer'd  o'er  with  a  doubtful  light, 
One  could'nt  say  whether  'twas  day  or  night ; 
And  'twas  cross'd  by  many  a  mazy  track, 
One  didn't  know  how  to  get  on  or  back; 
And  I  felt  like  a  needle  that's  going  astr.ay 
(Witli  its  one  eye  out)  through  a  bundle  of  h.aj 
When  the  Spirit  he  grinn'd,  and  whisper'd  me, 
"Thou'rt  now  in  the  Court  of  Chancery '." 

Around  mo  Ihtted  unnumber'd  swarms 
Of  shapeless,, bodiless,  tailless  forms; 
(Like  bottled-up  b.abes,  that  grace  the  room 
Of  that  worthy  knight,  Sir  Everard  Home) — 
All  of  them,  things  half-kill'd  in  rearing; 
Some  were  lame — some  wanted  hearing; 
Some  h.ad  through  half  a  century  run, 
Though  they  hadn't  a  leg  to  stand  upon. 
Others,  more  merry,  as  just  beginning, 
Around  on  a  point  of  law  were  spinninfr; 
Or  balanced  aloft,  'twixt  Bill  and  Answer, 
Lead  at  e.ach  end,  like  a  tight-rope  dancer. 
Some  were  so  cross,  that  nothing  could  please  'em  ,■ 
Some  gulp'ddown  affidavits  to  e.ase  'em; — 
All  were  in  motion,  yet  never  a  one. 
Let  it  7nove  as  it  might,  could  ever  move  on. 
"  These,"  said  the  Spirit,  "  you  plainly  see, 
"  Are  what  they  call  Suits  in  Chancery  !" 

I  heard  a  loud  screaming  of  old  and  young, 

Like  a  chorus  by  fifty  Vellutis  sung; 

Or  an  Irish  Dump  ("  the  words  by  Moore") 

At  an  amateur  concert  scre.am'd  in  score ; 

So  harsh  on  my  ear  that  wailing  fell 

Of  the  wretches  who  in  this  Limbo  dwell ' 

It  seem'd  like  the  dism.al  symphony 

Of  the  sh.apes  jEneas  in  hell  did  see  ; 

Or  those  frogs,  whose  legs  a  barbarous  coolc 

Cut  oft',  and  left  the  frogs  in  the  brook, 

To  cry  all  night,  till  life's  last  dregs, 

"  Give  us  our  legs  ! — give  us  our  legs !" 

Touch'd  with  the  sad  and  sorrowful  scene, 

I  ask'd  what  all  this  yell  might  mean, 

When  the  Spirit  replied,  with  a  gi-in  of  glee, 

"'Tis  the  cry  of  the  Suitors  in  Chanc->rvl" 

I  look'd,  and  I  saw  a  wizard  rise," 

With  a  wig  like  a  cloud  before  men's  eyes. 

In  his  aged  liand  he  held  a  wand. 

Wherewith  he  beckon'd  his  embryo  band. 

And  they  moved  and  moved,  as  he  waved  it  o'ei 

But  they  never  got  on  one  inch  the  more. 

And  still  they  kept  limping  to  and  fro. 

Like  Ariels  round  old  Prospero — 

Saying,  '•  Dear  Master,  let  us  go," 

But  still  old  Prospero  answer'd  "  No  " 


230 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


And  I  heard,  the  while,  that  wizard  elf 

Muttering-,  muttering  spells  to  himself. 

While  o'er  as  many  old  papers  he  turn'd, 

As  Hume  e'er  moved  for,  or  Omar  burn'd. 

He  talk'd  of  his  virtue — "  though  some,  less  nice, 

(He  own'd  with  a  sigli)  preferr'd  his  Vice" — 

And  he  said,  "  I  think"—"  I  doubt"—"  I  hope," 

Call'd  God  to  witness,  and  damn'd  the  Pope ; 

With  many  more  sleights  of  tongue  and  hand 

I  couldn't,  for  the  soul  of  me,  understand. 

Amazed  and  posed,  I  was  just  about 

To  ask  his  name,  when  the  screams  without. 

The  merciless  clack  of  the  imps  within. 

And  that  conjuror's  muttcrings,  made  such  a  din. 

That,  startled,  I  woke — leap'd  up  in  my  bed — 

Found  tlie  Spirit,  tiie  imps,  and  the  conjuror  fled, 

And  bloss'd  my  stars,  right  pleased  to  see, 

That  I  wasn't,  as  yet,  in  Chancery. 


THE  PETITION  OF  THE  ORANGEMEN  OF 
IRELAND. 

182C. 
To  the  people  of  England,  the  humble  Petition 

Of  Ireland's  disconsolate  Orangemen,  showing — 
That  sad,  very  sad,  is  our  present  condition  ; — 
Our  jobbing  all   gone,  and    our   noble    selves 
going;— 

That,  firniing  one  seventh,  witliin  a  few  fraction.s, 
Of  Ircland'.s  seven  millions   of  hot  heads  and 
hearts. 

We  hold  it  the  basest  of  all  base  transactions 
To  keep  U3  from  niurd'ring  the  other  six  parts ; — 

That,  as  to  laws  made  for  the  good  of  tlie  many. 
We  humbly  suggest  there  is  nothing  less  true ; 

As  all  human  laws  (and  our  own,  more  tlian  any) 
Arc  made  by  mulfor  a  particular  few  ; — 

That  much  it  delights  every  true  Orange  brother. 
To  see  you,  in  England,  such  ardor  evince. 

In  discussing  which  sect  most  tormented  the  other, 
And  burn'd  with  moat  guslo,  nomc  hundred  years 
since ; — 

riiat  we  love  to  buliohl,  while  Old  England  grows 
faint, 
Messrs.  Southey  and  Iluller  nigh  coming  to  blows. 
To  deride  wlielhcr  Diinstan,   that   slrong-bodied 
.Saint, 
Ever  truly  nnd  really  pull'd  llio  Devil's  now; —    j 


Whether  t'other  Sahit,  Dominie,  burnt  the  Devil's 
paw — 
Whether  Edwy  intrigued  with  Elgiva's  old  mo- 
ther—'» 
And  many  such  points,  from  which  Southey  can 
draw 
Conclusions  most  apt  for  our  hating  each  other. 

Th.at  'tis  very  well  known  this  devout  Irish  nation 
Has  now,  for  some  ages,  gone  happily  on, 

Belie\ing  in  two  kinds  of  Substantiation, 

One  party  in  Trans  and  tlie  other  in  Con  ; — " 

That  we,  your  petitioning  Cons,  have,  in  right 
Of  the  said  monosyllable,  ravaged  the  lands, 
.  And  embezzled  the  goods,  and  annoy'd,  day  and 
night, 
Both  the  bodies  and  souls  of  the  sticklers  for 
Trans ; — 

That  we  trust  to  Peel,  Eldon,  and  other  such  sages, 
For  keeping  us  still  in  the  same  state  of  mind  ; 

Pretty  much  as  the  world  used  to  be  in  those  ages, 
When  still  smaller  syllables  madden'd  man- 
kind ; — 

\^'lK'Il  the  words  pr  and  per*"  served  as  well,  to  an- 
noy 
One's  neighbors  and   friends   with,  as  con  and 
trans  now ; 
And  Christians,  like  Southey,  who  stickled  for  oi, 
Cut  the  throats  of  all  Christians  who  stickled  for 

OM." 

Tliat,  relying  on  England,  whose  kindness  already 
So  often  has  help'd  us  to  play  this  game  o'er, 

We  have  got  our  red  co.its  and  our  carabines  ready, 
And  wait  but  the  word  to  show  sport,  as  before. 

That,  as  to  the  expense — the  few  niillions,  or  so. 
Which  for  all  such  divcr.'iions  .Tolin  Hull  has  to 
pay— 
'Tis,  at  least,  a  great  comlort  to  John  Hull  to  know, 
Tliat  to  Orangemen's  pockets  'twi  1  all  liiul  its 

way. 
For  which  your  petitioners  ever  ivill  pray 

&c.  &e.  &e.  &e.  &.c. 


1 


SATIEICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


231 


COTTON  AND  CORN. 

A    DIALOGUE. 

Said  Cotton  to  Corn,  t'other  d;iy, 
As  tliey  mt't  .nnd  exchanged  a  salute — 

(Squire  Corn  in  hh  carriage  so  gay, 
Poor  Cotton,  half  famish'd,  on  foot:) 

"  Groat  Squire,  if  it  isn't  uncivil 
"  To  hint  at  starvation  before  you, 

"  Lool<  down  on  a  poor  liungry  devil, 

"  And  give  liim  some  bread,  I  implore  you  !" 

Quoth  Corn  then,  in  answer  to  Cotton, 
Perceiving  he  meant  to  make/rce — 

'  Low  fellow,  you've  surely  forgotten 
"  The  distance  between  you  and  me ! 

"  To  expect  that  wo.  Peers  of  high  birth, 
"  Should  waste  our  illustrious  acres, 

"  For  no  other  purpose  on  earth 

"  Than  to  fatten  cursed  calico-makers  ! — 

"  That  Bisliops  to  bobbins  should  bend — 
"  Should  stoop  from  tlieir  Bench's  sublimity, 

"  Great  dealers  in  Imvn,  to  befriend 
"  Such  contemptible  dealers  in  dimity  ! 

"  No — vile  Manufacture  !  ne'er  harbor 
"  A  hope  to  be  fed  at  our  boards ; — 

"  Base  offspring  of  Arkwright  the  barber, 
"  What  claim  canst  ihoti  have  upon  Lords  ? 

"  No — thanks  to  tlie  taxes  and  debt, 

"  And  the  triumph  of  paper  o'er  guineas, 

"  Our  race  of  Lord  Jemrays,  as  yet, 

"  May  defy  your  whole  rabble  of  Jennys .'" 

So  saying — whip,  crack,  and  away 

Went  Corn  in  his  chaise  through  the  throng. 
So  headlong,  I  lieard  them  all  say, 
■    "  Squire  Corn  would  bo  down,  before  long." 


THE  CANONIZATION  OF  SAINT  BUTTER- 
WORTH. 

"  A  Christian  of  the  best  edition." — Rabelais. 

Canonize  him ! — yea,  verily,  we'll  canonize  him  ; 

Though  Cant  is  his  hobby,  and  meddling  his  bliss. 
Though  sages  may  pity,  and  wits  may  despise  him. 

He'll  ne'er  make  a  bit  the  worse  Saint  for  all  this. 


Descend,  all  ye  Spirits,  that  ever  yet  spread 

The  dominion  of  Humbug  o'er  land  and  o'er  .sea. 

Descend  on  bur  Butterworlh's  biblical  head, 
Thrice-Great,  Bibliopolist,  Saint,  and  M.  P. 

Come,  shade   of  Joann.-i,   come   down    from    thy 
sphere. 

And  bring  little  Shilo'n — if 'tisn't  too  far — 
Such  a  sight  will  to  Buttorworth's  bosom  bo  dear, 

His  conceptions  and  thine  being  much  on  a  par. 

Nor  blush,  Saint  Joanna,  once  more  to  behold 
A  world  thou  hast  lionor'd  by  cheating  so  many ; 

Thou'lt  find  still  among  us  one  Personage  old, 
Who  .also  by  tricks  and  the  Seals"  makes  a  penny. 

Thou,  too,  of  the  Shakers,  divine  Mother  Lee !" 

Thy  smiles  to  beatified  Butterworth  deign  ; 
Two  "  lights  of  the  Gentiles"  are  tliou,  Anne,  and 
he, 
One  hallowing  Fleet  Street,  and  t'other  Toad 
Lane !" 

The  Heathen,  we  know,  made  their  Gods  out  of 
wood, 
And  Saints  may  be  framed  of  as  handy  mate- 
rials ;— 
Old  women  and  Buttcrworths  make  just  as  good 
As  any  tlie  Pope  ever  boolc'd  as  Ethereals. 

Stand    forth,    Man    of   Bibles ! — not    Jfahomet's 
pigeon, 
Wlien,  perch'd  on  the  Koran,  lie  dropp'd  there, 
they  say, 
Strong  marks  of  his  faith,  ever  shed  o'er  religion 
Such  glory  as  Butterworth  sheds  every  day. 

Great  Galen  of  souls,  with  wh.at  vigor  he  crams 
Down  Erin's  idolatrous  throats,  till  they  crack 
again. 
Bolus  on  bolus,  good  m.an ! — and  then  damns 
Both  then-  stomachs  and  souls,  if  they  dare  cast 
them  b.ack  again. 

How  well  might  his  shop — as  a  type  representing 
The  creed  of  himself  and  his  s.anctificd  clan. 

On  his  counter  exhibit  "  tlio  Art  of  Tormenting." 
Bound   neatly,   .and   letter'd   "  Whole   Duty   of 
Man!" 

Canonize  him ! — by  Judas,  we  tvill  canonize  him  : 
For  Cant  is  his  hobby,  and  twaddling  his  bliss  • 

And,  though  wise  men  may  pity  and  wits  may  de- 
spise him. 
He'll  make  but  the  better  sAo^j-saint  for  .all  thLt 


232 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Call  quickly  together  the  whole  tribe  of  Canters, 
Convoke  all  the  serious  Tag-rag  of  tlie  nation ; 

Bring  Shakers  and   Snufflers  and   Jumpers   and 
Ranters, 
To  witness  their  Butterworth's  Canonization ! 

Vea,  humbly  I've  ventured  his  merits  to  paint, 
Yea,  feebly  have  tried  all  his  gifts  to  portray, 

And  they  form  a  sum-total  for  making  a  Saint, 
That  the  Devil's  own  Advocate  could  not  gain- 
say. 

Jump  liigh,  all  ye  Jumpers,  ye  Ranters  all  roar. 
While  Butterworth's  spirit,  upraised  from  your 
eyes, 

like  a  kite  made  of  foolscap,  in  glory  shall  soar. 
With  a  long  tail  of  rubbisli  behind,  to  the  skies ! 


AN  mCANTATIOlf. 

8CNG    BY   TEE   BOBBLE   SPdlT. 

Air, — Come  icilJt  me,  and  we  uiil  go 
li'here  the  rocks  of  coral  ^oid 

Come  with  me,  and  we  will  blow 
Lots  of  bubbles,  as  we  go  ; 
Bubbles,  bright  as  ever  Hope 
Drew  from  fancy — or  from  soap  ; 
Bright  as  e'er  the  Soutli  Sea  sent 
From  its  frothy  element  I 
Come  with  me,  and  we  will  blow 
Lots  of  bubbles,  as  we  go. 
Mix  the  lather,  Johnny  Wilks, 
Thou,  who  rhyni'st  so  well  to  bilks ;" 
Mix  the  hither — who  can  be 
Fitter  for  such  task  than  thee. 
Great  M.  P.  fur  Sudshmy] 

Now  the  frothy  charm  is  ripe, 
I'ulTing  Peter,"  bring  thy  pipe, — 
Thou,  whom  ancient  Coventry 
Once  so  dearly  loved,  that  she 
Knew  not  which  to  her  was  sweeter. 
Peeping  Tom  or  Puffing  Peter; — 
Puff  the  bubbles  high  in  air, 
I'nlTthy  best  to  keep  them  there. 

Brnvo,  bravo,  Peter  Sloore ! 
Now  (he  rainbow  linmbiigH*'  BOar, 
Glill'ring  all  with  golden  hues, 
Such  ns  Imunt  the  dreams  of  Jow!> ; — 
Home  reflccling  miIuoh  that  lie 
L'tidcr  Chili's  ylowiiig  sky, 


Some,  those  virgin  pearls  that  sleep 
Cloister'd  in  the  southern  deep; 
Others,  as  if  lent  a  ray 
From  the  streaming  Milky  Way, 
Glist'ning  o'er  with  curds  and  whey 
From  the  cows  of  Aldcrney. 

Now's  the  moment — who  shall  first 
Catch  the  bubbles,  ere  tliey  burst? 
Run,  ye  Squires,  ye  Viscounts,  run, 
Brogden,  Teynham,  Palmerston; — 
John  Wilks  junior  runs  beside  ye  ! 
Take  the  good  the  knaves  provide  ye  !" 
See,  with  upturn'd  eyes  and  hands. 
Where  the  Sharem-Mi,"  Brogden,  stands, 
Gaping  for  the  froth  to  fall 
Down  his  gullet — lye  and  all. 

See! 

But,  hark,  my  time  is  out — 
Now,  like  some  great  water-spout, 
Scatter'd  by  the  cannon's  tliunder. 
Burst,  ye  bubbles,  all  asunder ! 

[Here  the  stage  darkens — a  discordant  crash  is  heard  from 
the  orchestra — the  broken  bubbles  descend  in  a  snponaceoAS  but 
uncleanly  mist  over  the  heads  of  t/tc  Dramatis  Persona^  and  the 
scene  drppsy  leaving  the  bubble-hunters — all  in  the  suns  ^ 


ISM. 


A  DREAM  OF  TURTLE. 

BY    Sill    W.    CURTIS. 

'TwAS  evening  time,  in  the  twilight  sweet 
I  sail'd  along,  when — whom  should  I  meet 
But  a  Turtle  journeying  o'er  the  sea, 
"  On  tlie  service  of  his  Majesty."  "" 


When  spying  him  first  through  twilight  dim. 
I  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  him; 
But  said  to  myself,  as  slow  he  plied 
His  fins,  and  roll'd  from  side  to  side 
Conceitedly  o'er  the  watery  path — 
"'Tis  my  Lord  of  Slowell  takhig  a  bath, 
"  And  I  hear  him  down  among  the  fishes, 
"Quoting  Vatel  and  Burgersdicius !" 
But,  no — 'twas,  indeed,  a  Turtle,  wide 
And  plnmp  as  ever  these  eyes  descried; 
A  Tnrlle,  juicy  as  ever  yet 
(ilucd  up  the  lips  of  a  Haronct ! 
And  much  did  it  grieve  my  soul  to  see 
That  an  anhnni  of  such  dignity 
Like  an  absentee  abroad  should  roaui. 
When  ho  ought  to  slay  and  be  ate  at  home, 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


9  0'> 


But  ..ow  "  a  change  came  o'er  my  dream," 

Like  the  magic  laiitom'a  shifting  slider;— 
I  look'd,  and  saw,  l)y  the  evening  beam, 

On  the  back  oftliat  Turtle  sat  a  rider — 
A  goodly  man,  with  an  eye  so  merry, 
T  knew  'twas  our  Foreign  Secretary,^' 
Wlio  there,  at  his  ease,  did  sit  and  smile, 
Like  Waterton  on  his  crocodile ;"  • 
Cracking  such  jokes,  at  ev'ry  motion, 

As  made  the  Turtle  sciueak  with  glee, 
And  own  they  gave  him  a  lively  notion 

Of  what  his/oi-cetZ-meat  balls  would  be. 

So,  on  the  Sec.  in  his  glory  went 

Over  that  briny  element, 

Waving  his  hand,  as  he  took  farewell. 

With  graceful  air,  and  bidding  me  tell 

Inquiring  friends  that  the  Turtle  and  ho 

Were  gone  on  a  foreign  embassy — 

To  soften  the  heart  of  a  Diplomats, 

Who  is  Icnown  to  doat  upon  verdant  fat, 

And  to  let  admiring  Europe  see, 

That  calipash  and  calipee 

Are  the  lilnglish  forms  of  Diplomacy. 


THE  DONKEY  AND  HIS  PANNIERS. 


-  "  fessus  jam  Biulat  asell  u3, 


Parce  illi ;  veatrum  delicium  eat  asinus." 

VlRolL,  Copa^ 

A  Donkey,  whose  talent  for  burdens  was  wondrous, 
So  much  that  you'd  swear  he  rejoiced  in  a  load. 

One  day  had  to  jog  under  panniers  so  pond'rous. 
That — down  the  poor  Donkey  fell  smack  on  the 
road ! 

His  owners  and  drivers  stood  round  in  amaze — 
^Vllat  I  Neddy,  the  patient,  the  prosperous  Neddy, 

So  easy  to  drive,  tlirough  the  dirtiest  ways. 
For  every  description  of  job-work  so  ready! 

One  driver  (whom  Ned  might  have  "hall'd"  as  a 
"  brother")" 
Had  just  been  proclaiming  his  Donkey's  reno^vn 
For  vigor,  for  spirit,  for  one  thing  or  other — 
When,  lo,  'mid  his  praises,  the  Donkey  came 
down ! 

But,    how    to    upraise    him  1 — o?te    shouts,  t'other 
whistles, 
Wliile  Jt'niiy,  the  Conjuror,  wisest  of  all, 
20 


Declared  that  an  "  over-production  of  thistlt.s" — " 
(Here  Nod  gave  a  .stiire) — "was  the  cause  of  his 
fall." 

Another  wise  Solomon  cries,  as  he  passes — 
"  There,  let  lum  alone,  and  the  fit  will  soon  cease , 

"  The  beast  has  been  fighting  with  other  jack-asses, 
"And  this  is  his  mode  of '  transition  to  peace.'" 

Some  look'd  at  his  hoofs,  and,  with  learn'd  grimaces 

Pronounced  that  too  long  without  shoes  ho  had 

gone — 

"  Let  the  blacksmith  provide   hiiu  a  sound  metal 

basis 

(The  wise-acres  said,)  "and  he's  sure  to  jog  on." 

Meanwhile,  the  poor  Neddy,  in  torture  and  fear, 
Lay  under  his  panniers,  scarce  able  to  groan  ; 

And — what  was  still  dolefullcr — lending  an  ear 
To  advisers,  whose  ears  wore  a  match  for  his  own 

At  length,  a  plain  rustic,  whose  wit  went  so  far 
As  to  see  others'  folly,  roared  out,  as  he  pass'd — 

"Quick,  off"  with  the  panniers,  all  dolts,  as  ye  are, 
"  Or,  your  prosperous  Neddy  will  soon  kick  his 

last!" 
October,  1S26. 


ODE  TO  THE  SUBLIME  PORTE. 

1826. 

Great  Sultan,  how  wise  are  thy  state  compositions ! 

And  oh,  above  all,  I  admire  that  Decree, 
In  which  thou  command'st,  that  all  she  politicians 

Shall  forthwith  be  strangled  and  cast  in  flio  sea. 

'Tis  my  fortune  to  know  a  le.an  Benthamite  spin, 
sfer — 
A  maid,  who  her  faith  in  old  Jeremy  puts ; 
Who  talks,  with  a  lisp,  of  "  the  last  new  West- 
■minsler.^'' 
And  hopes  you're  delighted  with  "  Mill  upon 
Gluts ;" 

WIio  tells  you  how  clever  one  Mr.  Fun-blank  is. 
How  charming  his  Articles  'gainst  the  Nobility ; — 

And  assures  you  that  even  a  gentleman's  rank  is, 
In  Jeremy's  school,  of  no  sort  of  utility. 

To  see  her,  ye  Gods,  a  new  Number  perusing — 
Art.  1 . — "  On  the  Needle's  variations,"  by  Place ;" 

Art.  2. — By  her  fav'rite  Fun-blank'° — so  amusing  ! 
"  Dear  man !  he  makes  Poetry  quite  a  T,aw  case  " 


234 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Aet.  3. — '■  Upon  Fallacies,"  Jeremy's  own — 
(Cluef  Fallacy  being,  Ms  hope  to  find  readers  ;) — 

Aet.  4. — "  Upon  Honesty,"  author  unknown ; — 
Akt.  5. — (by  the  young   Mr.  Blill)  "  Hints  to 
Breeders." 

Oh,  Sultan,  oh,  Sultan,  though  oft  for  the  bag 
And  the  bowstring,  like  thee,  I  am  tempted  to 
call- 
Though  drowning's  too  good  for  each  blue-stocking 
hag, 
I  would  bag  this  she  Benthamite  first  of  them  all ! 

And,  lest  she  should  ever  again  lift  her  head 
From  the  watery  bottom,  her  clack  to  renew — 

As  a  clog,  as  a  sinker,  far  better  than  lead, 
I  would  hang  round  her  neck  her  own  darling 
Review. 


CORN   AXD   CATHOLICS. 

Ulrum  liorum 

Dlrius  tiorum  ? — Inccrti  Auctoris, 

Wjlvt  !  Still  those  two  infernal  questions. 
That  with  our  meals,  our  slumbers  mbc — 

That  spoil  our  tempers  and  digestions — 
Eternal  Corn  and  Catliolics  ! 

Gods !  were  their  ever  two  such  bores  ? 

Notliing  else  talked  of  night  or  morn — 
Nothing  in  doors,  or  out  of  doors, 

But  endless  Catholics  and  Corn ! 

Never  was  sucli  a  brace  of  pests— 

Wliile  Ministers,  still  worse  than  cither, 

Skill'd  but  in  feathering  their  nests. 
Plague  us  with  both,  and  settle  neither. 

So  addled  in  my  cranium  meet 
Popery  and  Corn,  that  oft  I  doubt, 

Whether,  tliis  year,  'twas  bonded  Wheat, 
Or  bonded  Papists,  they  let  out. 

Here,  landlords,  here,  polemics  nail  you, 
Arm'd  with  all  rubbish  they  can  rake  uj) ; 

Prices  and  Texts  nt  once  assail  you — 
From  Daniel  tiiese,  and  those  from  Jacob." 

And  when  yon  sleep,  willi  head  still  torn 
Uotw(^en  the  two,  their  sliapcs  you  mix. 

Till  Hotneliincs  Catholics  BCcm  Corn — 
Thon  Corn  again  hccids  Catholics. 


Now,  Dantzic  wheat  before  you  floats — 

Now,  Jesuits  from  California — 
Now  Ceres,  link'd  with  Titus  Oats, 

Comes  dancing  through  the  "  Porta  Cornii:^" 

Oft,  too,  the  Corn  grows  anim.ate. 
And  a  whole  crop  of  heads  appears, 

Like  Papiste,  bearding  Churcli  and  State — 
Tliemselves,  together  hy  the  ears  ! 

In  short,  these  torments  never  cease ; 

And  oft  I  wish  myself  tnansferr'd  off 
To  some  far,  lonely  land  of  peace. 

Where  Corn  or  Papists  ne'er  were  heard  o£ 

Yes,  waft  me,  Parry,  to  the  Pole ; 

For — if  my  fate  is  to  be  chosen 
'TwLxt  bores  and  icebergs — on  my  soul, 

I'd  rather,  of  the  two,  be  frozen  ! 


A  CASE  OF  LIBEL.      - 
*'  The  greater  tlie  Irulli,  the  worae  the  libel." 

A  CERTAIN  Sprite,  who  dwells  below, 

('Twere  a  libel,  perhaps,  to  mention  where,) 

Come  up  iitcog.,  some  ye-ars  ago. 

To  try,  for  a  eliange,  the  London  air. 

So  well  he  look'd,  and  drcss'd,  and  talk'd. 
And  hid  liis  tail  and  horns  so  handy. 

You'd  hardly  known  him  as  ho  walk'd, 
From  Cooke  or  any  other  Dandy. 

(His  horns,  it  seems,  are  made  t'  unscrew ; 

So,  he  h.is  but  to  take  tliom  out  of  the  socket. 
And — just  as  some  fine  liiisbands  do — 

Conveniently  clap  thorn  into  his  pocket.) 

In  short,  he  look'd  cxtreinoly  natty. 

And  even  contrived — to  his  own  great  wondoi- 
By  dint  of  sundry  scents  from  Gattie 

To  keep  the  sulphurous  hogo  under. 

And  so  my  gentleman  hoof'd  aoout. 

Unknown  to  all  but  a  chosen  few 
At  White's  and  Crockford's,  where,  no  dmililT 

He  had  many  posl-nbils  falling  due. 

Alike  a  gamester  and  a  wit. 

At  night  he  was  seen  with  Crockford's  crow, 
At  mom  with  learned  dames  would  slt^ — 

So  p.iss'd  Ins  lime  'Iwixt  hiack  and  blue. 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOEOUS  POEMS. 


235 


Some  wisli'd  to  make  him  an  M.  P., 

But,  finding  Wi'.ljs  was  also  one,  he 
Swore  in  a  rage,  "  he'd  ho  d — d,  if  he 

"  Would  ever  sit  in  one  house  with  Johnny." 

At  length,  as  secrets  travel  fast, 

And  devils,  whether  he  or  she, 
Are  sure  to  be  found  out  at  last. 

The  affair  got  wind  most  rapidl-y. 

The  Press,  the  impartial  Press,  that  snubs 
Alike  a  fiend's  or  an  angel's  capers — 

Miss  Paton's  soon  as  Beelzebub's — 
Fired  offa  squib  in  the  morning  papers : 

"  We  warn  good  men  to  keep  aloof 
"  From  a  grim  old  Dandy,  seen  about, 

"  With  a  fire-proof  wig,  and  a  cloven  hoof 
"  Through  a  neat-cut  Iloby  smoking  out." 

Now, — the  Devil  being  a  gentleman. 

Who  piques  himself  on  well-bred  dealings, — 

You  may  guess,  when  o'er  these  lines  he  ran. 
How  much  they  hurt  and  shock'd  his  feelings. 

Away  he  posts  to  a  JIan  of  Law, 
And  'twould  make  you  laugh  co-uld  you  have  seen 
'em, 
As  paw  shook  h.and,  .and  hand  shook  paw, 
And  'twas  "  hail,  good  fellow,  well  met,"  between 
'em. 

Straight  an  indictment  was  preferr'd — 
And  much  the  Devil  enjoy'd  the  jest, 

When,  asking  about  the  Bench,  he  heard 
That,  of  all  Judges,  his  own  was  Best.'''' 

In  vain  Defendant  proffer'd  proof 

That  Plantiff's  self  was  the  Father  of  Evil- 
Brought  Hoby  forth,  to  swear  to  the  hoof. 

And  Stultz  to  speak  to  the  tail  of  the  Devil. 

The  Jury  (saints,  all  snug  and  rich. 

And  readers  of  virtuous  Sund.iy  Papers) 

Found  for  the  plantiff — on  hearing  which 
The  Devil  gave  one  of  his  loftiest  capers. 

For  oh,  'tw.is  nuts  to  the  Father  of  Lies 
(As  this  wily  fiend  is  named  in  the  Bible) 

I'o  find  it  settled  by  laws  so  wise. 
That  the  greater  tlie  truth,  the  worse  the  libel ! 


LITERARY  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Wanted — Authors  ef  all-work,  to  job  for  the  sea- 
son. 

No  matter  which  party,  so  faithful  to  neither ; 
Good  hacks,  who,  if  posed  for  a  rhyme  or  a  reason, 

Can  manage,  like  Hunt,  to  do  without  either 

If  in  jail,  .'ill  the  better  for  out-o'-door  topics  ; 

Your  jail  is  for  Travellers  a  cliarming  retreat ; 
They  can  take  a  day's  rule  for  a  trip  to  the  Tropics, 

And  sail  round  the  world,  at  their  ease,  in  the 
Fleet. 

For  a  Dramatist,  too,  the  most  useful  of  schools — 
He  can  study  high  life  in  the  King's  Bench  com- 
munity ; 

Aristotle  could  scarce  keep  him  more  u-ilhin  rules, 
And  oi place  he,  at  least,  must  adhere  to  the  unity. 

Any  lady  or  gentleman,  come  to  an  age 

To  have  good  "  Reminiscences,"  (three-score  or 
higher,) 
Will  meet  with  encouragement — so  much,  per  page, 
And  the  spelling  and  grammar  both  found  by  the 
buyer. 

No  matter  with  ivhat  their  remembrance  is  stock'd. 
So  they'll  only  remember  the  quantum  desired  ; — 

Enough  to  fill  handsomely  Two  Volumes,  oct., 
Price  twenty-four  shillings,  is  all  that's  required. 

They  may  treat  us,  like  Kelly,  with  the  old  jew- 
(Tesprits, 
Like  Dibdin,  may  tell  of  each  farcical  frolic ; 
Or  kindly  inform  us,  like  Madame  Genlis,°° 

That  gingerbread-cakes  always  give   them  the 
colic, 

Wanted,  also,  a  new  stock  of  Pamphlets  on  Corn, 
By  "  Farmers"  and  "  Landholders" — (worthies 
whose  lands 
Enclosed  all  in  bow-pots,  their  attics  adorn. 

Or,  whose  share  of  the  soil  may  be  seen  on  their 
hands.) 

No-Popery  Sermons,  in  ever  so  dull  a  vein, 

Sure  of  a  market ; — should  they,  too,  who  pen  'em. 

Be  renegade  P.ipists,  like  Murtagh  O'Sullivan,"' 
Something  extra  .illow'd  for  th'  .additional  venom, 

Funds,  Physic,  Corn,  Poetry,  Boxing,  Romance, 
All  excellent  subjects  for  turning  a  penny ; — 

To  write  upon  all  is  an  author's  sole  chance 
For  attaining,  at  last,  the  least  knowledge  of  any 


236 


MOOKE'S  WORKS. 


Nine  times  out  of  ten,  if  his  title  is  good, 

The  material  rcithin  of  small  consequence  is, — 

Let  Iiim  only  write  fine,  and,  if  not  understood. 
Why — that's  the  concern  of  the  reader,  not  his. 

Nota  Bene — an  Essay,  now  printing,  to  show, 
That  Horace  (as  clearly  as  words  could  express  it) 

Was  for  ta,xmg  the  Fund-liolders,  ages  ago, 
WTien  he  wrote  thus — "  Quodcunque  in  Fund  is, 
assess  it."'^ 


THE  IRISH  SLAVE." 


18J7. 


.  HEARD,  as  I  lay,  a  wailing  sound, 
"  He  is  dead — he  is  de.nd,"  the  rumor  flew ; 

And  I  raised  my  chain,  and  turn'd  me  round. 
And  ask'd,  through  the  dungeon-window, "  Wlio  ?' 

I  saw  my  lirid  tormentors  pass ; 

Their  grief  'twas  bliss  to  hear  and  see ! 
For,  never  came  joy  to  them,  alas. 

That  didn't  'oring  deadly  bane  to  me. 

Eager  I  look'd  through  the  mist  of  night. 
And  ask'd,  "  What  foe  of  i:y  •"  ">  hath  died  ? 

"  Is  it  he — that  Doubter  of  law  and  rignt, 

"  Whom  nothing  but  wrong  could  e'er  decide — 

"  Who,  long  as  he  sees  but  wealth  to  win, 
'•  llath  never  yet  felt  a  qualm  or  doubt 

"  Wh.it  suitors  for  justice  he'd  keep  in, 

"  Or  wli.at  suitors  for  freedom  he'd  sliut  out — 

"  Wlio,  a  clog  for  ever  on  Truth's  advance, 

"  Hangs  round  lier,  (like  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea 

"  Round  Sinbad's  neck,)"'  nor  leaves  a  chAnce 
"  Of  sliakiiig  him  off— is't  he  .'  is't  he  V 

Ghastly  my  grim  tormentors  smiled, 

And  thrusting  nie  back  to  my  den  of  woe, 

Willi  a  hinglitcr  even  more  fierce  and  wild 
Tli.m  their  funeral  howling,  answer'd  "  No." 

But  tlie  cry  still  pierced  my  prison-gate, 
And  again  I  ask'd,  "  What  scourge  is  gone  ? 

"  Is  it  he — that  Chief,  ho  coldly  great, 
"  Whom  Fame  unwillingly  shines  upon — 

"  VVIiOHC  name  is  one  of  the  ill-omcii'd  words 
"They  link  with  hale,  on  his  native  plains; 

"  .\nd  why? — they  lent  him  hearts  and  swords, 
"  And  he,  In  return,  cave  hcoITh  nnd  chains ! 


"  Is  it  he  ?  is  it  he  ?"  I  loud  inquired. 

When,  hark  ! — there  sounded  a  Royal  knell ; 

And  I  knew  what  spirit  had  just  expired, 
And,  slave  as  I  was,  my  triumph  fell. 

He  had  pledged  a  hate  unto  me  and  mine. 
He  had  left  to  the  future  nor  hope  nor  choice. 

But  seal'd  that  hate  with  a  Name  Divine, 

And  he  now  was  dead,  .and — I  couldn't  rejoice? 

He  had  f  inn'd  afresh  the  burning  brands 
Of  a  bigotry  waxing  cold  and  dim ; 

He  had  arm'd  anew  my  torturer's  hands, 
And  them  did  I  curse — but  .sigh'd  for  him. 

For,  his  was  the  error  of  head,  not  heart; 

And — oh,  how  beyond  the  ambusli'd  foe, 
Who  to  enmity  adds  the  traitor's  part. 

And  carries  a  smile,  with  a  curse  below  ! 

If  ever  a  heart  made  bright  amends 
For  the  tatal  fault  of  an  erring  head — 

Go,  learn  his  fame  from  the  lips  of  friends, 
In  tlie  orphan's  tear  be  liis  glory  read. 

A  Prince  without  pride,  a  man  witliout  guile, 
To  the  last  unchanging,  warm,  sincere. 

For  Worth  ho  had  over  a  hand  and  smile. 
And  for  Misery  ever  his  purse  and  tear. 

Toucli'd  to  the  lu'art  by  that  solemn  toll, 
I  calmly  sunk  in  my  chains  again ; 

While,  still  as  I  said,  "  Heaven  rest  his  soul !" 
My  mates  of  the  dungeon  sigh'd  "  Amen !" 

January,  t827. 


ODE  TO  FERDINAND. 

Quit  the  sword,  thou  King  of  men. 
Grasp  the  needle  once  again; 
Making  pelticoats  is  far 
Safer  sport  than  making  war; 
TriniiMirig  is  a  better  thing, 
'l'h:in  (ho  being  Iriinm'd,  oh  King! 
Gr.asp  the  needle  bright  with  which 
Thou  didst  for  tliu  Virgin  slitch 
Garment,  such  as  ne'er  hefori' 
Monarch  slilch'd  or  Virgin  wore. 
Not  liir  her,  oh  seinsler  nind)lc! 
Do  I  now  invoke  lliy  tliiriiMc; 
Not  for  her  thy  wanted  .■lid  is, 
Itnl  fnr  certain  grave  old  ladies, 


IH27, 


SATIEICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


237 


Wlio  now  sit  ill  England's  cabinet, 

Quoth  Wig,  with  consequential  air. 

Waiting  lo  be  clothed  in  tabinet. 

"Pooh!  pooh!  you  surely  can't  design 

Or  whatever  choice  Hoffe  is 

"  My  worthy  beaver,  to  compare 

Pit  for  Dowagers  in  office. 

"  Your  station  in  the  state  with  mine. 

First,  thy  care,  oh  King,  devote 

To  Dame  Eldon's  petticoat. 

"  Wlio  meets  the  learned  legal  crew  ? 

Make  it  of  tliat  silk,  whose  dye 

"  Wlio  fronts  the  lordly  Senate's  pride  ? 

Shifts  for  ever  to  the  eye, 

"  The  Wig,  the  Wig,  my  friend — while  you 

Just  as  if  it  hardly  knew 

"  Hang  dangling  on  some  peg  outside. 

Wliethor  to  be  pink  or  blue. 

Or — material  fitter  yet — 

"Oh,  'tis  the  Wig,  tluat  rules,  like  Love, 

If  thou  couldst  a  remnant  get 

"  Senate  and  Court,  with  like  Mat — 

Of  that  stuff,  with  which,  of  old, 

"  And  wards  below,  and  lords  above. 

Sago  Penelope,  we're  told. 

"  For  Law  is  Wig  and  Wig  is  Law 

Still  by  doing  and  undoing. 

Kept  her  suitors  always  wooing — 

"  Who  fried  the  long.  Long  Wellesley  suit. 

Th.it's  the  stuff  which  I  pronounce,  is 

"Which  tried  one's  patience,  in  return? 

Fittest  for  Dame  Eldon's  flounces. 

"  Not  thou,  oh  Hat !— though,  cmild'st  thou  do't 

"Of  oilier  brims"  than  thine  thou'dst  laarn. 

After  this,  we'll  try  thy  hand. 

Mantua-making  Ferdinand, 

"  'Twas  mine  our  master's  toil  to  share  ; 

For  old  goody  Westmoreland  ; 

"  When,  like  '  Truepenny,'  in  the  play,"' 

One  wlio  loves,  like  Motlier  Cole, 

"  He,  ever^  minute,  cried  out  '  Swear,' 

Church  and  State  with  all  her  soul ; 

"  And  merrily  to  swear  went  tliey  ; — "' 

And  has  pass'd  her  life  in  frolics 

Worthy  of  your  Apostolics. 

"  Wlien,  loth  poor  Welleslet  to  condemn,  he 

Choose,  in  dressing  this  old  flirt, 

"  With  nice  discrimination  weigh'd, 

Something  that  wo'n't  show  the  dirt, 

"  Whether  'tw.as  only  'Hell  and  Jemmy,' 

As,  from  habit,  every  minute 

"Or  'Hell  and  Tommy'  th.at  he  play'd. 

Goody  Westmoreland  is.  in  it. 

"  No,  no,  my  worthy  beaver,  no — 

"  Though  cheapen'd  at  the  cheapest  hatter'a, 

This  is  all  I  now  shall  ask. 
Hie  thee,  monarch,  to  thy  task ; 
Finish  Eldon's  frills  and  borders, 

"  And  sm.art  enough,  as  be.avers  go. 

"  Thou  ne'er  wert  made  for  public  matters." 

Then  return  for  further  orders. 

Oh  what  progress  for  our  sake. 

Kings  in  millinery  make ! 

Here  Wig  concluded  his  oration. 

Ribbons,  garters,  and  such  tliinffs. 

Looking,  as  wigs  do,  wondrous  wise ; 

Are  supplied  by  other  Kings, — 

While  thus,  full  cock'd  for  declamation, 

mi                    1                      T  T     *                                T                 1  • 

Ferdinand  his  rank  denotes 

1  he  veteran  Hat  enraged  replies  : — 

By  providing  petticoats. 

"  Ha !  dost  thou  then  so  soon  forget 

"  What  thou,  what  England  owes  to  rae  ? 

"  Ungrateful  Wig ! — when  will  a  debt, 

"  So  deep,  so  vast,  be  owed  to  thee  I 

HAT  vEESus  WIG. 

1337. 

•'  At  the  interment  of  the  Duke  of  York,  Lord  EMon,  in 

"  Think  of  th.at  night,  that  fearful  night. 

order  to  guard  .igainst  the  effects  of  the  damp,  stood  upon  his 

"When,  through  the  steaming  vault  below, 

hat  during  the  whole  of  the  ceremony." 

"  Our  master  d.ared,  in  gont's  despite. 

metus  omnes  et  inexorabile  fatum 

-  "To  venture  his  pod.agric  toe! 

Subjecit  pedibus,  strepitumque  Acherontis  avari. 

TwiXT  Eldon's  Hat  and  Eldon's  Wig 

"  Who  was  it  then,  thou  boaster,  say. 

There  lately  rose  an  altercttion, — 

"  When  tliou  liadst  to  thy  bo.\  sneak'd  oB, 

Etich  with  its  own  importance  big. 

"  Benetifh  his  feet  protecting  Lay, 

Disp  iting  which  most  serves  the  nation. 

"  And  saved  him  from  a  martaj  cough  ? 

238 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


"  Think,  if  Catarrh  had  quench'd  that  sun, 

So,  on  they  went,  a  prosperous  crew 

"  How  blank  this  world  had  been  to  thee ! 

The  people  wise,  the  rulers  clever — 

••  Without  that  head  to  shine  upon, 

And  God  help  those,  like  me  and  you. 

"  Oh  Wig,  where  would  tliy  glory  be  ? 

Who  dared  to  doubt  (as  some  now  do) 

That  the  Perixrinkle  Revenue 

"  You,  too,  yc  Britons, — had  tliis  hope 

Would  thus  go  flourishing  on  for  ever. 

"  Of  Church  and  State  been  ra\-ish'd  from  ye, 

"  Oh  think,  how  Canning  and  the  Pope 

"  Hurra !  hurra  !"  I  he.ard  them  say. 

"  Would  then  have  play'd  up '  Hell  and  Tommy !' 

And  they  cheer'd  and  shouted  all  the  way, 

As  tlie  Great  Panurge  in  glory  went 

"  At  sea,  there's  but  a  plank,  they  say, 

To  open  his  own  dear  Parliament. 

"  'Twixt  seamen  and  anniliilation  ; 

"  A  Hat,  that  awful  moment,  lay 

But  folks  at  length  beg.an  to  doubt 

"'Twixt  England  and  Emancipation  ! 

What  .all  this  conjuring  was  about ; 

For,  every  day,  more  deep  in  debt 

"Oh!!! 

They  saw  their  wealthy  rulers  get : — 

"  Let's  look  (said  they)  the  items  through. 

At  this  "  Oil ! ! !"     The  Times' 

"  And  see  if  what  we're  told  be  true 

Reporter 

"  Of  our  Periwinkle  Revenue." 

Was  taken  poorly  and  retired  ; 

But,  Lord !  they  found  there  wasn't  a  tittle 

Wliieh  made  him  cut  Hat's  rhetoric  shorter, 

Of  truth  in  aught  they  heard  before ; 

Than  justice  to  the  case  required. 

For,  they  g.ain'd  by  Periwinkles  little. 

And  lost  by  Locusts  ten  times  more  ! 

On  bis  return,  he  found  these  shocks 

These  Locusts  are  a  lordly  breed 

Of  eloquence  .all  ended  quite; 

Some  Salmagundians  love  to  feed. 

And  Wig  lay  snoring  in  his  bo.\. 

Of  all  the  beasts  tli.at  ever  were  born, 

And  Hat  was — hung  up  for  the  niglit. 

Your  Locust  most  delights  in  corn ; 

And,  though  his  body  be  l>ut  small. 

To  fatten  him  takes  tho  devil  and  all ! 
"  Oh  fie  !  oh  fie  !"  was  now  the  cry, 

As  they  saw  tho  gaudy  show  go  by. 

And  the  Laird  of  Salmiigundi  went 

•mE  PERIWINKLES  AND  THE  LOCUSTS. 

To  open  his  Locust  P.trliament ! 

A    SAI.M.\GLSDIA.N    HVMN. 

"To  Panurgo  was  OAsfgni-d  tho  I.airdship  of  Pnlraai;:undi, 

wlilcli  was  yearly  worth  0,78U,UIG,78a  ryiils,  besides  llie  rev- 

NEW CREATION  OF  PEERS. 

enue  of  tlic  Loeu3t$  and  PcriitinhUs^  aniouiiling  uiio  year  with 

viothcr  to  tho  value  of  2,4:13,708,"  &c.  &c.— Habelais. 

BATCH    THE    FIIUST. 

"lIuniiA!  hurra!"  I  heard  them  say, 

"  llis  'prentice  han* 

And  they  clicer'd  and  shouted  all  tho  way, 

Ho  tried  on  man, 
And  then  he  nnido  tho  lasses." 

As  the  Laird  of  Salniajruridi  went. 

1827. 

To  open  in  stale  his  Parliament 

"And  now,"  quolli  the  Minister,  (eased  of  nis  pan- 

The Salmagundians  once  were  ricli. 

ics, 
And  ripe  for  each  pastime  the  summer  afTords,) 

Or  thovglu  they  were — no  matter  which— 

"  Having  had  our  full  swing  at  destroying  mechanics, 

For,  every  year,  the  Revenue" 

"  By  way  ai  scl-nff,  lot  us  inako  a  few  Lords. 

From  their  I'eriwinklus  larger  grew  ; 

Anil  their  rulers,  skill'd  in  all  the  trick 

"  "J'is  ]>l('asanl — while  nothing  but  meivantilc  IV.ic- 

And  U'gcnh'main  of  arillirnelic. 

tnrea. 

Knew  how  to  pl.tce  1,  2,  3,  •!, 

"  Some  simple,  some  compound,  is  ilinn'il  in  nur 

5,  6,  7,  8,  and  9  and  10, 

oars — 

Kiieli  vnriiiUH  ways,  behind,  before. 

"  To  tliiiili  that,  (hdiiyh  robli'd  of  all  coarse  nianu- 

That  tlipy  made  a  unit  Heem  a  Hcoro, 

facturcM, 

And  proved  theniRulveM  most  wealthy  men ! 

"  We  still  have  our  fiuo  inanufactiire  of  Peers;— 

SATIEICAL  AND  HUMOEOUS  POEMS. 


23d 


"Tliose  Gohelin  productions,  which  Kings  take  a 
pride 
"  In  engrossing  the  whole  fabrication  .ind  trade 
of; 
«  Choice  tapestry  tilings,  very  grand  on  one  side, 
"  But  showing,  on  t'otlier,  what  rags  they  are 
made  of." 

The  plan  being  fix'd,  raw  material  was  sought, — 
No  matter  how  middling,  if  Tory  the  creed  be ; 

And  first,  to  begin  with.  Squire  W ,  'twas 

thought. 
For  a  Lord  was  as  raw  a  material  as  need  be. 

Next  came,  with  his  fenchant  for  painting  and  pelf. 
The  tasteful  Sir  Charles,"  so  renown'd,  far  and 
near, 

For  purchasing  pictures  and  selling  himself — 
And  holli  (as  the  public  well  knows)  very  dear. 

Beside  him  Sir  John  comes,  \vith  equal  eclat,  in ; — 
Stand  forth,  chosen  pair,  while  for  titles  we 
measure  ye ; 
Both  connoisseur  baronets,  both  fond  of  drawing. 
Sir  John,  after  nature.  Sir  Charles,  on  the  Treas- 
ury. 

But,  bless  us  ! — behold  a  new  candidate  come — 
In  his  hand  he  upholds  a  prescription,  new  writ- 
ten; 
He  poiseth  a  pill-box  'tvvLxt  finger  and  thumb. 
And  he  asketh  a  seat  'mong  the  Peers  of  Great 
Britain !  ! 

"  Forbid  it,"  cried  Jenky,  "ye  Viscounts,  ye  Earls ! — 
"Oh  Rank,  how  thy  glories  would  fall  disen- 
chanted, 
"If  coronets  glisten'd  with  pills  'stead  of  pearls, 
"  And  the  strawberry-leaves   were  by  rhubarb 
supplanted ! 

"  No — ask  it  not,  ask  it  not,  dear  Doctor  Halford — 

"  If  naught  but  a  Peerage  can  gladden  thy  life, 
"  And  young  Master  Halford  as  yet  is  too  small 
for't 
"  Sweet  Doctor,  we'll  make  a  slie  Peer  of  thy 
wife. 

«  Next  to  bearing  a  coronet  on  our  own  brows, 
"  Is  to  bask  in  its  light  from  the  brows  of  an- 
other ; 
*  And  grandeur  o'er  thee   shall   reflect  from  thy 
spouse, 
"  As  o'er  Vesey  Fitzgerald  'twill  shine  through 
his  mother."  " 


Thus  ended  the   First  Batch — and  Jenky,  much 
tired, 
(It  being  no  joke  to  make  Lords  by  the  heap,) 
Took  a  large  drain  of  ether — the  same  that  inspired 
His  speech  'gain**  the  Papists — and  prosed  off 
to  sleep. 


SPEECH  ON  THE  UMBRELLA  QUESTION." 

Br    LOED    ELDON. 

"Vos  hiumhrdtcs  video."^^ — Ex^  Juvcnii.    GEOKail  CanninoO- 

1827. 

My  Lords,  I'm  accused  of  a  trick  that,  God  knows,  is 
The  last  into  which,  at  my  age,  I  could  fall — 

Of  leading  this  grave  House  of  Peers,  by  their  noses, 
Whenever  I  choose,  princes,  bishops,  and  all. 

My  Lords,  on  the  question  betore  us  at  present. 
No  doubt  I  shall  hear,  "  'Tis  that  cursed  old 
fellow, 
"  That  bugbear  of  all  that  is  lib'ral  and  pleasant, 
"  Who   won't  let  the  Lords  give  the  man  his 
umbrella !" 

God  forbid  that  your  Lordships  should  knuckle  to 
me ; 

I  am  ancient — but  were  I  as  old  as  King  Priam, 
Not  much,  I  confess,  to  your  credit  'twould  be, 

To  mind  such  a  twaddling  old  Trojan  as  I  am. 

I  own,  of  our  Protestant  laws,  I  am  jealous. 

And,  long  as  God  spares  me,  will  always  maint.am, 

That,  once  having  taken  men's  rights,  or  umbrellas, 
We  ne'er  should  consent  to  restore  them  again. 

What  security  have  yon,  ye  Bishops  and  Peers, 

If  thus  you  give  back  Mr.  Bell's  parapluie. 
That  he  mayn't,  with  its  stick,  come  about  all  your 
ears, 
And  then — where  would  your  Protestant  peri- 
wigs be  1 

No,  heaven  be  my  judge,  were  I  dying  to-day, 
Ere  I  dropp'd  in  the  grave,  like  a  medlar  that's 
mellow, 
"  For  God's  sake" — at  th.at  awful  moment  I'd  say — 
"  For  God's  s.ake,  doril  give  Mr.  Bell  his  um. 
brella." 

[" This  address,"  says  a  rainisteria!  journal,  "delivered  with 
amazing  empliasis  and  earnestness,  occasioned  an  extrarir- 
dinary  sensation  in  the  House.  Nothing  since  the  memorahle 
address  of  the  Duke  of  York  has  produced  bo  rcma' table  an 
impression."] 


240 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


A  PASTORAL  BALLAD. 

BT    JOHN    DULL. 

•  DuUin,  Varch  IS,  1827.— Friday,  after  the  arrival  of  tha 
packet  briu?in5  the  account  of  the  defeat  of  the  Catholic 
QuesticD,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  orders  were  sent  to  the 
Pigeou  house  to  forward  5.01)0,000  rounds  of  musket-ball 
cartridge  to  the  diflferent  garrisons  round  the  country.*' — Ficf 
man's  Journal. 

I  nA\~E  found  out  a  gift  for  my  Erin, 
A  gift  that  will  surely  content  her ; — 

Sweet  pledge  of  a  love  so  endearing ! 
Five  millions  of  "bullets  I've  sent  her. 

She  ask'd  me  for  Freedom  and  Right, 
But  ill  she  her  wants  understood ; — 

Ball  cartridges,  morning  and  night, 
Is  a  dose  that  will  do  her  more  good. 

There  is  hardly  a  day  of  our  lives 
But  we  read,  in  some  amiahle  trials. 

How  husbands  make  love  to  their  wives 
Through  the  medium  of  hemp  and  of  Wals. 

One  thinks,  with  his  mistress  or  mate 

A  good  halter  is  sure  to  agree — 
That  love-knot  which,  early  and  late, 

I  have  tried,  my  dear  Erin,  on  thee. 

\Vliile  another,  whom  Hymen  has  bless'd 
With  a  wife  that  is  not  over  placid, 

Consigns  the  dear  charmer  to  rest, 
With  a  dose  of  the  best  Prussio  acid. 

Thus,  Erin  !  my  love  do  I  show — 
Thus  quiet  thee,  m.ttc  of  my  bed! 

And,  as  poison  and  hemp  are  too  slow, 
Do  thy  business  with  bullets  instead. 

Sliould  thy  faith  in  my  medicine  be  shaken, 
Ask  Rodcn,  that  mildest  of  saints; 

He'll  tell  thee,  le.id,  inwardly  tiken, 
Alone  can  remove  thy  complaints; — 

That,  bless'd  as  thou  art  in  thy  lot. 

Nothing's  wanted  to  make  it  more  pleasant 

But  being  harig'd,  tortured,  and  sliot, 
Much  oftenor  than  lliou  art  at  present. 

Even  WoUlngton'H  Hclf  hath  averr'd 
Tlion  art  yi-t  but  half  sabred  and  hung. 

And  I  loved  liim  the  more  when  I  heard 
Such  tonderneBH  fall  from  his  tongue. 


So  take  the  five  millions  of  pills, 
Dear  partner,  I  herewith  enclose 

'Tis  the  cure  that  all  quacks  for  thy  ills, 
From  Cromwell  to  Eldon,  propose. 

And  you,  ye  br.aye  bullets  that  go. 
How  I  wish  that,  before  you  set  out. 

The  Decil  of  tlie  Freischutz  could  know 
The  good  work  you  are  going  .ibout. 

For  he'd  charm  ye,  in  spite  of  your  lead, 

Into  such  supernatural  wit. 
That  you'd  all  of  you  know,  as  you  sped, 

Where  a  bullet  of  sense  ou"ht  to  hit. 


A  LATE  SCENE  AT  SWANAGE." 

Regnis  ex-su1  odemtis. — Viro. 

IS27. 

To  Swanage — tliat  noat  little  town,  in  whose  bay 

Fair  Thetis  shows  tiff,  in  her  best  silver  slippers- 
Lord  Bags"  took  his  .annual  trip  t'otlior  day, 
To  taste  the  sea  breezes,  and  cliat  with  the  dippers. 

There — loarii'd  as  he  is  in  conundrums  and  laws — 
Quoth  he  to  his  dame,  (wlioin  he  oft  plays  the 
wag  on,) 
"Wliyarc  chancery  suitors  like  b.-ithers?" — "Be- 
cause 
"  Tlioir  suits  aro  pul  off,  till — they  havon't  a  rag 
on." 

Thus  on  he  went  chatting — but,  lo,  while  he  chats. 
With  a  face  full  of  wonder  around  him  lie  looks; 

For  ho  misses  his  parsons,  his  dear  sliovcl  h.its, 
Who  used  to  flock  round  him  at  S\van:ige  like 
rooks. 

"How  is  tliis.  Lady  Bags.' — to  this  region  aiiualio 
"  Last  year  they  came  swarming,  to  make  me 
their  bow, 
"As  thick  as  Burke's  cloud  o'er  the  vales  of  Car- 
natic, 
"  Deans,  Rectors,  D.  D.'s — where  the  devil  are 
lliey  now?" 

"My  dourest  Lord  Bags!"  sjiitli   his  damo,  "can 
you  doubt  ? 
"  I   ntn    loth   to   remind    yoii   of  things   so   an- 
lijcnsanl  ; 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


241 


*  But  dorCt  you  perceive,  dear,  the  Charch  have 
found  out 
"  That  you're  one  of  the  people  called  Ex's,  at 
present  V 

"  Ah,  true — you  have  hit  it — 1  am,  indeed,  one 
"Of  those  ill-fated  Ex's,  (liis  Lordship  replies,) 

"  And.  with  tears,  I  confess — God  forgive  me  the 
pun! — 
"  We  X's  have  proved  ourselves  twI  to  be  Y's." 


WOE!  WOK!" 

Woe,  woe  unto  him  who  would  clieck  or  disturb  it — 
That  beautiful  Light,  wliich  is  now  on  its  way ; 

Which,  beaming  at  first,  o'er  tlie  bogs  of  Belturbot, 
Now  brightens  sweet  Ballinafad  with  its  ray! 

Oh  Farnhara,  Saint  Farnham,  how  much  do  we 
owe  thee ! 

How  forni'd  to  all  tastes  are  thy  various  employs ! 
The  old,  as  a  catcher  of  Catliolics,  know  thee, 

The  young,  as  an  amateur  scourger  of  boys. 

Woe,  woe  to  the  man,  who  such  doings  would 
smother ! — 

On,  Lutlier  of  Cavan  !    On,  Saint  of  Kilgroggy  ! 
With  whip  in  one  liand,  and  with  Bible  in  t'other, 

Like  Mungo's  tormentor,  both  "  preacliee  and 


Come,  Saints  from  all  quarters,  and  marshal  his  way ; 

Come,  Lorton,  who,  scorning  profane  erudition, 
Popp'd  Sliakspeare,  they  say,  in  the  river,  one  day. 

Though  'twas  only  old  Bowdler's  Velluli  edition. 

Come,  Roden,  who  doubtest — so  mild  are  thy 
views — 

Whether  Bibles  or  bullets  are  best  for  the  nation ; 
Who  leav'st  to  poor  Paddy  no  medium  to  choose, 

'Twi.\t  good  old  Rebellion  and  new  Reformation. 

What  more  from  her  Saints  can  Hibernia  require  1 
St.  Bridget,  of  yore,  like  a  dutiful  daughter. 

Supplied  her,  'tis  said,  with  perpetual  fire," 

And  Saints  keep  her,  now,  in  eternal  hot  water. 

Woe,  woe  to  the  man,  who  would  check  their  career. 

Or  stop  the  Millennium,  that's  sure  to  await  us, 
Wlieii,  bless'd  with  an  orthodo.t  crop  every  year, 
We  shall  learn  to  raise  Protestants,  fast  aa  pota- 
toes. 

31 


In  kidnapping  Papists,  our  ralers,  we  know, 
Had  been  trying  their  talent  for  many  a  day  ; 

Till  Farnham,  when  all  had  been  tried,  came  to  show- 
Like  the  German  flea-catcher,  "  anoder  goot  way." 

And  nothing's   more   simple   than   Farnham's   re- 
ceipt ; — 
"  Catch  your  Catholic,  fir.st — soak  him  well  in  po- 
ieen" — 
"  Add  salary  sauce,"  and  the  thing  is  complete. 
"  You  may  serve  up  your  Protestant,  smoking 
and  clean." 

"  Woe,  woe  to  the  wag,  who  would  laugh  at  such 
cookery !" 

Thus,  from  his  perch,  did  I  hear  a  black  crow" 
Caw  angrily  out,  while  the  rest  of  the  rookery 

Open'd  tlicir  bills,  and  re-echo'd  "  Woe  !  woe !" 


TOUT  POUR  LA  TRIPE. 

"If,  in  China  or  among  the  natives  of  India,  we  claimed  civil 
advantages  whicli  were  ctjnnected  witli  religious  usages, 
little  as  we  might  value  those  forms  in  our  he.irts,  we  should 
thinly  common  decency  reqviired  us  to  aljstain  from  treating 
them  witli  oifensive  contumely  ;  and,  though  unable  to  con- 
sider them  sacred,  we  would  not  sneer  at  tlio  name  of  Fut, 
or  laugh  at  the  imputed  divinity  of  Visthnou.^^ — Courier, 
Tuesday,  Jan.  IG. 

1827. 

Co.ME,  take  my  advice,  never  trouble  your  cranium. 
When  "  civil  advantages"  are  to  be  gaiii'd. 

What  god  or  what  goddess  may  help  to  obtain  you 
'em, 
Hindoo  or  Chinese,  so  they're  only  obtain'd. 

In  this  world  (let  me  hint  in  your  organ  auricular) 
All  the  good  things  to  good  hypocrites  fall  ; 

And  he,  who  in  swallowing  creeds  is  particular. 
Soon  will  have  nothing  to  swallow  at  all. 

Oh  place  me  where  Fa  (or,  as  some  call  him,  Fol) 
Is  the  god,  from  whom  "  civil  advantages"  flow. 

And  you'll  find,  if  there's  any  thing  snug  to  be  got, 
I  shall  soon  be  on  excellent  terms  with  old  Fo. 

Or  were  I  where  Vishnu,  that  four-handed  god. 
Is  the  quadruple  giver  of  pensions  and  places, 

I  own  I  should  feel  it  unchristian  and  odd 

Not  to  find  myself  also  in  VisliniCs  good  graces. 

For,  among  all  the  gods  that  humanely  attend 
To  our  wants  in  this  planet,  the  gods  to  my  wishes 

Are  those  that,  like  Vishnu  and  others,  descend 
In  the  form,  so  attractive,  of  loaves  and  of  fishes '' 


242 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


So  take  my  ad  nee — for,  if  even  the  devil 

Siiould  tempt  men  again  as  an  idol  to  try  him, 

'Twere  best  for  us  Tories,  even  then,  to  be  civil, 
As  nobody  doubts  we  should  get  something  by 
liim. 


ENIGMA. 

MonBtrum  nulla  virtute  redemptum. 

Come,  riddle-me-ree,  come,  riddle-me-ree, 
And  tell  me  what  my  name  may  be. 
I  am  nearly  one  hundred  and  tliirty  years  old, 

And  therefore  no  chicken,  as  you  may  suppose ; — 
Though  a  dwarf  in  my  youth,  (as  my  nurses  have 
told,) 
I  have,  ev'ry  year  since,  been  outgro\ving  my 
clothes ; 
Till,  at  last,  such  a  corpulent  giant  I  stand, 

That,  if  folks  were  to  furnish  me  now  with  a  suit, 
It  would  take  ev'ry  morsel  of  scrip  in  the  land 

But  to  measure  my  bnlk  from  the  head  to  tlie  foot. 
Hence,  they  who  maintain  me,  grown  sick  of  my 
stature, 
To  cover  me  nothing  but  rags  will  supply  ; 
And  the  doctors  declare  tliat,  in  due  course  of  n;u 
ture, 
About  the  year  30  in  rags  I  shall  die. 
Meanwhile,  I  stalk  hungry  and  bloated  around. 

An  object  of  iiU'rcst,  most  painful,  to  all ; 
In  the  warehouse,  the  cottage,  the  palace  I'm  found, 
Holding  citizen,  peasant,  and  king  in  my  tlirall. 
Then  riddle-me-ree,  oh  riddle-me-ree, 
Come,  tell  me  what  my  name  may  bo. 

When  the  lord  of  the  counting-house  bends  o'er  his 
book, 
Bright  pictures  of  profit  delighting  to  draw, 
O'er   his  shoulders  with   largo   cipher  eyeballs  I 
look, 
And  down  drops  the   pen   from   his  paralyzed 
paw ! 
When  the  Premier  lies  dreaming  of  dear  Waterloo, 
And  expects  through  anulhcr  to  caper  and  prank 
it, 
You'd  laugh  did  you  see,  wlicii  I  bellow  out  "  Boo  !" 
How  he  hides  his  brave  Waterloo  head  in  the 
blanket. 
When  mighty  Belshazzar  brims  high  in  the  hall 
His  cup,  full  of  gout,  to  the  Guul's  overthrow, 
Lo,  "  Eiffht  Ilumlred  Miliums"  I  write  on  tlio  wall, 
And  the  cup  falU  to  earth  and — tlio  gout  to  iiis 
toe! 


But  the  joy  of  my  heart  is  w^ien  largely  I  cram 

Jly  maw  with  the  fruits  of '.he  Squirearchy's  ;u;re9, 
And,  knowing  who  made  me  the  thing  that  1  am, 
like  the  monster  of  Frankenstein,  worry  mi  ma- 
kers. 
Then  riddle-me-ree,  come,  riddle-me-ree, 
And  tell,  if  thou  know'st,  who  /  may  bo. 


DOG-DAY  REFLECTIONS. 


BV    A    D.\NDV    KEPT    I.\    TOWN. 


'  Vox  clamantis  in  duserto.' 


IKrJ. 


Said  Maltlius,  one  day,  to  a  clown 

Lying  stretcli'd  on  the  beach,  in  tlie  sun, — 

"  What's  the  number  of  souls  in  this  town  ?" — 
"The  number!  Lord  bless  you,  there's  none. 

"  We  have  nothing  but  dabs  in  this  place, 
"0[  thc7n  a  great  plenty  there  are  ; 

"But  the  soles,  please  your  rev'renee  and  gr.ic«, 
"  Are  all  t'other  side  of  the  bar." 

And  so  'tis  in  London  just  now, 

Not  a  soul  to  be  seen,  up  or  down  ; — 

Of  (liihs  a  great  glut,  I  allow. 

But  your  soles,  every  one,  out  ot  town. 

East  or  west,  nothing  wondrous  or  new ; 

No  courtship  or  scandal,  worth  knowing ; 
Jlrs.  B ,  and  a  Mermaid*'  or  two, 

Are  the  only  loose  fish  that  are  going. 

Ah,  where  is  that  dear  liouse  of  Peers, 
That,  some  weeks  ago,  kept  us  merry  ? 

^V'here,  Eldon,  art  thou,  with  thy  tears  ? 
And  thou,  with  thy  sense,  Londonderry  ? 

Wise  M.irqnis,  how  much  the  Lord  May'r, 
In  the  dog-days,  with  Mo,'  must  be  puzzled!— 

It  being  his  task  to  take  care 
Tlint  such  animals  shan't  go  unmuzzled. 

Thou,  too,  whose  political  toils 

Arc  SI)  wortliy  a  cajitain  of  horso — 

Wliose  amendinonts"'  (like  honest  .Sir  Boyle's) 
Are  "amendmenis,  that  make  mailers  woTsei"  " 

Great  Cliieflain,  who  l.akcst  such  pains    • 
To  prove — what  is  granted,  nem.  con.-^ 

With  how  mod'ralo  a  portion  of  bruiiut 
Soino  lioroca  contrive  to  gel  on. 


SATIEICAL  AND  HUMOEOUS  POEMS. 


218 


And,  tliou,  too,  my  Redesdale,  ah,  where 
Is  tht!  peer,  wilh  a  star  at  his  button, 

Whose  quarlfs  could  ever  compare 
With  Redesdale's  five  quarters  of  mutton  ?" 

Why,  why  have  ye  taken  your  flight, 
Ye  diverting  and  dignified  crew  ? 

How  ill  do  three  farces  a  night, 
At  the  Haymarket,  pay  us  for  you ! 

For,  what  is  Bombastes  to  thee, 
My  Ellenbro',  when  thou  look'st  big? 

Or,  Where's  the  burletta  can  be 

Like  Lauderdale's  wit,  and  his  wig  ? 

doubt  if  e'en  Griflinhoof"  could 
(Though  Griffin's  a  comical  lad) 
Invent  any  joke  half  so  good 

As  that  precious  one,  "  This  is  too  bad !" 

Then  come  again,  come  again,  Spring  ! 

Oil  liaste  thee,  with  Fun  in  thy  train ; 
And — of  all  things  the  funniest — bring 

These  exalted  Grimaldis  again ! 


THE  "LIVING  DOG"  AND  "  TUE  DEAD 
LION."" 

1828. 

Next  week  will  be  publish'd  (as  "  Lives"  are  the 
rage) 

The  whole  Reminiscences,  wondrous  and  strange, 
Of  a  small  puppy-dog,  that  lived  once  in  the  cage 

Of  the  late  noble  Lion  at  Exeter  'Change. 

Though  the  dog  is  a  dog  of  the  kind  they  call 
«  sad," 
'Tis  a  puppy  that  much  to  good  breeding  pre- 
tends ; 
And  few  dogs  h.ave  such  opportunities  had 

Of  knowing  how  Lions  behave — among  friends; 

How  that   animal   eats,   how  he  snores,  how  he 
drinks. 
Is  all  noted  down  by  this  Boawell  so  small ; 
And  'tis  plain,  from  each  sentence,  the  puppy-dog 
thinks 
That  the  Lion  was  no  such  great  things  after  all. 

Thougli   he   roar'd    pretty   well — this  the   puppy 
allows — 
It  was  all,  he  says,  borrow'd — all  second-hand 
roar; 


And  he  vastly  prefers  his  own  little  bow-wows 
To  the  loftiest  war-note  tlic  Lion  could  pour. 

'Tis,  indeed,  as  good  fun  as  a  Cynic  could  ask, 
To  see  how  this  cockney-bred  setter  of  rabbi 

Takes  gravely  tlie  Lord  of  the  Forest  to  task, 
And  judges  of  lions  by  puppy-dog  habits. 

Nay,  fed  as  he  was  (and  this  makes  it  a  dark  case^ 
With  sops  every  day  from  the  Lion's  own  pan, 

He  lifts  up  his  leg  at  the  noble  beast's  carcass. 
And — does  .all  a  dog,  so  diminutive,  can. 

However,  the  book's  a  good  book,  being  rich  in 

Examples  .ind  w.arnings  to  lions  high-bred. 
How  they   suff'er  small  mongrelly  curs  in  their 
kitchen 
Who'll  feed  on  them  living,  and  foul  them  when 
dead. 

T.  PnicocK. 

Exeter  ^Change, 


ODE  TO  DON  MIGUEL. 

Et  tu,  Brute  I 


1828." 


What  !  Miguel,  not  patriotic  ?  oh,  fie. 

After  so  much  good  teaching  'tis  quite  a  take-in. 
Sirs- 
First  Echool'd,  as  you   were,  under  Mettcrnich's 
eye. 
And  then  (as  young  misses  say)  "  finish'd"  at 
Windsor!"" 

I  ne'er  in  my  life  knew  a  case  that  was  harder; — 
Such  feasts  as  you  had,  when  you  made  us  a 
call! 

Three  courses  each  day  from  his  Majesty's  larder,.^ 
And  now,  to  turn  .absolute  Don,  after  .all ! ! 

Some  .authors,  like  Bayes,  to  the  style   and   the 
matter 
Of  each  thing  they  write  suit  the  w<ay  that  they 
dine. 
Roast  sirloin  for  Epic,  broil'd  devils  for  Satire, 
And  hotch-potch  and  Irijle  for  rhymes  such  as 
mine. 

That  Rulers  should  feed  the  same  way,  I've  no 
doubt ; — 
Great  Despots  on  bouilli  served  up  d  la  Russe," 
Your  small  German  Princes  on  frogs  and  sour- 
krout. 
And  your  Viceroy  of  Hanover  always  on  goose. 


244 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Some  Dons,  too,  liave  fancied  (though  this  may  be 
fable) 
A  dish  rather  dear,  if,  in  cooking,  they  blunder 

it;— 

Xot  content  with  tlie  common  hot  meat  on  a  table, 
They're  partia.  (eh,  Migl)  to  a  dish  oicold  under 
it!" 

No  wonder  a  Don  of  such  appetites  found 
Even  Windsor's  collations  plebeianly  plain ; 

\\'here  the  dishes  most  high  that  my  Lady  sends 
round 
Are  her  Maintenon  cutlets  and  soup  d  la  Reine. 

Alas !  that  a  youth  with  such  charming  beginnings, 
Should  sink,  all  at  once,  to  so  sad  a  conclusion. 

And,  what  is  still  worse,  throw  the  losings  and 
winnings 
Of  worthies  on  'Change  into  so  much  confusion ! 

The  Bulls,  in  hysterics — the  Bears  just  as  bad — 
The  few  men  wlio  haic,and  the  many  who've  not 
tick. 

All  sliock'd  to  find  out  that  that  promising  lad. 
Prince  Mettcrnich's  pupil,  is — no!  patriotic ! 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE    PRESENT    GOVERN- 
MENT OF  IRELAND. 

1858. 
Oft  have  I  seen,  in  gay,  equestrian  pride. 
Some  well-rouged   youth   round   Astley's   Circus 

ride 
Two  stately  steeds — standing,  with  graceful  strad- 
dle. 
Like  liiin  of  Rhodes,  with  foot  on  cither  saddle, 
While  to  soft  tunes — some  jigs,  and   some   an- 
dantes— 
He  steers  around  liis  light-pticcd  Rosinantcs. 

So  rides  along,  with  canter  smooth  and  pleasant, 
Tliat  liorBemnn  bold.  Lord  Anglesea,  at  present ; — 
Papist  and  Protestant  the  coursers  twain, 
That  lend  their  nocks  to  his  impartial  rein. 
And  round  the  ring — c.afh  honor'd,  as  they  go. 
With  equal  pressure  from  his  gracious  toe — 
To  (he  old  medley  tune,  half  "  Patrick's  Day" 
And   half    "  Boyne  Water,"   take    their  cant'ring 

way, 
While  Peel,  the  Hhowni.'iii  in  (lie  mldillc,  cracks 
IIIh  l(>n(;-lasird  whip,  to  cheer  the  doubtful  hacks. 
Ah!  tickliHh  trial  of  ecpieslrian  art! 
liow  blos'd,  if  neither  steed  would  boll  or  start;— 


If  Protestanfs  old  restive  tricks  were  gone. 
And  Papist's  winkers  could  be  still  kept  on  I 
But  no,  false  hopes — not  even  the  great  Ducrow 
'Twlxt  two  such  steeds  could  'scape  an  overthrow: 
If  solar  hacks  play'd  Phaeton  a  trick, 
What  hope,  alas,  from  hackney's  lunatic  ? 

If  once  my  Lord  his  graceful  balance  loses, 

Or  fails  to  keep  his  foot  where  each  horse  chooses ; 

If  Peel  but  gives  one  extra  touch  of  whip 

To  Papist's  tail  or  Protestant's  ear-tip — 

That  instant  ends  their  glorious  horsemanship! 

OlT  bolt  tlie  sever'd  .steeds,  for  mischief  free. 

And  down,  between  them,  plumps  Lord  Angleaea . 


THE  LIMBO  OF  LOST  REPUTATIONS. 


"  Cio  che  si  pcrde  qui,  hi  si  rnguna.'*       Ariosto. 

*^ ft  valley,  where  he  sees 

Things  thut  ou  earth  were  lost."  Milton. 

Know'st  thou  not  him""  (he  poet  sings. 

Who  Hew  to  the  moon's  serene  domain. 
And  saw  th.at  valley,  where  all  the  thiiig.s. 

That  vanish  on  earth,  are  found  :igain — 
The  hopes  of  youth,  the  resolves  of  age, 
The  vow  of  the  lover,  the  dream  of  the  sage, 
The  golden  visions  of  mining  cits. 

The  promises  great  men  strew  about  them ; 
And,  pack'd  in  compass  small,  the  wits 

Of  monarchs,  who  rule  .is  well  without  them  I— 
Like  him,  but  diving  with  wing  profound, 
I  have  been  to  a  Limbo  under  ground. 
Where  characters  lost  on  earth,  (and  cried, 
In  vain,  like  Harris's,  far  and  wide,) 
In  heaps,  like  yesterday's  oris,  are  thrown 
And  there,  so  worthless  and  lly-l>l(>wn. 
That  ev'n  the  imps  would  not  purloin  them. 
Lie,  till  their  worthy  owners  join  llieni. 

Curious  it  was  to  sec  this  m.ass 

Of  lost  and  torn-up  reputations  ; — 
Some  of  them  female  wares,  al.as, 

Mi.slaid  nt  innnrrnt  assignations; 
Some,  that  had  sigh'd  their  la.st  amen 

From  the  canting  lips  of  saints  that  would  le; 
And  some  once  own'd  by  "  the  best  of  men," 

Who  had    proved — no  betlcr   than    they   xhoul  I 
be. 
'Jfong  others,  a  piiel's  fame  I  spiiil. 

Once  shining  fair,  now  soak'd  and  black — 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


24.') 


•No  wonder,"  (,an  imp  .it  my  elbow  cried,) 
"  For  I  pielc'd  it  out  of  a  butt  of  sack  !" 

Just  then  a  yell  was  heard  o'er  head, 

Like  a  chimney-sweeper's  lofty  summons ; 
And  lo!  a  devil  right  downward  sped, 
Bringing,  within  his  claws  so  red, 
Two  statesmen's  characters,  found,  he  said. 

Last  night,  on  the  floor  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons; 
The  which,  with  black  official  grin, 
He  now  to  the  Chief  Imp  handed  in; — 
Both  these  articles  much  the  worse 

For  their  journey  down,  as  you  may  suppose; 
But  one  so  devilish  rank — "  Odds  curse !" 

Said  the  Lord  Chief  Imp,  and  held  his  nose. 

"  Ho,  ho !"  quoth  he,  "  I  know  full  well 

"  From  whom  these  two  str.ay  m-itters  fell ;" — 

Then,  casting  away,  with  loathful  shrug, 

Th'  uncleaner  waif,  (.as  he  would  a  drug 

Th'  Invisible's  own  dark  hand  iuad  mix'd,) 

His  gaze  on  the  other"'  firm  he  fix'd. 

And  trying,  though  mischief  laugh'd  in  his  eye, 

To  bo  moral,  because  of  the  young  imps  by, 

"  What  a  pity  ?'  he  cried — "  so  fresh  its  gloss, 

"  So  long  preserved — 'tis  a  public  loss! 

"This  comes  of  a  man,  the  careless  blockhead, 

"  Keeping  his  character  in  his  pocket ; 

"  And  there — without  considering  whether 

"  There's  room  for  that  and  his  gains  together — 

"  Cramming,  and  cramming,  and  cramming  awiiy, 

"  Till — out  slips  char.icter  some  fine  day ! 

"  However" — and  here  he  view'd  it  round — 

"  This  article  still  may  pass  for  sound. 

"  Some  flaws,  soon  patch'd,  some  stains  are  all 

"The  harm  it  h.as  had  in  its  luckless  fall. 

"  Here,  Puck  !" — and  he  call'd  to  one  of  his  train — 

"  The  owner  may  have  this  back  again. 

"  Though  damaged  for  ever,  if  used  with  skill, 

"It  may  serve,  perhaps,  to  trade  on  still ; 

"  Though  the  gem  can  never,  as  once,  be  set, 

"It  will  do  for  a  Tory  Cabinet." 


HOW  TO  WRITE  BY  PROXY 

Qui  facil  per  alium  facit  per  se. 

"MoNG    our   neighbors,  the   French,  in   the   good 
olden  time 
■When    Nobility    flourish'd,   great    Barons    and 
Dukes 


Often  set  up  for  authors  in  prose  and  in  rhyme, 
But  ne'er  took  the  trouble  to  write  their  own 
books. 

Poor  devils  were  found  to  do  this  for  their  bet- 
ters ; — 
And  one  d.ay,  a  Bishop,  addressing  a  Blue, 
Said,  "Ma'am,  have  you   read  my  new  Pastoral 
Letters  ?" 
To    which   the   Blue    answer'd — "No,    Bishop, 
have  you  ?" 

The  siime  is  now  done  by  our  privileged  class; 

And,  to  show  you  how  simple  the  process  it 
needs, 
If  a  great  M.ajor-Gencral"  wishes  to  pass 

For  an  author  of  History,  thus  he  proceeds: — 

First,  scribbling  his  own  stock  of  notions  as  well 
As  he  can,  with  a  ^■'oose-quill  that  claims  him  as 
kin, 
He  settles  his  neckcloth— takes  snuff — rings  the 
bell. 
And  yawningly  orders  a  Subaltern  in. 

The  SuKaltern  comes — sees  his  General  se.ited, 
In  all  the  self-glory  of  authorship  swelling; — 
"  There,  look,"  saith  his  Lordship,  "  My  work  is 
completed, — 
"  It  wants  nothing  now,  but  the  grammar  and 
spelling." 

Well  used  to  a  breach,  the  br.ave  Subaltern  dreads 
Awkward  breaches  of  syntax  a  hundred  times 
more ; 
And,  though  often  condemn'd  to  see  breaking  of 
heads. 
He  h.id  ne'er  seen  such  breaking  of  Priscian's 
before. 

However,  the  job's  sure  to  pay — that's  enough — 
So,  to  it  he  sets  with  his  tinkering  hammer, 

Convinced  th.at  there  never  was  job  half  so  tough 
As  the  mending  a  great  Major-General's  gram- 
mar. 

But,  lo,  a  fresh  puzzlement  starts  up  to  view — 
New  toil  for  the  Sub. — for  the  Lord  new  ex- 
pense : 

'Tis  discover'd  that  mending  his  grammar  won't  do, 
As  the  Subaltern  also  must  find  him  in  sense .' 

At  last — even  this  is  .achieved  by  his  aid ; — 

Friend    Subaltern   pockets   the   cash   and — the 
story ; 


246 


MOORE'S  A70RKS. 


Drums  beat — the  new  Grand  ilarch  of  Intellect's 
pl.iy'd — 
And  otr  struts  my  Lord,  the  Historian,  in  glory ! 


IMITATION  OF  THE  IXFERXO  OF  DANTE. 

^Cosi  quel  fiato  gli  spirili  mali 
Di  qua,  di  la,  di  giu,  di  su  gli  raena.''— /n/i-pny,  canto  5, 

1  turs'd  my  steps,  and  lo,  a  shadowy  throng 
Of  ghosts  came  flutt'ring  tow'rds  me — blown  along, 
Like  cockchafers  in  high  autumnal  storms, 
By  many  a  fitful  gust  that  througli  their  forms 
Whistled,  as  on  they  came,  with  wlieezy  puff, 
And  puff'd  as — tliough  they'd  never  puff  enough. 

"  Whence  and  what  are  ye  V  pitying  I  inquired 
Of  these  poor  ghosts,  who,  tatter'd,  toss'd,  and  tired 
With  such  eternal  puffing,  scarce  could  stand 
On  their  lean  legs  while  answering  my  demand. 
'•  We  once  were  authors" — thus  the  Sprite,  who  led 
This  tag-rag  regiment  of  spectres,  said — 
"Authors  of  every  se.x,  male,  female,  neuter, 
"  Who,  early  smit  with  love  of  praise  and — pewter" 
"On  Colburn'.s'*  shelves  first  saw  the  light  of  day, 
"In  Bentley's  puffs  e.vhalcd  our  lives  away — 
"  Like  sumnier  windmills,  doom'd  to  dusty  peace, 
"  When   the  brisk   gales,  that   lent   them   motion 

cease. 
"Ah,  little  knew  we  then  wliat  ills  await 
*  .Much-lauded  scribblers  in  their  after  stjite; 
"Bepuff'd  on  earth — how  loudly  Strutt  can  tell — 
"And,  dire  reward,  now  doubly  pulf'J  in  hell !" 

Toucli'd  with  comp.assion  for  his  ghastly  crow, 
Who.se   ribs,  even   now,   the    hullow    wind   sung 

through 
In  mournful  prose, — such  prose  as  Rosa's"  ghost 
Slill  at  tir  accustom'd  hour  of  eggs  and  toast, 
Sighs  through  the  columns  of  the  Miirning  I'ost, — 
Pensive  I  turn'd  to  weep,  when  he,  who  stood 
Foremost  of  all  that  llatulenlial  brood, 
Singling  a  s/if-ghost  from  the  party,  said, 
"Allow  rao  to  present  Mi.ss  X.  Y.  Z.," 
"  One  of  our  letler'd  nymphs— excuse  the  pun — 
"  Who  gain'd  a  name  on  earth  by — having  none  ; 
"And  whoHc  initials  would  iinmorlal  be, 
"  Had  (the  but  leucn'd  tlioso  plain  ones,  A.  B.  C. 

"  Von  smirking  ghost,  like  mummy  dry  and  neat, 
"  Wrapp'd  in  his  own  dead  rhymes — fit  wind'.ng- 
(Itect — 


"  Still  marvels  much  t!iat  not  a  soul  should  care 
"One  single  pin  to  know  wlio  wrote  '  May  Fair;'— 
"While  this  young   gentleman,"    (here   forth    h(^ 

drew 
A  dandy  spectre,  putl"d  quite  through  and  througli. 
As  though  his  ribs  were  an  .^olian  lyre 
For  the  old  Row's  soft  /ratfe-winds  to  inspire,) 
"  This  modest  genius  breathed  one  wish  alone, 
'•To  have  his  volume  read,  himself  unknown; 
"  But  different  far  flie  course  his  glory  tool;, 
"All  knew  the  author,  and — none  read  the  book 

"  Behold,  in  yonder  ancient  figure  of  fun, 
"Who  rides  the  blast.  Sir  Jonah  Barririgton; — 
"In  tricks  to  raise  the  wind  his  life  was  spent, 
"  And  now  the  wind  returns  the  compliment. 

"This  lady  here,  the  Eai-1  of 's  sister, 

"Is  a  dead  novelist;  and  this  is  Mister — 

"  Beg  pardon — Honorable  Jlister  Lister, 

"  A  gentleman  who,  some  weeks  since,  came  over 

"In  a  smart  puff  (wind  S.  S.  E.)  to  Dover. 

"  Yonder  behind  us  limps  young  Vivian  Grey, 

"  Whose   life,  poor  youth,  was  long  since  blown 

away, 
"  Like  a  torn  paper-kite,  on  which  the  wind 
"No  further  purchase  for  a  puff  can  find." 

"And  thou  thyself" — here,  anxious,  I  exclaim'J- 
"  Tell  us,  good  ghost,  how  thou,  thyself,  art  named." 
"Jle,  Sir!"   he  blushing  cried — "Ah,  there's  the 

rub — 
"  Know,  then — a  waiter  onco  at  Brooks's  Club, 
"A  waiter  still  I  might  have  long  remain'd, 
"  And    long    the   club-room's  jokes   and   glasses 

drain'd; 
"But,  ah,  in  luckless  honr,  this  last  Dccembei, 
"I  wrote  a  book,"  and  CoUiurn  duhl/d  me  '51em- 

ber' — 
"' Jlembcr  of  Brooks's!' — oh  Promethean  puff, 
"  To  what  wilt  thou  exalt  even  kilehen-stutf ! 
"With  crumbs  of  gossip,  caught  from  dining  wits, 
"And  half-heard  jokes,  beiiueath'd,  like  half-i'hew'd 

bits, 
"To  be,  each  night,  the  waiter's  perquisites; — 
"  With  such  ingredients,  served  up  oft  before, 
"  But  with  fresh  fudge  and  liction  garnish'd  o'er, 
"  I  managed,  for  some  weeks,  to  do.sc  the  town, 
"Till  fresh  reserves  of  nonsense  ran  me  down; 
"  And.  ready  still  even  waiters'  souls  to  damn, 
"The  Devil  but  rang  his  bell,  and — here  I  am; — 
"  Yes — '  Comiiig  »/),  Sir,'  once  my  favorite  cry, 
"  Kxchangeil  for  '  Coming  daien.  Sir,'  here  am  I !" 

Scarce  had  the  spectre's  lips  these  words  ht  drop, 
When,  lo,  u  breeze — such  us  from  Colburn's  shoo 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


247 


Blows  in  the  v>rriiil  hour,  when  puir«  prevail, 

And  speeds  tJt>«  sheets  and  swells  the  lagging  sate — 

Took  the  pvof  waiter  rudely  in  the  poop, 

And,  whirling  him  and  all  Ids  grisly  group 

Of  literary  cliosts— Miss  X.  Y.  Z.— 

The  nameless  author,  better  known  than  read — 

Sir  Jo. — the  Honorable  Mr.  IJster, 

And,  la-st,  not  least,  Lord  Nobody's  twin-sister — 

Blew  them,  ye  gods,  with  all  their  prose  and  rhymes 

And  eins  about  I  hem,  far  into  those  climes 

"  Whvre  Peter  pitch'd  his  waistco.at'''°°  in  old  times. 

Leaning  me  much  in  doubt,  as  on  I  press'd 

W'th  my  great   master,  through    this    realm  un- 

bless'd, 
\^  "^ther  old  Nick  or  Colburn  puffs  the  best. 


LAMENT  FOR  THE  LOSS  OF  LORD 
BATHURST'S  TAIL.'"' 

All  in  again — unlook'd  for  bliss! 

Yet,  ah,  one  adjunct  still  we  miss; — 

One  tender  tie,  attaeh'd  so  long 

To  the  same  he.ad,  through  right  and  wrong. 

Why,  Bathurst,  why  didst  thou  cut  oif 

That  memorable  tail  of  thine? 
Why — as  if  one  was  not  enough — 

Thy  pig-tie  with  thy  place  resign. 
And  thus,  at  once,  both  cut  and  i-un  ? 
Alas,  my  Lord,  'twas  not  well  done, 
'Twas  not,  indeed — though  sad  at  heart. 
From  office  and  its  sweets  to  part, 
Yet  hopes  of  coming  in  again, 
Sweet  Tory  hopes!  beguiled  our  pain; 
But  thus  to  miss  that  tail  of  thine, 
Through  long,  long  years  our  rallying  sign — 
As  if  the  State  and  all  its  powers 
By  tenancy  in  tail  were  ours — 
To  see  it  thus  by  scissors  fall, 
This  was  "  th'  unkindest  cut  of  all !" 
It  seem'd  as  though  th'  ascendant  d.ay 
Of  Toryism  had  pass'd  away. 
And,  proving  Samson's  story  true. 
She  lost  her  vigor  with  her  queue. 

Parties  are  much  like  fish,  'tis  said — 
The  tail  directs  them,  not  the  head ; 
Then,  how  could  ani/  party  fail, 
That  steer'd  its  course  by  Bathurst's  tail '' 
Not  Murat's  plume,  through  Wagr.im's  fight. 

E'er  shed  such  guiding  glories  from  it, 
As  erst,  in  all  true  Tories'  sight. 

Blazed  from  our  old  Colonial  comet! 


If  you,  my  Lord,  a  Bashaw  were, 

(As  Wellington  will  be  anon,) 
Thou  mighl'st  have  had  a  tail  to  spare; 

But  no,  alas,  thou  had.st  but  one. 

And  tliat — like  Troy,  or  Babylon, 

A  tale  of  other  times — is  gone ! 
Y^et — weep  ye  not,  ye  Tories  true — 

Fate  has  not  yet  of  all  bereft  us ; 
Though  thus  deprived  of  B.athurst's  queue. 

We've  Ellenborourgh's  curls  still  left  us: — 
Sweet  curls,  from  which  young  Love,  so  vicious, 
His  shots,  as  from  nine-pounders,  issues ; 
Grand,  glorious  curls,  which,  in  debate. 
Surcharged  with  all  a  n.ition's  fate. 
His  Lordship  sh.akes,  as  Homer's  God  did,'" 

And  oft  in  thundering  talk  comes  near  liini; — 
Except  that,  there,  the  speaker  nodded. 

And,  here,  'tis  only  those  who  hear  him. 
Long,  long,  ye  ringlets,  on  the  soil 

Of  that  fat  cranium  may  ye  flourish. 
With  plenty  of  M.acassar  oil, 

Through  many  a  year  your  growth  to  nourish  ! 
And,  ah,  should  Time  too  soon  unsheath 

His  barbarous  shears  such  locks  to  sever. 
Still  dear  to  Tories,  even  in  death. 
Their  last,  loved  relics  we'll  bequeath, 

A  hair-\oom  to  our  sons  for  ever. 


THE  CHERRIES. 


A   PARABLE. 


See  those  cherries,  how  they  cover 
Y''onder  sunny  garden  wall ; — 

Had  they  not  that  network  over. 
Thieving  birds  would  eat  them  all. 

So,  to  guard  our  posts  arid  pensions. 

Ancient  sages  wove  a  net. 
Through  whose  holes,  of  small  dimensions, 

Only  certain  knaves  can  get. 

Shall  we  then  this  network  widen  ? 

Shall  we  stretch  these  sacred  holes. 
Through  which,  even  already,  slide  in 

Lots  of  small  dissenting  souls? 

"  God  forbid  !"'  old  Testy  crietli ; 

"  God  forbid  !"  so  echo  I ; 
Every  ravenous  bird  that  flieth 

Then  would  at  our  cherries  Uy. 


248 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Ope  but  half  an  inch  or  so, 

And,  behold,  what  bevies  break  in  ; — 
Here,  some  cursed  old  Popish  crow 

Pops  his  long  and  lickerish  beak  in ; 

Here,  sly  Arians  flock  unnumber'd. 

And  Socinians,  slim  and  spare, 
Who,  with  small  belief  encnmber'd, 

Slip  in  eas)'  anywhere  ;— 

Methodists,  of  birds  the  apti  st. 
Where  there's  pecking  going  on ; 

And  that  water-fowl,  the  Baptist — 
All  would  share  our  fruits  anon ; 

Every  bird,  of  every  city. 

That,  for  years,  with  ceaseless  din, 
Hath  reversed  the  starling's  ditty, 

Singing  out  "  I  can't  get  iW 

"  God  forbid!"  old  Testy  snivels; 

"  God  forbid !"  I  echo  too ; 
Rather  may  ten  thousand  d-v-ls 

Seize  the  whole  voracious  crew ! 

If  less  costly  fruit  wo'n't  suit  'em, 
Hips  and  haws,  and  such  like  berries. 

Curse  the  cormorants!  stono  'em,  shoot  'em. 
Any  thing — to  save  our  clierries. 


STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  ANTICIPATION 

OF  DEFEAT.'"' 

1828. 

Gi)  seek  for  some  abler  defenders  of  wrong. 
If  we  must  run  the  gauntlet  through  blood  and 
expense ; 
Or,  Goths  as  ye  .ire,  in  your  multitude  strong, 
Be  content  with  success,  .and   pretend  not  to 
sense. 

If  tlie  words  of  the  wise  and  the  gcn'rous  arc  vain. 
If  Truth  by  the  bowstring  must  yield  up  licr 
breath, 

Let  JIutct  do  the  office — and  spare,  her  tlie  pain 
Or  an  Ing'.is  or  Tindiil  to  talk  her  to  deatli. 

Chain,  persecute,  plunder — do  all  that  you  will — 
But  Have  u»,  at  least,  the  old  womanly  lore 

Of  a  Foster,  who,  dully  prophetic  of  ill, 

U,  at  once,  the  two  instruments,  auguh'"  and 

VORE. 


Bring  legions  of  Squires — if  they'll  only  be  mute— 
And  array  their  thick  heads  agTunst  reason  and 
right. 
Like  the  Roman  of  old,  of  historic  repute,'" 

Who  with  droves  of  dumb  animals  carried  the 
fight; 

Pour  out,  from  each  corner  and  liole  of  the  Court, 
Your  Bedchamber  lordlings,  your  salaried  slaves. 

Who,  ripe  for  all  job-work,  no  matter  what  sort, 
Have  their  consciences  tack'd  to  their  patents 
and  staves. 

Catch  all  the  small  fry  who,  as  Juven.al  sings. 
Are   the    Treasury's   creatures,   wherever   they 
swim ;'" 
With  all  the  base,  time-serving  toadies  of  Kings, 
Who,  if  Punch  were  the  monarch,  would  wor- 
ship even  him ; 

And  while,  on  the  one  side,  e.ich  name  of  renown, 

That  illumines  and  blesses  our  age  is  combined; 
While  the  Fo.\es,  the  Pitts,  and  the  Cannings  look 
down. 
And  drop  o'er  the  cause  their  rich  mantles  of 
Mind ; 

Let  bold  P.addy  Holmes  show  his  troops  on  the 
other. 
And,  counting  of  noses  the  quantum  desired. 
Let  Paddy  but  say,  like  the  Gracchi's  famed  mother, 
"Come  forward,  my  jewels" — 'tis  all  that's  re- 
q\iircd. 

And  thus  lot  your  farce  bo  enacted  hereafter — 
Thus  lioncstly  [jcrsccute,  outlaw,  and  chain; 

But  spare  even  your  victims  the  torture  of  laughter 
And  never,  oh  never,  try  reasoning  again ! 


ODE  TO  THE  WOODS  AND  FORESTS. 


BY    ONE    or    TIIK    DOAUD. 


IRSS 


Lft  Other  bards  to  groves  repair. 

Where  linnets  strain  tlieir  tuneful  throats, 
IMine  be  tlie  Woods  and  ForcNls,  wliero 

The  Treasury  pours  its  sweeter  nnlcs. 

No  whispering  winds  li.ave  charnis  fur  nie, 
Nor  zephyr's  balmy  nighs  I  ask: 

To  riine  the  wind  fur  Koy.'illy 
Be  all  uur  Sylvan  zephyr's  tank  I 


SATIKICAL  AND  HUMOEOUS  POEMS. 


249 


And,  'stead  of  crystal  brooks  and  floods, 
And  all  such  vulgar  irrigation, 

Let  Gallic  rhino  through  our  Woods 
Divert  its  "  course  of  liquid-ation." 

Ah,  surely,  Virgil  knew  full  well 

What  Woods  and  Forests  ovght  tc  ho, 

When,  sly,  ho  introduced  in  hell 

His  guinea-plant,  his  bullion  tree ; — "' 

Nor  see  I  why,  some  future  day. 

When  short  of  cash,  we  should  not  send 

Our  Hemes  down — he  knows  tlie  way — 
To  see  if  Woods  in  hell  will  lend. 

Long  may  ye  flourish,  sylvan  haunts, 
Beneath  whose  "  branches  of  expense" 

Our  gracious  King  gets  all  he  wants, — 
Except  a  little  taste  and  sense. 

Long,  in  your  golden  shade  reclined. 
Like  him  of  fiiir  Armida's  bowers, 

May  Wellington  some  wood-nymph  find. 
To  cheer  his  dozenth  lustrum's  hours ; 

To  rest  from  toil  the  Great  Untaught, 
And  soothe  the  pangs  his  warlike  brain 

Must  suffer,  when,  unused  to  thought 
It  tries  to  think,  and — tries  in  vain. 

Oh  long  may  Woods  and  Forests  be 
Preserved,  in  all  their  teeming  graces, 

To  shelter  Tory  bards,  like  me. 

Who  take  delight  in  Sylvan  places  !^°' 


STANZAS  FROM  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  SHAN- 
NON."" 

"  Take  back  the  virgin  page." 

Moore's  Irish  Melodies, 


No  longer,  dear  Vesey,  feel  hurt  and  uneasy 
At  hearing  it  said  by  thy  Treasury  brother. 

That  thou  art  a  sheet  of  blank  paper,  my  Vesey, 
And  he,  the  dear  innocent  placeman,  another.'" 

For,  lo,  what  a  service  we,  Irish,  have  done  thee ; 
Thou  now  art  a  sheet  of  blank  paper  no  more ; 
By  St.  Patrick,  we've  scrawl'd  such  a  lesson  upon 
thee 
As  never  was  scrawl'd  upon  foolscap  before. 
3:2 


Come — on  with  your  spectacles,  noble  Lord  Duke, 
(Or  O'Connell  has  green  ones  he  haply  would 
lend  you,) 
Read  Vesey  all  o'er  (as  you  cant  read  a  book) 
And  improve  by  the  lesson  we,  bog-trotterB,  send 
you; 

A  lesson,  in  large  Roman  characters  traced. 
Whose  awful  impressions  from  you  and  your  kin 

Of  blank-sheeted  statesmen  will  ne'er  be  elTaced — 
Unless,  'stead  oi  paper,  you're  mere  asses'  skin. 

Shall  I  help  you  to  construe  it?  ay,  by  the  Gods, 
Could  I  risk  a  translation,  you  should  have  a  rare 
one; 
But  pen  against  sabre  is  desperate  odds. 

And  you,  my  Lord  Duke,  (as  you  hinted  once  ) 
wear  one. 

Again  and  again  I  say,  read  Vesey  o'er ; — 

You  will  find  him  worth  .all  the  old  scrolls  of 
papyrus. 
That  Egypt  e'er  fiU'd  with  nonsensical  lore 

Or  the  learned  Champollion  e'er  wrote  of,  to  tiro 
us. 

All  blank  as  he  was,  we've  return'd  him  on  hand, 
Scribbled  o'er  with  a  warning  to  Princes  and 
Dukes, 
Whose  plain,  simple  drift  if  they  worUt  understand. 
Though  caress'd  at  St.  James's,  they're  fit  for 
St.  Luke's. 

Talk  of  leaves  of  the  Sibyls! — more  me.aning  con- 
vey'd  is 

In  one  single  leaf  such  as  now  we  have  spell'd  on, 
Than  e'er  hath  been  utter'd  by  all  the  old  hidies 

That  ever  yet  spoke,  from  the  Sibyls  to  Eldon. 


THE  ANNUAL  PILL. 

Supposed  to  bs  sung  by  Old  Prost,  the  Jew,  in  the  character 
of  Major  Cartwrioht. 

ViLL  nobodies  try  my  nice  Annual  Pill, 

D.at's  to  purify  every  ting  nashty  av-iy  ? 
Pless  ma  heart,  pless  ma  heart,  let  me  say  vat  I  vill. 

Not  a  Chrishtian  or  Shentleman  minds  vat  I  say! 
Tis  so  pretty  a  bolus ! — just  down  let  it  go. 

And,  at  vonce,  such  a  radical  shange  you  vill  see, 
Dat  I'd  not  be  surprisli'd,  like  de  horse  in  de  show. 

If  your   Heads  all  vere  found,  vere  your  tailsh 
ought  to  be ! 
Vil)  i/.obodies  try  ray  nice  Annual  Pill,  &c. 


250 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


'Twill  cure  all  Electors,  and  purge  away  clear 

Dat  mighty  bad  itching  dey've  got  in  deir  hands — 
Twill  cure,  too,  all  Statesmen,  of  dulness,  ma  tear, 
Thouo-h  the  case  v:is  as  desperate  as  poor  Mister 
Van's. 
Dere  is  nothing  at  all  vat  dis  Pill  viU  not  reach — 
Give  the  Sinecure  Shentleman  von  little  grain, 
Pless  ma  heart,  it  vill  act,  like  de  salt  on  de  leech. 
And  he'll  throw  de  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence, 
up  again ! 
Vill  nobodies  try  ray  nice  Annual  Pill,  &c. 

Twonld  be  tedious,  ma  tear,  all  its  pcauties  to 
paint — 

But,  among  oder  ivnga  fundamenialhj  wrong, 
It  vill  cure  de  Proad  PoltorrC" — a  common  complaint 

Among  JI.  P.'s  and  weavers — from  sitting  too 
long. 
Should  symptoms  o( specching  preak  out  on  a  dunce, 

(\''at  is  often  de  case,)  it  vill  stop  de  disease. 
And  pring  avay  all  de  long  speeches  at  vonee, 

Dat  else  vould,  like  tape-worms,  come  by  degrees ! 

Vill  nobodies  try  my  nice  Annual  Pill, 
Dat's  to  purify  every  ting  nashty  avay  1 

Pless  ma  heart,  pless  ma  heart,  let  me  say  vat  I  vill. 
Not  a  Chrishtian  or  Shentleman  minds  vat  I  say ! 


"  IF"  AND  "  PERHAPS."  '" 

On  tidings  of  freedom  !  oh  accents  of  hope ! 

Waft,  waft  them,  ye  zephyrs,  to  Erin's  blue  soa, 
And  refresh  with  their  sounds  every  son  of  the  Pope, 

From  Dingle-a-cooch  to  far  Donagh.ideo. 

"  //"mutely  the  slave  will  endure  and  obey, 

"  Nor  clanking  his  fetters,  nor  breathing  his  pains, 

"  Mis  masters,  perhaps,  at  .some  far  distant  day, 
"May  think  (tender  tyrants  1)  of  loosening  his 
chains." 

Wise  "  if"  and  "  perhaps !"  — precious  salvo  for  our 
wounds, 
If  he,  who  would  rule  tlius  o'er  manacled  mates, 
Could  check  the  free  apring-tido  of  Mind,  that  re- 
Houndx, 
Even  now,  at  hisTcct,  like  the  sou  ut  Canute's. 

But,  no,  'tis  in  vain — tho  grand  impulse  is  given — 
Man  knows  liis  high  Chortor,  and  knowing  will 
claim ; 


And  if  ruin  must  follow  where  fetters  are  riven. 
Be  theirs,  who  have  forged  them,  the  guilt  .ind 
the  shame. 

"  If  the  slave  will  be  silent !" — vain  Soldier,  be- 
ware— 
Tliere  is  a  dead  silence  the  wrong'd  may  assume. 
When  the  feeling,  sent  back  from  the  lips  in  despair. 
But   clings   round    the    heart   with    a   deadlier 
gloom ; — 

Wlien  the  blush,  that  long  burn'd  on  the  suppliant's 
cheek, 
Gives  place  to  th'  avenger's  pale,  resolute  hue ; 
And  the  tongue,  that  once  threaten'd,  disdaining  to 
speaJc, 
Consigns  to  the  arm  the  high  office — to  do. 

If  men,  in  that  silence,  should  think  of  the  hour, 
When  proudly  their  fathers  in  panoply  stood, 

Presenting,  .ilike,  a  bold  front-work  of  power 
To  the  despot  on  land  and  the  foe  on  the  Hood: 

That  hour,  when  a  Voice  liad  come  forth  from  the 

west. 

To  the  slave  bringing  hopes,  to  the  tyrant  alarms ; 

And  a  lesson,  long  look'd  for,  was  taught  the  op- 

press'd. 

That  Kings  are  as  dust  before  freemen  in  arms! 

If,  awfuller  still,  the  mute  slate  should  recall 
That   dream  of  his  boyhood,  when  Freedom's 
sweet  day 
At  length  seem'd  to  break  through  a  long  night  of 
thrall. 
And  Union  and  Hope  went  abroad  in  its  r.ay ; — 

If  Fancy  should  tell  him,  th.it  Day-spring  of  Good, 
Though  swiftly  its  light  died  away  from  his  chain. 

Though  darkly  it  sets  in  a  nation's  best  blood. 
Now  wants  but  invoking  to  shine  out  again  ; — 

If — if,  I  s.ay — breathings  like  these  should  come  o'er 
The  chords  of  remembrance,  and  thrill,  as  they 
come, 
Then,  perhaps — ay,  perhaps — but,  J  dare  not  say 
more ; 
Thou  hast  will'd  thai  thy  slaves  should  bo  mute 
— I  am  (luinb. 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


251 


WRITE  ON,  WRITE  ON. 

A    BALLAD. 

Air. — "  Slcrp  orti  siecp  on,  mij  Kathleen  dearj* 

yalrete,  fratres  Asini. — St.  Francis. 

Write  on,  write  on,  ye  Barons  de.ir. 

Ye  Dukes,  write  liard  and  fast ; 
The  good  we've  sought  for  many  a  year 

Your  quills  will  bring  at  last.  . 
One  letter  more,  Newcastle,  pen 

To  match  Lord  Kenyon's  two, 
And  more  than  Ireland's  host  of  men. 

One  brace  of  Peers  will  do. 

Write  on,  write  on,  &c. 

Sure,  never,  since  the  precious  use 

Of  pen  and  ink  began, 
Did  letters,  writ  by  fools,  produce 

Such  signal  good  to  man. 
While  intellect,  'raong  high  and  low. 

Is  marcning  on,  tney  say. 
Give  7ne  the  Dukes  and  Lords,  who  go, 

Like  crabs,  the  othe)-  way. 

Write  on,  write  on,  &e. 

Even  now  I  feel  the  coming  light — 

Even  now,  could  Folly  lure 
My  Lord  Mountcashel,  too,  to  v/rite. 

Emancipation's  sure. 
By  geese  (we  read  in  history) 

Old  Rome  was  saved  from  ill ; 
And  now,  to  quills  of  geese,  we  see 

Old  Rome  indebted  still. 

Write  on,  write  on,  &c. 

Write,  write,  ye  Peers,  nor  stoop  to  style, 

Nor  beat  for  sense  about — 
Things,  little  worth  a  Noble's  while. 

You're  better  far  without. 
Oh  »e'er,  since  asses  spoke  of  yore. 

Such  mir.acles  were  done  ; 
For,  write  but  four  such  letters  more. 

And  Freedom's  cause  is  won  ! 


SONQ  OF  THE  DEPARTING  SPIRIT  OF 
TITHE. 

"Tbo  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent." — Milton. 

It  is  o'er,  it  U  o'er,  my  reign  is  o'er ; 
I  hear  a  Voice,  from  shore  to  shore. 
From  Dunfanaghy  to  Baltimore, 


And  it  saith,  in  sad,  parsonic  tone, 

"  Great  Tithe  and  Stiiall  are  dead  and  gone  !" 

Even  now,  I  behold  your  vanishing  wings, 

Ye  Tenths  of  all  conceivable  things. 

Which  Adam  first,  as  Doctors  deem. 

Saw,  in  a  sort  of  night-mare  dream,"* 

After  the  feast  of  fruit  abhorr'd — 

First  indigestion  on  record  ! — 

Ye  decimate  ducks,  ye  chosen  chicks. 

Ye  pigs  which,  though  ye  be  Catholics, 

Or  of  Calvin's  most  select  depraved. 

In  the  Church  must  have  your  bacon  saved  ; — 

Ye  fields,  where  Labor  counts  his  sheaves, 

And,  whatsoe'er  Wmse//"  believes. 

Must  bow  to  th'  Estiiblish'd  Church  belief, 

That  the  tenth  is  always  a  Protestant  sheaf; — 

Ye  calves,  of  which  the  man  of  Heaven 

Takes  Irish  tithe,  one  calf  in  seven  ;'" 

Ye  tenths  of  rape,  hemp,  barley,  ilax. 

Eggs,""  timber,  milk,  fish,  and  bees'  wax ; 

All  things,  in  short,  since  earth's  creation, 

Doom'd,  by  the  Church's  dispensation. 

To  suifer  eternal  decimation — 

Leaving  the  whole  lay-world,  since  then. 

Reduced  to  nine  parts  out  of  ten  ; 

Or — as  we  calculate  thefts  and  arsons — 

Just  ten  per  cent,  the  w'orse  for  Parsons ! 

Alas,  and  is  all  this  wise  device 
For  the  saving  of  souls  thus  gone  in  a  trice  ' — 
The  whole  put  down,  in  the  simplest  way. 
By  the  souls  resohang  not  to  pay  ! 

And  even  the  P.ipists,  thankless  race. 
Who  have  had  so  much  the  easiest  case — 
To  pay  for  our  sermons  doom'd,  'tis  true, 
But  not  condemn'd  to  hear  them,  too — 
(Our  holy  business  being,  'tis  known. 
With  the  ears  of  their  barley,  not  tlieir  own,) 
Even  they  object  to  let  us  pillage. 
By  right  divuie,  their  tenth  of  tillage. 
And,  horror  of  horrors,  even  decline 
To  find  us  in  sacramental  wine  I'" 

It  is  o'er,  it  is  o'er,  my  reign  is  o'er. 
Ah,  never  sh.all  rosy  Rector  more, 
Like  the  shepherds  of  Israel,  idly  eat. 
And  make  of  his  flock  "  a  prey  and  meat.'"*' 
No  more  shall  be  his  pastoral  sport 
Of  suing  his  flock  in  the  Bishop's  Court- 
Through  various  steps.  Citation,  Libel — • 
Scriptures  all,  but  not  the  Bible  ; 
Working  the  Law's  whole  apparatus, 
To  get  a  few  pre-doom'd  pot.atoes. 


252 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


And  summoning  all  the  powers  of  wig, 
To  settle  the  fraction  of  a  pig  !— 
Till,  parson  and  all  committed  deep 
In  the  case  of  "  Shepherds  versus  Sheep," 
The  law  usurps  the  Gospel's  place, 
And,  en  Sundays,  meeting  face  to  face, 
AVliile  Plaintiff  fills  the  preacher's  station, 
DefMidants  form  the  congregation. 

So  lives  he,  Mammon's  priest,  not  Heaven's, 

For  tenths  thus  all  at  sices  and  sevens, 

Seeking  what  parsons  love  no  less 

Than  tragic  poets — a  good  distress. 

Instead  of  studying  St.  Augustin, 

Gregory  Nyss.,  or  old  St.  Justin, 

(Books  fit  only  to  hoard  dust  in,) 

His  reverence  stints  his  evening  readings 

To  learn'd  Reports  of  Tithe  Proceedings, 

Sipping,  the  while,  that  port  so  ruddy, 

Which  forms  his  only  ancient  study ; — 

Port  so  old,  you'd  swear  its  tartar 

Was  of  the  age  of  Justin  Martyr, 

And,  had  he  sipp'd  of  such,  no  doubt 

His  martyrdom  would  have  been — to  gout. 

Is  all  tlien  lost  ? — alas,  too  true — 

Ye  Tenths  beloved,  adieu,  adieu  ! 

My  reign  is  o'er,  my  reign  is  o'er — 

Like  old  Thumb's  ghost,  "  I  can  no  more." 


THE  EUTHANASIA  OF  VAN. 

"  We  are  lold  that  the  bigots  are  growing  old  and  fiist  wear- 
ing out.  If  it  bo  80,  why  not  lot  us  die  in  peace?" — Lord 
BlXLEV^S  IMUr  to  the  Freeholders  of  Kent, 

Stop,  Intellect,  in  mercy  stop, 
Ve  cursed  improvements,  cease ; 

And  let  poor  Nick  Vansittart  drop 
Into  his  grave  in  peace. 

Hide,  Knowledge,  hide  thy  rising  sun. 
Young  Freedom,  veil  thy  head  ; 

Let  nothing  good  be  thouglit  or  done, 
Till  Nick  Vansitlart's  dead  ! 

Take  pily  on  a  dotard's  fears, 

Who  mucli  doth  light  detest ; 
And  let  his  last  few  drivelling  years 

Be  dark  ns  were  the  rest. 

You,  too,  yc  fleeting  one-pound  notes, 

Speed  not  BO  fast  away — 
Ve  rags,  on  which  old  Nicky  gloats, 

A  few  monthH  longer  iilay."* 


Together  soon,  or  much  I  err, 
Y'ou  holh  from  life  may  go^ 

The  notes  unto  the  scavenger. 
And  Nick — to  Nick  below. 

Y^e  Liberals  whate'er  your  plan, 

Be  all  reforms  suspended  ; 
In  compliment  to  dear  old  Van, 

Let  nothing  bad  be  mended. 

Ye  Papists,  whom  oppression  wrings, 

Y'our  cry  politely  cease. 
And  fret  your  hearts  to  fiddle-strings 

That  Van  may  die  in  peace. 

So  shall  he  win  a  fame  sublime 
By  few  old  rag-mcu  gain'd  ; 

Since  all  shall  own,  in  Nicky's  time. 
Nor  sense,  nor  justice  reign'd. 

So  shall  his  name  through  ages  past. 

And  dolts  ungotten  yet, 
Date  from  "  the  days  of  Nicholas," 

With  fond  and  sad  regret; — 

And  sighing,  say,  "  Alas,  had  he 
"  Been  spared  from  Pluto's  bowers, 

"  The  blessed  reign  of  Bigotry 
"And  Ratrs  mi^ht  still  be  oursl" 


TO  THE  REVERE>rD 


ONE   OF    TnE   SIXTEEN    REQUISITIONISTS  OF    NCTTINO. 
HAM. 

1828. 

What,  you,  too,  my  ******,  in  liashes  so  know 

ing. 
Of  sauces  and  soups  Aristarchus  profess'd ! 
Are  you,  too,  my  savory  Brunswickcr,  going 
To  make  an  old  fool  of  yourself  with  the  rest? 

Far  better  lo  stick  to  your  kitohon  receipts; 

And — if  you  want  snmclhiiig  to  lease — for  va' 
riety, 
Go  study  how  Ude,  in  his  "Cookery,"  treats 

Live  eels,  when  ho  fits  them  for  polish'd  soiictv 

Just  snuggling  them  in,  'twixt  the  bars  of  the  fire. 
He  leaves  them  to  wriggle  and  writhe  on  the 
coals,"" 

In  a  manner  that  Horner  himself  woulil  admire, 
And  wish,  'stond  of  eels,  they  were  Catholic  boiUk 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


2M 


Ude  tells  us,  the  fish  little  sufTering  feels ; 

While  Papists,  of  late,  Iiave  more  sensitive  grown ; 
So,  take  my  advice,  try  your  hand  at  live  eels, 

And,  for  once,  let  the  other  poor  devils  alone. 

I  have  even  a  still  better  receipt  for  your  cook — 
How  to  make  a  goose  die  of  confirm'd  hepatitis;''" 

And,  if  you'll,  for  once,/eHow-feelings  o'erlook, 
A  well-tortured  goose  a  most  capital  sight  is. 

First,  catch  him,  alive — make  a  good  steady  fire — 
Set  your  victim  before  it,  both  legs  being  tied, 

(As,  if  left  to  himself,  he  might  wish  to  retire,) 
And  place  a  large  bowl  of  rich  cream  by  his  side. 

There  roasting  by  inches,  dry,  fever'd,  and  faint. 
Having  drunk  all  the  cream,  you  so  civilly  laid, 
off. 

He  dies  of  as  charming  a  liver  complaint 

As  ever  sleek  parson  could  wish  a  pie  made  of 

Besides,  only  think,  my  dear  one  of  Sixteen, 
What  an  emblem  this  bird,  for  the  epicure's  use 
meant. 
Presents  of  the  mode  in  which  Ireland  has  been 
Made  a  tit-bit   for   yours  and  your  brethren's 
amusement: 

Tied  down  to  the  stake,  while  lier  limbs,  as  they 
quiver, 
A  slow  fxe  of  tyranny  wastes  by  degrees — 
No  wonder  disease  should  have  swell'd  up  her  liver. 
No  wonder  you,  Gourmands,  should  love  her  dis- 
ease. 


IRISH  ANTIQUITIES. 

According  to  some  learn'd  opinions 
The  Irish  once  were  Carthaginians ; 
But,  trusting  to  more  late  descriptions, 
I'd  rather  say  tliey  were  Egyptians. 
My  reason's  this : — the  Priests  of  Isis, 

When  forth  they  march'd  in  long  array, 
Employ'd,  'mong  other  grave  devices, 

A  Sacred  Ass  to  lead  the  way  ;'•" 
And  still  the  antiquarian  traces 

'Mong  Irisli  Lords  this  Pagan  plan, 
For  still,  in  all  religious  cases, 

They  put  Lord  Roden  in  tlie  van. 


A  CURIOUS  FACT. 

The  present  Lord  Kenyon  (tne  Peer  whj  writes 

letters. 
For  whicli   the  waste-paper   folks  much   are   his 

debtors) 
Hath  one  little  oddity,  well  worth  reciting. 
Which  puzzleth  observers,  even  more  than  his  wri- 
ting. 
Wlienever  Lord  Kenyon  doth  cliance  to  behold 
A  cold  Apple-pie — mind,  the  pie  must  be  cold — 
His  Lordship  looks  solemn,  (few  people  know  why,) 
And  he  makes  a  low  bow  to  the  said  apple-pie. 

This  idolatrous  act,  in  so  "  vital"  a  Peer, 

Is,   by  most   serious  Protestants,   thouglit    rather 

queer — 
Pie-worship,  they  hold,  coming  under  the  head 
(Vide  Crnstium,  chap,  iv.)  of  the  Worship  of  Bread. 
Some  think  'tis  a  tribute,  as  author,  he  owes 
For   the  service  that   pie-crust   hatli  done  to   his 

prose ; — 
The  only  good  things  in  his  pages,  thuy  swear, 
Being  those  that  tlie  pastry-cook  sometimes  puts 

there. 
Others  say,  'tis  a  homage,  through  pie-crust  con- 

vey'd, 
To  our  Glorious  Deliverer's  much-honor'd  shade ; 
As  that  Protestant  Hero  (or  Saint,  if  you  please) 
Was  as  fond  of  cold  pie  as  he  was  of  green  peas,'" 
And  'tis  solely  in  loyal  remembrance  of  that. 
My  Lord  Kenyon  to  apple-pie  takes  off  his  hat. 
While  others  account  for  this  kind  salutation 
By  what  Tony  Lumpkin  calls  "concatenation;" — 
A  certain  good-will  that,  from  sympathy's  ties, 
'Twi.\t  old  Apple-women  and  Ora/tfre-mcn  lies. 

But  'tis  needless  to  add,  these  are  all  vague  sur. 

mises, 
For  thus,  we're  assured,  the  whole  matter  arises: 
Lord  Kenyon's  respected  old  father  (like  many 
Respected  old  fathers)  was  fond  of  a  penny ; 
And  loved  so  to  save,"'  that — there's  not  the  least 

question — 
His  death  was  brought  on  by  a  bad  indigestion, 
From  cold  apple-pie-crust  his  Lordship  would  stuff 

in, 
At  breakfiist,  to  save  the  expense  of  hot  muffin. 

Hence  it  is,  and  hence  only,  that  cold  apple-pies 
Are  beheld  by  his  Heir  with  such  reverent  eyes — 
Just  as  honest  King  Stephen  his  beaver  might  doff 
To  the  fishes  that  carried  his  kind  uncle  off: — 
And  v,'hi\e  Jilial  piety  urges  so  many  on, 
'Tis  pure  a;)pZe-pie-ety  moves  my  Lord  Kenyon. 


254 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


NEW-FASHIOXED  ECHOES. 

Sir, 

Moat  of  your  readers  are,  no  doubt,  acquainted  with  the 
anecdote  told  of  a  certain,  not  over-wise,  judge,  who,  when 
in  the  act  of  delivering  a  charge  in  some  country  courl-houee, 
was  interrupted  by  the  braying  of  an  ass  at  the  door.  "  WTiat 
noise  is  thalV  asked  the  angry  judge.  '^Only  an  extraor- 
dinary tcho  there  is  in  court,  my  Lord,"  answered  one  of  the 
touQSel. 

As  there  are  a  number  of  such  "extraordinary  echoes" 
abroad  just  now,  you  will  not,  perhaps,  be  unwilling,  Mr. 
Editor,  to  receive  the  following  few  Hues  suggested  by  them. 

Yours,  &.C. 

S. 

Hue  coeamus,  *   ait;  nuJlique  libcntius  unquam 
Responsura  sono,  Coeamus,  retulit  echo. 

Ovid. 

There  are  echoes,  we  know,  of  all  sorts. 
From  the  echo,  that  "  dies  in  the  dale," 

To  the  "  airy-ton^ued  babbler,"  that  sports 
Up  the  tide  of  the  torrent  her  "  tale." 

There  are  echoes  that  bore  us,  like  Blues, 
With  the  latest  smart  mot  they  have  heard; 

There  are  echoes,  extremely  like  shrews. 
Letting  nobody  Iiave  the  last  word. 

In  the  bogs  of  old  Paddy-land,  too, 

Certain  "  talented"  echoes""  there  dwell, 

Who,  on  being  ask'd,  "  IIow  do  you  do  ?" 
Politely  reply,  "  Pretty  well." 

Rut  why  should  I  talk  any  more 

Of  such  old-fashion'd  echoes  as  these, 
When  Britain  h.i3  new  ones  in  store, 

That  transcend  them  by  many  degrees  1 

For,  of  all  repercussions  of  sound. 

Concerning  which  bards  inake  a  pother, 

There's  none  like  that  happy  rebound 
When  one  bIockhe.id  echoes  another; — 

When  Kenyon  commences  the  bray, 

And  tlie  Borough-Duke  follows  his  tnick ; 

And  loudly  from  Uublin's  sweet  bay, 
Rathdoune  brays,  with  interest,  b.ick  ; — 

.Vnd  while,  of  most  echoes  the  sound 
On  our  car  by  reflection  doth  full, 

ThoHc  Briinswickors'"  pass  the  bray  round, 
Without  any  reflection  at  .ill. 

Oh  Scott,  wore  I  gifted  like  you, 

Who  fja  "■'m"  ""  tho  echoes  there  arc 

From  Henvoirlich  to  bold  Ucn-vcnue, 
From  Uenledi  to  wild  Uamvar; 


I  might  track,  through  each  hard  Irish  name. 
The  rebounds  of  this  asinine  strain. 

Till  from  Neddy  to  Neddy,  it  came 
To  the  chief 'He AAy,  Kenyon,  agam; 

Might  tell  liow  it  roar'd  in  Rathdoune, 
How  from  Dawson  it  died  olF  genteelly — 

How  hollow  it  rung  from  the  crown 
Of  the  fat-pated  Marquis  of  Ely ; 

How,  on  hearing  my  Lord  of  G e, 

Thistle-eaters,  the  stoutest,  gave  way, 

Outdone,  in  their  own  speci.al  line, 
By  the  forty-ass  power  of  his  bray! 

But,  no — for  so  humble  a  bard 

'Tis  a  subject  too  trying  to  touch  on ; 

Such  noblemen's  names  are  too  hard. 

And  their  noddles  too  soft  to  dwell  much  on 

Oh  Echo,  sweet  nymph  of  the  hill, 

Of  the  dell,  and  the  deep-sounding  shelves; 

If,  in  spite  of  Narcissus,  you  still 

Take  to  fools  who  arc  charm'd  with  themseh'esi 

Who  knows  but,  some  morning  retiring. 
To  walk  by  the  Trent's  wooded  side, 

You  may  meet  with  Newcastle,  admiring 
His  own  lengthen'd  ears  in  the  tidel 

Or,  on  into  Cambria  straying, 

Find  Kenyon,  that  doubled-tongued  elf, 
In  his  love  of  fl.':.<:-cendency,  braying 

A  Brunswck  duet  with  liimself! 


INCANTATION. 

rnoM    THE    NEW   TRAOEHV    of   "tub    DnUNSWICKERB, 

18!i8. 
8CKNK.— /'cHriu/fn  Vtain.    In  thcmitidlr^  a  cnltlron  hoiling. 
Thunder. — Knter  Three  liriinsicickers. 

1st   /?n/;i.'!.— TiiuicE    hath    scribbling    Kcnyoo 

scrawlM, 
2d  Jiruns. — Once  hath  fool  Newcastle  bawl'd, 
3(i  flrHTi.s-.— Bexley  snores;— 'tis  time,  'tis  lime, 
\st  limns. — Round  about  the  caldron  go; 

In  the  poisonous  nonsense  throw. 

Bigot  spite,  that  long  hath  grown, 

Like  a  toad  within  a  stone, 

Sweltering  in  the  heart  of  Scott, 

Boil  we  in  the  Brunswick  p(»' 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


255 


All. — Dribble,  dribble,  nonsense  dribble, 

Eldoii,  talk,  and  Kcnyon,  scril)blc. 

2(i  Druns. — Slaver  from  Newcastle's  quill 
In  the  noisome  mess  distil. 
Brimming  high  our  Brunswick  broth 
Both  with  venom  and  with  froth. 
Mix  the  brains  (though  apt  to  hash  ill. 
Being  scant)  of  Lord  i\Iountcashel, 
With  that  malty  stuff  which  Chandos 
Drivels  as  no  other  man  does. 
Catch  (i.  e.  if  catch  you  can) 
One  idea,  spick  and  span, 
From  my  Lord  of  Salisbury, — 
One  idea,  though  it  be 
Smaller  than  the  "  happy  flea," 
Which  his  sire,  in  sonnet  terse, 
Wedded  to  immortal  verse."' 
Though  to  rob  the  son  is  sin. 
Put  his  one  idea  in ; 
And,  to  keep  it  company. 
Let  that  conjuror  Winchelsea 
Drop  but  /la//' another  there, 
If  he  hath  so  much  to  spare. 
Dreams  of  murders  and  of  arsons, 
Hatch'd  in  heads  of  Irish  parsons. 
Bring  from  every  hole  and  corner, 
Where  ferocious  priests,  like  Horner, 
Purely  for  religious  good, 
Cry  aloud  for  Papist's  blood, 
Blood  for  Wells,  and  such  old  women, 
At  their  ease  to  wade  and  swim  in. 

All. — Dribble,  dribble,  nonsense  dribble, 
Bexley,  talk,  and  Kenyon,  scribble. 

Zd  Bruns. — Now  the  charm  begins  to  brew; 
Sisters,  sisters,  add  thereto 
Scraps  of  Lcthbridgc's  old  speeches, 
Mix'd  with  leather  from  his  breeches. 
Rinsings  of  old  Bexley 's  brains. 
Thicken'd  (if  you'll  take  the  pains) 
With  that  pulp  which  rags  create, 
In  their  middle,  mjmpha  state. 
Ere,  like  insects  frail  and  sunny. 
Forth  they  wing  abroad  as  money. 
There — ^the  Hell-broth  we've  enchanted — 
Now  but  one  thing  more  is  wanted. 
Squeeze  o'er  all  that  Orange  juice, 
Cumberland  keeps  cork'd  for  use, 
Which,  to  work  tlie  better  spell,  is 
Color'd  deep  with  blood  of  Scllis, 
Blood,  of  powers  far  more  various. 
Even  than  that  of  Januarius, 
Since  so  great  a  charm  hangs  o'er  it, 
England  b  parsons  bow  before  it ! 

All. — Dribble,  dribble,  nonsense  dribblo, 
Bexley,  talk,  and  Kenyon,  scribble. 


2(£  Bruns. — Cool  it  now  with  Sellis'  blood, 
So  the  charm  is  firm  and  good.  [Exeunt. 


now  TO  MAKE  A  GOOD  POLITICIAN. 

Whene'er  you're  in  doubt,  said  a  Sage  I  once  knew, 
'Twixt  two  lines  of  conduct  ivhich  course  to  pursue. 
Ask  a  woman's  advice,  and,  whate'er  she  advise. 
Do  the  very  reverse,  and  you're  sure  to  be  wise. 

Of  the  same  use  as  guides,  are  the  Brunswicker 

throng; 
In  their  thoughts,  words,  and  deeds,  so  instinctively 

wrong. 
That,  whatever  they  counsel,  act,  talk,  or  indite. 
Take  the  opposite  course,  and  you're  sure  to  be 

right. 

So  golden  this  rule,  that,  had  nature  denied  you 
The  use  of  that  finger-post.  Reason,  to  guide  you — 
Were  you  even  more  doltish  than  any  given  man  is. 
More  soft  than  Newcastle,  more  twaddling  than 

Van  is, 
I'd  stake  my  repute,  on  the  following  conditions. 
To  make  you  the  soundest  of  sound  politicians. 

Place  yourself  near  the  skirts  of  some  high-flying 

Tory- 
Some  Brunswicker  parson,  of  port-drinking  glory, — 
Watch  well  how  he  dines,  during  any  great  Ques- 
tion— 
What  makes  him  feed  gayly,  what  spoils  his  diges- 
tion— 
And  always  feel  sure  that  his  joy  o'er  a  stew 
Portends  a  clear  case  of  dyspepsia  to  you. 
Read  him  backwards,  like  Hebrew — whatever  he 

wishes. 
Or  praises,  note  down  as  absurd,  or  pernicious. 
Like  the  folks  of  a  weather-house,  shifting  about. 
When  he's  out,  be  an  In — when  he's  in,  be  an  Oul. 
Keep  him  always  reversed  in  your  thoughts,  night 

and  day. 
Like  an  Irish  barometer  turn'd  the  wrong  way : — 
If  he's  up,  you  may  swear  that  foul  weather  is  nigh ; 
If  he's  do2vn,  you  may  look  for  a  bit  of  blue  sky. 
Never  mind  what  debaters  or  journalists  say. 
Only  ask  what  he  thinks,  and  then  think  t'other  w.ay. 
Does  he  hate  the  Small-note  Bill?  then  firmly  rely 
The  Small-note  Bill's  a  blessing,  though  you  don't 

know  why. 
Is  Brougham  his  aversion?  then  Il.vry's  your  man 
Does  he  quake  at  O'Connell  ?  take  doublir  to  D.'m. 


256 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Is  he  .-Jl  for  the  Turks?  then,  at  once,  take  the 

whole 
Russian  Empire  (Czar,  Cossacks,  and  all)  to  your 

§oul. 
In  short,  whatsoever  he  talks,  thinks,  or  is, 
Be  your  thoughts,  words,  and  essence  the  contrast 

of  his. 
Nay,  as  Siamese  ladies — at  least,  the  polite  ones — 
All  paint  their  teeth  black,  'cause  the  devil  has 

white  ones — 
If  ev'n,  by  the  chances  of  time  or  of  tide. 
Your  Tory,  for  once,  should  have  sense  on  his  side. 
Even  then  stand  aloof— for,  be  sure  that  Old  Nick, 
When  a  Tory  talks  sensibly,  means  you  some  trick. 

Such  my  recipe  is — and,  in  one  single  verse 
I  shall  now,  in  conclusion,  its  substance  rehearse. 
Be  all  that  a  Brunswicker  is  not,  nor  could  be. 
And  then — you'll  be  all  that  an  honest  man  should 
be. 


EPISTLE  OF  CONDOLENCE, 

FEOM    A    SL.\VE-I.ORD    TO    A    COTTON-LOttD. 

Alas!  my  dear  friend,  what  a  st.ite  of  affairs! 

How  unjustly  we  both  are  despoil'd  of  our  rights ! 
Not  a  pound  of  black  flesh  sliall  I  leave  to  my  heirs. 

Nor  must  you  any  more  work  to  death  little 
whites. 

Both  forced  to  submit  to  that  general  cnnfrollcr 
Of  Kings,  Lords,  and  cotton  mills.  Public  Opin- 
ion, 

No  more  shall  you  beat  with  a  big  billy-roller, 
Nor  /with  the  cart-whip  assert  my  dominion. 

Whereas,  were  we  sufler'd  to  do  as  we  please 
With  our  Blacks  and  our  Whites,  as  of  yore  wo 
were  let, 
Wc  might  range  (hem  alternate,  like  harpsichord 
keys. 
And  between  us  thump  out  a  good  piebald  duet. 

Ent  this  fun  is  all  over; — farewell  to  the  zest 
Which  Slavery  now  lends  to  each  teacup  wo  sip; 

Which  makes  still  the  cruellest  coflee  the  best. 
And  that  sugar  the  Bwcetcst  which  smacks  of  the 
whip. 

Farewell,  ton,  the  Factory's  white  picaninnii-s — 
iJmnll,  living  machines,  wliich,  if  flogg'd  to  their 
tajiks. 


Mix  so  well  with  their  namesakes,  the  "  Billies"  and 
"  Jennies," 
That  which  have  got  souls  in  'em  nobody  asks ; — 

Little  Maids  of  the  Mill,  who,  themselves  but  ill- 
fed. 
Are  obliged,  'mong  their  other  benevolent  cares, 
To  "keep  feeding  the  scribblers,"'" — and  better 
'tis  said. 
Than  old  Blackwood  or  Fraser  have  ever  fed 
theirs. 

All  this  is  now  o'er,  and  so  dismal  my  loss  is. 
So  hard  'tis  to  part  from  the  smack  of  the  thong, 

That  I  mean  (from  pure  love  for  the  old  whipping 
process) 
To  take  to  whipp'd  syllabub  all  my  life  long 


.  THE  GHOST  OF  MILTIADES. 

Ah  quoties  dubius  Scripiia  exorsit  amatsr  I— Ov^D 

The  Ghost  of  Miltiades  came  .at  night. 
And  he  stood  by  the  bed  of  the  Benthamite, 
And  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  thrill'd  the  frame, 
"  If  ever  the  sound  of  Marathon's  name 
"Hath  fired  thy  blood  or  flush'd  thy  brow, 
"  Lover  of  Liberty,  rouse  thee  now  ?" 

The  Benthamite,  yawning,  left  his  bed — 

Away  to  the  Stock  Exchange  he  sped. 

And  he  found  the  Scrip  of  Greece  so  high, 

That  it  lircd  his  blood,  it  flush'd  his  eye. 

And  oh,  'tw.is  a  sight  for  the  Ghost  to  see. 

For  never  was  Greek  more  Greek  than  he! 

And  still  as  the  premium  higher  went. 

His  ecstasy  rose — so  much  per  ccni., 

(As  wc  see  in  a  glass,  that  tells  the  weather, 

The  heat  and  the  silver  rise  together,) 

And  Liberty  sung  from  tho  patriot's  lip, 

While  a  voice  from  his  pocket  whisper'd  "  Scrii  '" 

The  Ghost  of  Miltiades  came  again; — 

He  smiled,  as  the  pale  moon  smiles  through  r.iin, 

For  his  soul  was  glad  at  that  p.atriot  strain; 

(And  poor,  dear  ghosi — how  little  lie  knew 

The  jobs  and  the  tricks  of  tho  I'liilhellene  crew!) 

"  Blessings  and  thanks!"  was  all  ho  said, 

Then,  melting  away,  like  a  night^drcam,  fled  J 

'I'ho  Bcnlliamito  hears — amazed  that  ghosts 
(^ould  be  tinch  fools, — and  away  ho  posts, 
A  ])alrii>t  Hi  ill?     Ah  no,  ah  no — 
Goddess  of  Freedom,  thy  Scrip  is  low, 


SATIllICAL  AND  HUMOEOUS  POEMS. 


267 


And,  warm  and  fond  as  thy  lovers  are, 

Thou  triest  their  passion,  wlien  under  ^«r. 

The  Benthamite's  ardor  fast  decays. 

By  turns  lie  weeps,  and  swears,  and  prays, 

And  wishes  the  d — 1  had  Crescent  and  Cross, 

Ere  he  had  been  forced  to  sell  at  a  loss. 

They  (]uote  him  the  Stock  of  various  nations, 

But,  spite  of  his  classic  associations, 

Lord,  how  he  loathes  the  Greek  quotations! 

"Who'll  buy  my  Scrip?    Who'll  buy  my  Scrip?" 

Is  now  the  theme  of  the  patriot's  lip, 

As  he  runs  to  tell  how  hard  his  lot  is 

To  Messrs.  Orlando  and  Luriottis, 

And  says,  "Oh  Greece,  for  Liberty's  sake, 

"  Do  buy  my  Scrip,  and  I  vow  to  break 

"  Those  dark,  unholy  bonds  of  thine — 

"If  you'll  only  consent  to  buy  up  mine!" 

The  Ghost  of  Miltiades  came  once  more; — 

His  brow,  like  the  nigiit,  was  lowering  o'er. 

And  he  said,  with  a  look  that  flash'd  dismay, 

"  Of  Liberty's  foes  the  worst  are  they, 

"\Vlio  turn  to  a  trade  her  cause  divine, 

"  And  gamble  for  gold  on  Freedom's  shrine  ?" 

Thus  saying,  the  Ghost,  an  he  took  his  flight, 

Gave  a  Parthian  kick  to  t!ia  Benthamite, 

Which  sent  him,  whimpe/tng,  off  to  Jerry — 

And  vanish'd  away  to  tlni  Stygian  ferry ! 


A.LARMING  INTELLEGENCE  —  REVOLUTION 
IN  THE  DICTIONARY  — ONE  GALT  AT 
THE   HEAD   OF   IT. 

God  preserve  us! — there's  nothing  now  safe  from 
assault ; — 
Thrones  toppling  around,  churclies  brought  to 
the  hammer ; 
And  accounts  have  just  reach'd  us  that  one  Mr.  Gait 
Has   declared   open   war   against    English   and 
Grammar ! 

He  had  long  been  suspected  of  some  such  design. 
And,  the  better  his  wicked  intents  to  arrive  at, 

Had  lately  'mong  Colburn's  troops  of  the  line 
(The  penny-a-line  men)  enlisted  as  private. 

There  school'd,  with  a  rabble  of  words  at  command, 
Scotch,  English,  and  slang,  in  promiscuous  alli- 
ance, 
He,  at  length,  against  Syntax  has  taken  his  stand. 
And  sets  all  the  Nine  Parts  of  Speech  at  de- 
fiance. 

33 


Next  advices,  no  doubt,  further  fticts  will  afford ; 
In   the  mean  time   the  danger  most  imminent 
grows. 
He  has  taken  the  Life  of  one  eminent  Lord, 

And  whom   he'll   nrxt   murder   the   Lord    only 
knows. 

IVedncaday  Evening. 

Since  our  last,  matters,  luckily,  look  more  serene ; 
Though   the   rebel,   'tis   stated,  to   aid   his  de- 
fection, 
Has  seized  a  great  Powder — no,  Puff  Magazine, 
And  th'  explosions  are  dreadful  in  every  direc- 
tion. 

What  his  meaning  ex.aotly  is,  nobody  know.s, 
As  he  t.alks  (in  a  strain  of  intense  botheration) 

Of  lyrical  "  ichor,"  '="  "  gelatinous"  prose,'" 

And  a  mixture  calfd  "  amber  immortalization."  '" 

Now,  he  raves  of  a  bard  he  once  happcn'd  to  meet, 
Sealed  high  "  among  rattlings,"  and  churning  a 
sonnet;'" 

Now,  talks  of  a  mystery,  wrapp'd  in  a  sheet. 
With  a  halo  (by  way  of  a  nightcap)  upon  it!  "* 

We  shudder  in  tracing  these  terrible  lines ; 

Something  bad  they  must  mean,  though  we  can't 
make  it  out; 
For,  whate'er  may  be  guess'd  of  G.alt's  secret  de- 
signs, 
That  they're  all  An^i-English  no  Christian  car 
doubt. 


RESOLUTIONS 

PASSED    AT    A    LATE    MEETING    OF    EEVEEENDS    AND    RIQITf 
EEVEEESD3. 

Resolved — to  stick  to  every  particle 
Of  every  Creed  and  every  Article ; 
Reforming  naught,  or  great  or  little, 
We'll  stanchly  stand  by  e\ery  tittle,'" 
And  scorn  the  swallow  of  that  soul 
Which  cannot  boldly  bolt  the  whole. 

Resolved  that,  though  St.  Athanasius 
In  d.amning  souls  is  rather  spacious — 
Though  \vide  and  far  his  curses  fall. 
Our  Church  "  \iath  stomach  for  them  all ;" 
And  tliose  wlio'rc  not  content  with  such, 
May  e'en  he  d — d  ten  times  as  much. 


258 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Resolved — such  liberal  souls  are  we — 
Though  hating  Nonconformity, 
We  yet  believe  the  cash  no  worse  is 
That  comes  from  Nonconformist  purses. 
Indifferent  ichence  the  money  readies 
The  pockets  of  our  reverend  breeches. 
To  us  the  Jumper's  jingling  penny 
Chinks  with  a  tone  as  sweet  as  any ; 
And  even  our  old  friends  Yea  and  Nay 
Jlay  through  the  nose  for  ever  pr.iy, 
If  also  through  the  nose  they'll  pay. 

Resolved,  that  Hooper,""  Latimer,'" 

And  Cranmer,"'  all  extremely  err, 

In  taking  such  a  low-bred  view 

Of  what  Lords  Spiritual  ought  to  do  : — 

•All  owing  to  the  fact,  poor  men. 

That  Mother  Church  was  modest  then, 

Nor  knew  what  golden  eggs  her  goose, 

The  Public,  would  in  time  produce. 

One  Pisgah  peep  at  modern  Durham 

To  far  more  lordly  thoughts  would  stir  'cm. 

Resolved,  that  when  we,  Spiritual  Lords, 
Whose  income  just  enough  affords 
To  keep  our  Spiritual  Lordships  cozy, 
Are  told,  by  Antiquarians  prosy, 
How  ancient  Bishops  cut  up  theirs, 
Giving  the  poor  the  largest  shares — 
Our  answer  is,  in  one  short  word. 
We  think  it  pious,  but  absurd. 
The  good  men  m.ide  the  world  their  debtor. 
But  we,  the  Churcli  reform'd,  know  better ; 
And,  taking  all  that  all  can  pay. 
Balance  tli'  account  the  other  way. 

Resolved,  our  thanks  profoundly  due  are 
To  la.st  month'.s  Quarterly  Reviewer, 
Who  proves  (by  arguments  so  clear 
One  sees  how  much  ho  holds  per  year) 
That  England's  Church,  though  out  of  date, 
Must  still  be  left  to  lie  in  state. 
As  dead,  as  rotten,  and  as  grand  as 
The  mummy  of  King  Osymandy.is, 
All  pickled  snug — Uio  br.iins  drawn  out — '" 
With  costly  cerements  swathed  about, — 
And  "  Touch  me  not,"  those  words  terrific, 
ScraM  I'd  o'er  her  in  good  liieroglyphic. 


SIR  ANDREWS  DREAM. 

"  Nee  til  speme  piia  venienlia  scimnia  porlia  : 
Cum  pia  veuenint  somnia.  pondiis  h.ibt'Ql." 

Propert.  lib.  iv.  olet.    r. 

As  snug,  on  a  Sunday  eve,  of  late. 

In  Ids  easy  chair  Sir  Andrew  sate. 

Being  much  too  pious,  as  every  one  knows. 

To  do  aught,  of  a  Sunday  eve,  but  doze. 

He  dreamt  a  dream,  dear,  holy  man, 

.■^nd  I'll  tell  you  his  dream  as  well  as  I  can. 

He  found  himself,  to  his  great  amaze. 

In  Charles  the  First's  high  Tory  days. 

And  just  at  the  time  that  gravest  of  Courts 

Had  publish'd  its  Book  of  Sunday  Sports.'*" 

Sunday  Sports  !  what  a  thing  for  the  ear 

Of  Andrew,  even  in  sleep,  to  hear ! — 

It  chanced  to  be,  too,  a  Sabb.ath  day. 

When  the  people  from  church  were  coming  away, 

And  Andrew  with  horror  heard  this  song. 

As  the  smiling  sinners  flock'd  along : — 

"  Long  life  to  the  Bishops,  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

"For  a  week  of  work  and  a  Sunday  of  play 

"Jlake  the  poor  man's  life  run  merry  away." 

"  The  Bishops  !"  quoth  Andrew,  "  Popish,  I  guess," 
And  he  grinned  with  conscious  holiness. 
But  the  song  went  on,  and,  to  brim  the  cup 
Of  poor  Andy's  grief,  the  fiddle  struck  up! 

"  Come,  take  out  the  lasses — lei's  have  a  dance — 

"  For  the  Bishops  allow  us  to  skip  our  fill, 
"  Well  knowing  th.at  no  one's  the  more  in  iidvan.'e 

"  On  the  ro.ad  to  heaven,  for  standing  still. 
"  Oh,  it  never  was  meant  that  grim  grimaces 

"  Should  sour  the  cream  of  a  creed  of  love  ; 
"  Or  that  fellows  with  long,  disastrous  faces, 

"  Alone  should  .sit  among  cherubs  above. 

"Then  hurrah  for  the  Bishops,  &c. 

"  For  Sunday  fun  we  never  can  fail, 

"  When  the  Church  lierself  each  sport  jioinlo 
out; — 
"  There's  May-Games,  arcliery,  Whilsun-ale, 

"And  a  Jray-polo  higli  to  dance  about. 
"Or,  should  wo  be  for  a  pole  hard  driven, 

"Some  lenglliy  8.aint,  of  aspect  fell, 
"  With  his  pocket.s  on  earth,  and  his  nose  in  heal  en, 

"  Will  do  for  n  Jlay-pole  just  as  well. 
"  Then  hurrah  for  the  Bisho|)s,  hurrah  !  hurrah  I 
"A  week  of  work  and  a  Sabb.illi  of  i>lay 
"Make  the  poor  in.in's  life  run  morry  away." 

To  Andy,  who  donsn't  inucli  deal  in  history, 
Thit  Sunday  <>ceno  wn.t  n  downright  mystery  ; 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


259 


And  God  knows  where  might  have  ended  the  joke, 

But,  in  trying  to  stop  the  fiddles,  ho  woke. 

And  the  odd  tinng  is  (as  the  rumor  goes) 

That  since  tliat  dream — wliicli,  one  would  suppose, 

Should  h.ave  made  his  godly  stoma'jh  rise, 

Even  more  than  ever,  'gainst  Sunday  pies — 

He  has  view'd  things  quite  with  dil'erent  eyes ; 

Is  beginning  to  take,  on  matters  divine. 

Like  Cliarles  and  the  Bishops,  the  sporting  line — 

Is  all  for  Christians  jigging  in  pairs. 

As  an  interlude  'twixt  Sunday  prayers ; — 

N.iy,  talks  of  getting  Archbishop  Hoyvley 

To  bring  in  a  Bill,  enacting  duly. 

That  all  good  Protestants,  from  this  date, 

M.ay,  freely  and  lawfully,  recreate, 

Of  a  Sunday  eve,  their  spirits  moody. 

With  Jack  in  the  Straw,  or  Punch  and  Judy. 


A  BLUE  LOVE-SONG. 

TO    MISS    MARTINEAU. 
Air. — "  Come  live  with  mc,  and  be  mij  locc^ 

Come  wed  with  me,  and  uc  will  write, 

My  Blue  of  Blues,  from  morn  till  night. 

('based  from  our  classic  souls  shall  be 

All  thoughts  of  vulgar  progeny ; 

And  thou  shall  w.alk  through  smiling  rows 

Of  chubby  duodecimos. 

While  I,  to  match  thy  products  nearly, 

Sliall  lie-in  of  a  quarto  yearly. 

'Tis  true,  ev'n  books  entail  some  trouble ; 

But  live  productions  give  one  double. 

Correcting  children  is  such  bother, — 

While  printers'  devils  correct  the  other. 

Just  think,  my  own  Malthusian  dear. 

How  much  more  decent  'tis  to  I'.ear 

From  male  or  female — as  it  m.ay  be — ■ 

"  How  is  your  book  1"  than  "  How's  your  baby  1" 

And,  whereas  physic  and  wet  nurses 

Do  much  exhaust  paternal  purses. 

Our  books,  if  rickety,  may  go 

And  be  well  dry-nursed  in  the  Row  ; 

And,  when  God  wills  to  t.ake  them  hence. 

Are  buried  at  the  Role's  expense. 

Besides  (as  'tis  well  proved  by  thee, 
In  thy  own  Works,  vol.  93,) 
The  march,  just  now,  of  population 
So  much  outstrips  all  moder.ation. 
That  even  prolitic  herring-shoals 
Keep  pace  not  with  our  erring  souls.'" 


Oh  far  more  [iroper  and  well-bred 
To  stick  to  writing  books  instead; 
And  show  the  world  how  two  Blue  Uvers 
Can  coalesce,  like  two  book-covers, 
(Sheep-skin,  or  calf,  or  such  wise  leather,) 
Letter'd  at  back,  and  stitcli'd  togc^ther. 
Fondly  as  first  the  binder  fi.v'd  'em, 
With  naught  but — literature  betwixt  'em. 


SUNDAY  ETHICS. 


A    SCOTCH    OOK. 


PoiE,  profligate. Londoners,  having  heard  tell 

Th.at  the  De'il's  got  amang  ye,  and  fearing  'tis  true, 
We  ha'  sent  ye  a  mon  wh.a's  a  match  for  his  spell, 
A  chiel  o'  our  ain,  that  the  De'il  himscl' 

Will  be  glad  to  keep  clear  of,  one  Andrew  Agnew. 

So,  at  least,  ye  may  reckon,  for  ane  day  entire 

In  ilka  lang  week  ye'U  be  tranquil  eneugh, 
As  Auld  Nick,  do  him  justice,  abhors  a  Scotch  squire, 
An'  would  sooner  gae  ro.ast  by  his  ain  kitchen  fire 
Tlian  pass  a  hale  Sunday  wi'  Andrew  Agnew. 

For,  bless  the  gude  mon,  gin  he  had  his  ain  way. 
He'd  na  let  a  cat  on  the  Sabbath  say  "  mew  ;" 
Nae  birdie  maun  whistle,  nae  Iambic  maun  play, 
An'  Phoebus  himsel  could  na  travel  tluat  day. 
As  he'd  find  a  new  Joshua  in  Audio  Agnew. 

Only  hear,  in  your  Senate,  how  awfu'  he  cries, 

"  Wae,  wae  to  a'  sinners,  who  boil  an'  who  stew  ' 
"  Wae,  wae  to  a'  eaters  o'  Sabbath-baked  pies, 
"  For  as  surely  again  shall  the  crust  thereof  rise 
"  In  judgment  against  ye,"  saitli  Andrew  Agnew 

Ye  m.ay  think,  from  a'  this,  that  our  Audio's  the  lac 

To  c.a'  o'er  the  coals  your  nobeelity,  too ; 
That  their  drives,  o'  a  Sunday,  wi'  flunkies,'"  a'  clad 
Like  Shawmen,  behind  'em,  would  mak  the  mon 
mad — 
But  he's  nae  sic  a  noodle,  our  Andie  Agnew. 

If  Lairds  an'  fine  Ladies,  on  Sunday,  think  riglit 
To  gang  to  the  deevil — as  maist  o'  em  do — 

To  stop  them  our  Andie  would  think  na  polite ; 

And  'tis  odds  (if  the  duel  could  get  ony  thing  by't) 
But  he'd  follow  'em,  booing,'"  would  ."Andrew 
Agnew. 


260 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


AWFUL  EVENT. 

i'Es,  Wincliclsea,  (I  tremble  while  I  pen  it,) 
VVincbol're.i's  Earl  hath  cut  the  British  Senate — 
Hath  said  to  England's  Peers,  in  accent  grulT, 
"  Thai   for   ye   all,"    [snapping   his  fingers,]    and 
exit,  in  a  huff! 

Disastrous  news  I — like  that,  of  old,  which  spread 
From  shore  to  shore,  "  our  mighty  Pan  is  dead," 
O'er  the  cross  benches  (cross  from  being  cross'd) 
Sounds  the  loud  wail,  "  Our  Winchclsea  is  lost !" 

Which  of  yc,  Lords,  that  heard  him,  can  forget 
The  deep  impression  of  that  awful  threat, 
"I  quit  your  house!!'' — 'midst  all  that  histories  tell, 
I  know  but  one  event  that's  parallel : — 

It  chanced  at  Drury  Lane,  one  Easter  night, 
When  the  gay  gods,  too  bless'd  to  be  polite, 
Gods  at  tlicir  ease,  like  those  of  learn'd  Lucretius, 
Laugh'd,  whistled,  groan'd,  uproariously  facetious — 
A  well-dress'd  member  of  the  middle  gallery. 
Whose  "  ears  polite"  disdain'd  such  low  canaillcrie, 
Rose  in  Ids  place — so  grand,  you'd  almost  swear 
Lord  Winchelsea  himself  stood  towering  there — 
And  like  that  Lord  of  dignity  and  nous, 
Said,  "  Silence,  fellows,  or — I  "11  leave  the  house  ! !" 

How  brook'd  the  gods  this  speech  ?    Ah  well-a-day, 
That  speech  so  fine  should  be  so  thrown  away! 
In  vain  did  this  mid-gallery  grandee 
Assert  his  own  two-shilling  dignity — 
In  vain  lie  menaced  to  withdraw  the  ray 
Of  his  own  full-price  countenance  away — 
Fun  against  Dignity  is  fearful  odds, 
And  as  the  Lords  laugh  now,  so  giggled  then  the 
cods  I 


THE  NUMBERING  OF  THE  CLERGY. 
■ARonr  ON  Bin  cmarlks  han.  Williams's  f'AMous 

ODE, 
**C-OMC,   CLOK,  AND   OIVK    MK   flWIEKT   KIVIEI.'* 

"  Wo  want  moro  Churches  ind  more  Clcno'tncn." 

Jlishop  of  J^ndon's  late  Charge. 
**  Iti-ctoriiin  numerum,  IcrfU  pcrountibus,  niigGnt." 

Claudian  in  /.'ufr.i/i. 

CoMF.,  give  US  more  Livings  and  llcclora, 
For,  richer,  no  realm  ever  pave ; 

Hut  why,  yc  unchristian  objectors, 
Do  yc  n«k  uh  how  tnanv  wo  crave?'" 


Oh,  there  can't  be  too  many  rich  Livings 

For  souls  of  the  Pluralist  kind, 
Who,  despising  old  Cocker's  misgivings, 

To  numbers  can  ne'er  be  confined.'" 

Count  the  cormorants  hovering  .ibout,'" 
At  the  time  their  fish  season  sets  in, 

When  those  models  of  keen  diners-out 
Are  preparing  their  beaks  to  begin. 

Count  the  rooks  that,  in  clerical  dresses, 
Flock  round  when  the  harvest's  in  plaj', 

And,  not  minding  the  farmer's  distresses. 
Like  devils  in  grain  peck  aw.ay. 

Go,  number  the  locusts  in  heaven,'" 

On  their  way  to  some  titheable  shore ; 
And  when  so  many  Parsons  you've  given, 

We  still  shall  be  craving  for  more. 

Then,  unless  ye  the  Church  would  submerge,  ye 
Must  le.ive  us  in  peace  to  augment, 

For  the  wretch  who  could  number  the  Clergy, 
With  few  will  be  ever  content,'" 


A  SAD  CASE. 

"If  it  bo  the  under;<riLdiintu  season  at  which  this  rabtct 
rcligiosa  is  to  bo  so  foarfiil,  vvliat  security  lias  Mr.  GoulboufD 
against  it  at  tliis  moment,  when  liis  sou  is  actually  exposed 
to  the  full  venom  of  an  association  with  UisscnlersV" — 7'A« 
Times,  March  '.J5. 

How  sad  a  case  ! — jiist  think  of  it — 

If  Goulbourn  junior  should  be  bit 

By  some  insane  Dissenter,  roaming 

Through  Crania's  halls,  at  large  and  foaming, 

And  with  that  aspect,  vUm  crabbed 

Wliicli  marks  Dissenters  when  they're  rabid  I 

God  only  knows  what  mischiefs  might 

Result  from  this  one  single  bite, 

Or  how  the  venom,  once  suck'd  in. 

Might  spread  and  rage  through  killi  and  kin. 

Mad  folks,  of  all  denominations. 

First  turn  upon  their  own  rohilions: 

So  that  (ine  tioulbourn,  fairly  bit, 

Might  end  in  maddening  the  whole  kit. 

Till,  all,  yc  gods,  we'd  have  to  rue 

Our  (iiiulbourn  senior  bitten  too; 

'I'lic  llycliurcliph<pbia  in  llmse  veins, 

Wiirii'  Tory  blocid  now  ri'illy  reigns; — 

And  that  dear  man,  who  now  percei.'cs 

Siilvalion  only  in  lawn  sleeves, 


SATIRICAL  AND  UUMOROUS  POEMS. 


201 


Might,  tainted  by  sucli  coarse  infection, 

So,  on,  from  street  to  street  I  strode ; 

Run  mad  in  tli'  opposite  direction, 

And  you  can't  conceive  how  vastly  odd 

And  tliinii,  poor  man,  'tis  only  given 

The  butchers  look'd — a  roseate  crew 

To  linsey-woolsey  to  reach  Heaven  ! 

Inshrined  in  stalls,  with  naught  to  do; 

While  some  on  a  bench,  lialf-dozing,  sat. 

Just  fancy  wliat  a  shock  'twould  be 

And  tiie  Sacred  Cows  were  not  more  fat 

Onr  Goulliourn  in  his  tils  to  sec. 

Tearing  into  a  thousand  jiarticles 

Still  posed  to  think,  what  all  this  scene 

His  once  loved  Nino  and  Thirty  Articles 

Of  sinecure  trade  was  meant  to  mean. 

(Those  Articles  his  friend,  the  Duke,'" 

"  And,  pray,"  ask'd  I — "  by  whom  is  paid 

For  Gospel,  t'other  night,  mistook;) 

"The  expense  of  this  strange  nias(|nerade?" — 

Cursing  cathedrals,  deans,  and  singers — 

"Th'  expense!— oh,  tliat's  of  course  defray'd 

Wishing  tlie  ropes  might  hang  the  ringers — 

(Said  one  of  these  well-fed  Hecatombers) 

Pelting  the  church  with  blasphemies. 

"By  yonder  rascally  rice-consumers." 

Even  worse  than  Parson  Beverley's; — 

"  What !  thaj,  who  mustn't  eat  meat !" 

And  ripe  for  severing  Cliurch  and  State, 

"  No  matter— 

Like  any  creedless  reprobate. 

(And,  while  he  spoke,  his  cheeks  grew  fatter,) 

Or  like  that  class  of  Methodists 

"  The  rogues  may  munch  their  Paihhj  ci-op. 

Prince  Waterloo  styles  "  Atheists !" 

"But  the  rogues  must  still  support  our  shop. 

"And,  depend  upon  it,  the  way  to  treat 

But  'tis  too  much — tlie  Bluse  turns  jiale, 

"Heretical  stom.ichs  th.at  thus  dissent. 

And  o'er  the  picture  drops  a  veil. 

"Is  to  burden  all  tliat  won't  eat  meat. 

Praying,  God  save  the  Goulbourns  all 

"  With  a  costly  Meat  Establishment." 

From  mad  Dissenters,  great  and  small  I 

On  hearing  these  words  so  gravely  siiid. 

With  a  volley  of  laughter  loud  I  shook; 

And  my  slumber  fled,  and  my  dream  was  sped, 
And  I  found  I  was  lying  snug  in  bed. 

With  my  nose  in  the  Bishop  of  Fekns's  book 

A  DREAM  OF  HINDOSTAN. 

ri3uni  toneatis,  amici. 

*TitE  longer  one  lives,  the  more  one  learns," 

THE  BRUNSWICK  CLUB. 

Said  I,  as  otf  to  sleep  I  went. 
Bemused  with  thinking  of  Tithe  concerns. 

A  letter  having  been  addressed  to  a  very  distinguished  per 
sonaje,  requesting  him  to  become  tlio  Puti-on  of  this  Orange 

And  reading  a  book,  by  the  Bishop  of  Ferns,"" 
On  the  Irish  Church  Establishment. 

Club,  a  polite  answer  was  forthwith  returned,  of  which  we 
have  been  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  a  copy. 

But,  lo,  in  sleep,  not  long  I  lay, 

Brimstonc-hM,  September  1,  1828. 

When  Fancy  licr  usual  tricks  began, 

Private. — Lonn  Belzeeue  pi-escnts 

And  I  found  myself  bewitched  away 

To  tlie  Brunswick  Club  his  compliments, 

To  a  goodly  city  in  Hindostan — 

And  much  regrets  to  say  that  he 

A  city,  where  he,  who  dares  to  dine 

Cannot,  .at  present,  their  Patron  be. 

On  auglit  but  rice,  is  deem'd  a  sinner; 

In  stating  this.  Lord  Belzebub 

Where  sheep  and  kine  are  held  divine. 

Assures,  on  his  honor,  the  Brunswick  Club, 

And,  accordingly — never  dress'd  for  dinner. 

Th.at  'tisn't  from  any  lukewarm  lack 

Of  ze.al  or  fire  he  thus  holds  b.ack — 

"  But  how  is  this  V  I  wond'ring  cried — 

As  even  Lord  CoaV''^  himself  is  not 

As  I  walk'd  that  city,  fair  and  wide. 

For  the  Orange  party  more  red-hot ; 

And  saw,  in  every  marble  street, 

But  the  truth  is,  till  their  Club  aftbrds 

A  row  of  beautiful  butcher's  shops — 

A  somewhat  decenter  show  of  Lords, 

"  What  means,  for  men  who  don't  cat  meat, 

And  on  its  list  of  members  gets 

"  This  grand  display  of  loins  and  chops?" 

A  few  less  rubbishy  Baronets, 

In  vain  I  ask'd — 'twas  plain  to  see 

Lord  Belzebub  must  beg  to  be 

That  nobody  dared  to  answer  me. 

Excused  from  keeping  such  company. 

262 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Who  the  de>-il,  he  liumbly  begs  to  know. 

Are  Lord  Glendone,  and  Lord  Dunlol 

Or  who,  with  a  grain  of  sense,  would  go 

To  sit  and  be  bored  by  Lord  Mayo  ? 

What  living  creature — except  his  nurse — 

For  Lord  Mountcashel  cares  a  curse, 

Or  tliinks  'twould  matter  if  Lord  Muskerry 

Were  t'other  side  of  the  Stygian  ferry  1 

Breathes  there  a  man  in  Dublin  town, 

Who'd  give  but  half  of  half-a-crown 

To  save  from  drowning  my  Lord  Rathdoune, 

Or  who  wouldn't  also  gladly  hustle  in 

Lords  Roden,  Brandon,  Cole,  and  Joeelyn  ? 

In  short,  though,  from  his  tenderest  years, 

Aecustom'd  to  all  sorts  of  Peers, 

Lord  Belzebub  much  questions  whether 

He  ever  yet  saw,  mix'd  together, 

As  'twere  in  one  capacious  tub, 

Such  a  mess  of  noble  silly-bub 

As  the  twenty  Peers  of  the  Brunswick  Club. 

'Tis  therefore  impossible  that  Lord  B. 

Could  stoop  to  such  society, 

Thinking,  he  owns,  (though  no  groat  prig,) 

For  one  in  his  station  'twere  infra  dig. 

But  he  begs  to  propose,  in  the  interim, 

(Till  tliey  find  some  prop'ror  Peers  for  him,) 

His  Highness  of  Cumberland,  as  Sub, 

To  take  his  place  at  the  Brunswick  C'luh — 

Begging,  meanwhile,  himself  to  dub 

Their  obedient  servant,  Belzebub. 

It  luckily  happens,  the  Royal  Dnke 

Resembles  so  nnioh,  in  air  and  look. 

The  head  of  the  Belzebub  family. 

That  few  can  any  difference  see ; 

Wliich  makes  him,  of  course,  the  better  suit 

Tc  serve  as  Lord  B.'s  substitute. 


PROPOSALS  FOR  A  fiYNiECOCRACY. 

ADOUESSED    TO    A    I.ATE    KADICAI.    MEETINU. 

"QunB  ipsadecug  sib)  dia  Camilla 

Doli'ljlt  paclaquo  boDaa  bolllqiio  inlnl»lrn»."— VmniL. 

As  Whig  Reform  ha.s  had  its  range, 

And  none  of  us  arc  yet  content, 
Suppose,  my  friends,  by  way  of  change, 

We  try  n  Frrnale  ParJiamenl ; 
And  Hiiiw,  of  late,  with  he  M.  P.'s 
We've  fared  ho  badly,  lake  to  Hhe's — 
Peltlcont  patriotH,  flonnced  John  RusscUh, 
Rurdetti  in  hlnndi;  and  Broughams  in  bustles. 


Tlie  plan  is  startling,  I  confess — 
But  'tis  but  an  affair  of  dress ; 
Nor  see  I  much  there  is  to  choose 

'Twixt  Ladies  (so  they're  thorough  bred  on  s^ 
Li  ribbons  of  all  sorts  of  hues. 

Or  Lords  in  only  blue  or  red  ones. 

At  least,  the  fiddlers  will  be  winners, 

Whatever  other  trade  advances; 
As  then,  instead  of  Cabinet  dinners. 

We'll  have,  at  Almiick's,  Cabinet  dances; 
Nor  let  this  world's  important  questions 
Depend  on  Ministers'  digestions. 

If  Ude's  receipts  have  done  thirjgs  ill. 

To  Weippert's  band  they  m.iy  go  better: 
There's  Lady  *  *,  in  one  quadrille. 

Would  settle  Europe,  if  you'd  let  her: 
And  who  tlie  douce  or  asks,  or  cares, 

When  Wliigs  or  Tories  have  undone  'em, 
Whether  they've  danced  through  State  affairs. 

Or  simply,  dully,  dined  upon  'em  ? 

Hurrah  then  for  the  Petticoats ! 

To  them  we  jilodge  our  free-born  votes; 

We'll  have  ;ill  she,  and  only  she — 

Pert  blues  shall  act  as  "  best  debaters." 
Old  dowagers  our  Bishops  be. 

And  termagants  our  Agitiitors. 

If  Vestris,  to  oblige  the  nation. 

Her  own  Olympus  will  abandon, 
.\iid  Iielp  to  prop  th'  Administration, 

It  can't  have  belter  legs  to  stand  on. 
The  famed  Macaulay  (Miss)  shall  show, 

E:ich  evening,  forth  in  learn'd  oration; 
Shall  move  (midst  gener.al  cries  of  "Oh!") 

F(n'  f\ill  returns  of  population: 
And,  finally,  to  crown  the  whole. 
The  Princess  Olive,"'  Royal  soul. 
Shall  from  her  bower  in  Banco  Regis, 
Descend,  to  bless  her  faithful  lieges, 
,\nd,  'mid  our  Union's  loyal  chorus, 
Ueign  jollily  for  ever  o'er  us. 


TO  Till-:  KDITOK  111'  Tin:  •  •  •. 

Sir. 

Il.ivlnn  lii'nrd  noinc  rumors  n-^'pirtlliR  ll""  ilran^jo  anil 
Bwfnl  vli.llntliiii  iiiid'T  ulilch  Lord  lli'ldiy  lina  fnr  nomo  llmo 
paKt  liiM'ii  milTnrliii;.  In  (•fiiii.i'qui'hro  nf  Ida  diTlriri-d  hculllily  lo 
"  aidlicma,  nuloa,  diuU,"  I"  fcc.  I  lnnli  \\w  lil.orly  cif  iiialdliR 
Inqiilrli'B  at  Ida  Liirdaldp'!!  I»ninc  IItIh  moruinK.  and  I"'"  no 
tlnio  In  Irnnimmlnu  \n  ymi  anrli  jinrlliMdam  m  I  .'(inld  ridlocl 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


203 


It  ia  said  that  the  Bcreams  of  his  Lordship,  under  the 
operation  of  this  nightly  concert,  (which  is,  no  dou))t,  souio 
triclc  of  the  Uadicals,)  may  be  heard  all  over  the  neighbor- 
hood. The  feinalo  wh<i  personates  SI.  Cecilia  is  supposed 
to  be  the  same  that,  lost  year,  appeared  in  the  character  of 
Isis,  at  the  Uotunda.  flow  the  cht.Tiibs  are  managed,  I  have 
iiot  yet  ascertained.  Yours,  &c. 

P.P. 

LORD  HENLEY  AND  ST.  CECILIA. 

in  RIetii  descendat  Judices  aures. — IIorat. 

As  silug  in  his  bed  Lord  Henley  lay, 

Revolving  much  his  own  renown, 
And  hoping  to  add  thereto  a  ray, 

By  putting  duets  and  anthems  down, 

Sudden  a  strain  of  choral  sounds 

Mellifluous  o'er  his  senses  stole  ; 
Whereat  tlie  Reformer  muttcr'd,  "  Zounds  !" 

For  he  loathed  sweet  music  with  all  his  soul. 

Then,  starting  up,  he  saw  a  sight 

Tliat  well  might  shooit  so  learn'd  a  snorer — 
Saint  Cecilia,  robed  in  light. 

With  a  portable  organ  slung  before  her. 

And  round  were  Cherubs,  on  rainbow  wings. 
Who,  his  Lordship  fear'd,  might  tire  of  flitting. 

So  begg'd  they'd  sit — but  ah  !  poor  things, 

They'd,  none  of  them,  got  tlie  means  of  sitting.'" 

"  Having  heard,"  .said  tlie  Saint,  "  you're  fond  of 
hymns, 

"  And  indeed,  that  musical  snore  betray'd  you, 
"  Myself,  .and  my  choir  of  cherubiras, 

"  Are  come,  for  a  while,  to  serenade  you." 

In  vain  did  the  horrified  Henley  say 

"'Twas  .ill  a  mistake" — "she  was  misdirected;" 
And  point  to  a  concert  over  the  way, 

Where  fiddlers  and  angels  were  expected. 

In  vain — the  Saint  could  see  in  his  looks 
(She  civilly  said)  much  tuneful  lore; 

So,  at  once,  all  open'd  their  music-books, 
And  herself  and  her  Cherubs  set  off  .it  a^^ore. 

All  night  duets,  terzets,  quartets, 

N.ay,  long  quintets  most  dire  to  hear; 

Ay,  and  old  motets,  and  canzonets, 
And  glees,  in  sets,  kept  boring  his  e.ir. 

He  tried  to  sleep — but  it  wouldn't  do; 

So  loud  they  squall'd,  he  must  attend  to  'em; 
Though  Cliorubs'  songs,  to  his  cost  he  knew. 

Were  like  themselves,  and  had  no  end  to  'em. 


Oh  judgment  dire  on  judges  bold, 

Who  meddle  with  music's  sacred  strains! 

Judge  Midas  tried  the  same  of  old. 

And  was  punish'd,  like  Henley,  for  his  pains. 

But  worse  on  the  modern  judge,  alas! 

Is  the  sentence  launch'd  from  Apollo's  throne. 
For  Midas  was  given  the  ears  of  .'in  ass. 

While  Henley  Is  doom'd  to  \"v\>  his  own  ! 


ADVERTISEMENT.'" 

183(1 

Missing  or  lost,  last  Sunday  night, 
A  Waterloo  coin,  whereon  w.as  traced 

Th'  inscription,  "Courage!"  in  letters  bright, 
Though  a  little  by  rust  of  years  defaced. 

The  met.il  thereof  is  rough  and  hard. 

And  ('tis  tliought  of  late)  mi.v'd  up  with  brass ; 

But  it  bears  the  stamp  of  Fame's  award. 
And  through  all  Posterity's  hands  will  pass. 

Hoto  it  was  lost,  God  only  knows. 

But  certain  City  thieves,  they  say. 
Broke  in  on  the  owner's  evening  doze, 

And  filch'd  this  "  gift  of  gods"  away  ! 

One  ne'er  could,  of  course,  the  Cits  suspect. 
If  we  hadn't,  that  evening,  chanced  to  see. 

At  the  robb'd  man's  door,  a  Mare  elect. 
With  an  ass  to  keep  her  comp.any. 

Whosoe'er  of  this  lost  treasure  knows, 
Is  begged  to  state  all  facts  about  it, 

As  the  owner  can't  well  face  his  foes. 

Nor  even  his  friends,  just  now,  without  it. 


And  if  Sir  Clod  will  bring  it  back, 
Like  a  trusty  Baronet,  wise  and  able. 

He  shall  h.ave  a  ride  on  the  whitest  hack"" 
Th.tt's  left  in  old  Iving  George's  stable. 


MISSING 

Carlton  Terrace,  1832, 

Whereas,  Lord  ******  de  ****** 
Left  his  home  last  Saturday, 
And,  though  inquired  for,  round  and  round. 
Through  certain  purlieus,  can't  be  found ; 


26i 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


And  whereas,  none  can  solve  our  queries 
As  to  where  this  virtuous  Peer  is, 
Notice  is  hereby  given  that  all 
May  forthwith  to  inquuing  fall, 
As,  once  the  thing's  well  set  about, 
No  doubt  but  we  shall  hunt  him  out. 

His  Lordship's  mind,  of  late,  they  say, 

Hath  been  in  an  uneasy  w.ay. 

Himself  and  colleagues  not  being  let 

To  climb  into  the  Cabinet, 

To  settle  England's  state  affairs, 

Hatli  much,  it  seems,  unsettled  theirs ; 

And  chief  to  this  stray  Plenipo 

Hath  been  a  most  distressing  blow. 

Already, — certain  to  receive  a 

AV'ell-paid  mission  to  the  Neva, 

And  be  the  bearer  of  kind  words 

To  tyrant  Nick  from  Tory  Lords, — 

To  fit  himself  for  free  discussion, 

His  Lordship  had  been  learning  Russian  ; 

And  .all  so  natural  to  hira  were 

The  .iccents  of  the  Northern  bear, 

That,  wliile  his  tones  were  in  your  car,  you 

Slight  swear  you  were  in  sweet  Siberia. 

And  still,  poor  Peer,  to  old  .and  young, 

He  goes  on  r.aving  in  that  tongue ; 

Tells  you  how  much  you  would  enjoy  a 

Trip  to  Dalnodoubrowskoya  :'" 

Talks  of  .•iueli  jilaecs,  by  the  score,  on 

As  Oulisfllirmchin.agoboron,'" 

And  swears  (for  he  at  nothing  sticks) 

That  Russia  swarms  with  Raskol-niks,"* 

Though  one  such  Nick,  God  knows,  must  be 

A  more  than  ample  i|uantity. 

Such  are  the  marks  by  which  to  know 
This  strayed  or  stolen  Plenipo ; 
And  whosoever  brings  or  sends 
The  unhappy  statesman  to  his  friends, 
On  Carlton  Terrace,  shall  have  thanks, 
And — any  paper  but  the  Bank's. 

I'.  f>. — Some  think,  tlic  disappcar.ance 
Of  this  our  diplomatic  Peer  hence 
Is  for  the  purpose  of  reviewing, 
In  person,  what  dear  Mig  is  doing, 
So  as  to  'scape  nil  tell-Uilc  letters 
'Bout  Bcrcsford,  and  such  abettors, — 
The  only  "  wretches"  for  whose  aid"* 
Letters  seem  not  to  have  beer,  m.-ulc. 


THE    DAXCE    OF    BISHOPS; 

on,  THE  EriSCOrAL  QUADRILLE."" 


A  DRE.\M. 


IbSS. 


"Solemn  dances  were,  on  great  festivals  and  celebration?, 
admuted  among  the  primitive  Christians,  in  which  even  the 
Ilishops  and  dignified  Clergy  were  performers.  Scaliscr  says, 
that  the  first  Bisho[>3  were  called  Prasuies,^''^  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  they  led  off  these  dances." — Cyclopaidiai  art. 
Dances, 

I've  had  such  a  dream — a  frightful  dreatn — 
Though  funny,  mayhap,  to  wags  'twill  seem, 
By  all  who  regard  the  Church,  like  us, 
'Twill  be  thought  exceedingly  ominous ! 

As  reading  in  bed  I  Lay  last  night — 
Which  (being  insured)  is  my  delight — 
I  happen'd  to  doze  oflf  just  as  I  got  to 
The  singular  fact  which  forms  my  motto. 
Only  think,  thought  I,  as  I  dozed  away, 
Of  a  party  of  Churchmen  dancing  the  hay  ! 
Clerks,  curates,  and  rectors,  capering  all. 
With  a  neat-legg'd  Bishop  to  open  the  ball ! 

Scarce  had  my  eyelids  time  to  close, 

When  the  scene  I  h.ad  fancied  before  me  rose — 

An  Episcopal  Hop,  on  a  scale  so  grand 

As  my  dazzled  eyes  could  hardly  stand. 

For,  Britain  .and  Erin  dubb'd  their  Sees 

To  make  it  a  Dance  of  Dignities, 

And  I  saw — oh  brightest  of  Church  events  ! 

A  quadrille  of  the  two  Establishments, 

Bishop  to  Bishop  vis-(\-vis, 

Footing  away  prodigiously. 

There  was  Bristol  capering  up  to  Dcrry, 

And  Cork  with  London  m.aking  merry; 

While  huge  LlandalT,  with  a  See,  so  so, 

Was  to  dear  old  Dublin  pointing  his  too. 

There  w.as  Chester,  hatch'd  by  woman's  smile, 

Perfortning  a  cimnie  tics  Dames  in  style  ; 

While  he  who,  whene'er  the  Lords'  House  do7.es, 

Can  waken  Ihcin  up  by  cititig  Moses,"' 

The  portly  Tuam  was  all  in  a  hurry 

To  set,  en  nvnni,  to  Canterbury. 

Ulcanliine,  while  pamphlels  stufT'd  his  pocket*, 
(All  out  of  (l:ilo,  like  spent  .sky-rockl't^^,) 
Our  E.\('t<'r  stood  forth  to  caper, 
As  high  on  the  floor  as  he  doth  on  paper — 
Much  like  n  dapper  Dancing  Dervi.se, 
Who  pirouettes  his  whole  church-service — 
IVrforining,  'inidsl  tho.se  reverend  souls, 
Such  riilrcchals,  such  catiriiilcs. 
Such  liiihnnis,"'  such — ■"rigmaroles, 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


265 


Now  high,  now  low,  now  this,  now  that, 
That  none  could  guess,  wliat  tlie  devil  he'd  he  at; 
Tliough,  watching  his  various  steps,  some  thought 
That  a  step  in  the  Church  was  all  he  sought. 

But  al.is,  a. as!  while  thus  so  gay, 

These  reverend  dancers  frisk'd  away. 

Nor  Paul  himself  (not  the  s.aiut,  hut  he 

Of  the  Oper.o-house)  could  hrisker  be, 

There  gather'd  a  gloom  around  their  glee — 

A  shadow,  which  came  and  went  so  fast. 

That  ere  one  could  say,  "  'Tis  there,"  'twas  past — 

And,  lo,  when  tlie  scene  again  was  clear'd. 

Ten  of  the  dancers  had  disappear'd ! 

Ten  able-bodied  quadrillers  swept 

From  the  hallow'd  floor  where  late  they  stepp'd. 

While  twelve  was  all  that  footed  it  still. 

On  the  Irish  side  of  that  grand  Quadrille ! 

Nor  this  the  worst: — still  danced  they  on, 

But  the  pomp  was  sadden'd,  the  smile  was  gone ; 

And  again,  from  time  to  time,  the  same 

lU-omen'd  darkness  round  them  came — 

While  .still,  as  the  light  broke  out  anew. 

Their  ranks  look'd  less  by  a  dozen  or  two; 

Till  ah  I  at  last  there  were  only  found 

Just  Bisbops  enough  for  a  four-h.ands-round ; 

And  when  I  awoke,  impatient  getting, 

I  left  the  last  holy  pair  pnusseiling  ! 

N.  B. — As  ladies  in  years,  it  seems. 
Have  the  happiest  knack  .at  solving  dreams, 
I  shall  le.ave  to  my  ancient  feminine  friends 
Of  the  Slarulard  to  s.ay  what  this  portends. 


DICK  *  *  *  *. 

A    CUAEACTEE. 

Of  various  scraps  and  fragments  built, 

Borrow'd  alike  from  fools  and  wits, 
Dick's  mind  was  like  a  patchwork  quilt. 

Made  up  of  new,  old,  motley  bits — 
Where,  if  the  Co,  call'd  in  their  shares, 

If  petticoats  their  quota  got. 
And  gowns  were  all  refunded  theirs. 

The  quilt  would  look  but  shy,  God  wot. 

And  thus  he  still,  new  plagiaries  seeking. 

Reversed  ventriloquism's  trick, 
For,  'stead  of  Dick  througli  others  speaking, 

'Twas  others  we  heard  speak  tlirough  Dick. 
34 


A  Tory  now,  all  bounds  exceeding, 

Now  best  of  Whigs,  now  worst  of  rats  ■ 

One  day,  with  Malthus,  foe  to  breeding, 
The  next,  with  Sadler,  all  for  brats. 

Poor  Dick  ! — .ind  how  else  could  it  be  ? 

With  notions  ,all  at  random  caught, 
A  sort  of  menf.-il  fricassee, 

M.ade  up  of  legs  .ind  wings  of  thought — 
Tlie  leavings  of  the  last  Debate,  or 

A  dinner,  yesterday,  of  wits. 
Where  Dick  sat  by,  and,  like  a  waiter,    ' 

Had  the  scraps  for  perquisites. 


A  CORRECTED  REPORT  OF  SOME  LATE 
SPEECHES. 

"Then  I  heard  one  saint  speaking,  and  another  saint  saiJ 
nnto  that  saint." 

1834. 

St.  Sinclair  rose  and  decl.ared  in  sooth, 

Th.at  he  wouldn't  give  sixpence  to  Maynooth 

He  had  hated  priests  the  whole  of  his  life. 

For  a  priest  was  a  man  who  had  no  wife,'" 

And,  having  no  wife,  the  Church  was  his  mother 

The  Church  was  his  father,  sister,  and  brother. 

Tills  being  the  ease,  he  was  sorry  to  say. 

That  a  gulf  'twixt  Papist  and  Protestant  lay,'" 

So  deep  and  wide,  scarce  possible  was  it 

To  say  even  "  how  d'ye  do  ?"  across  it: 

And  though  your  Liberals,  nimble  as  fleas. 

Could  clear  such  gulfs  with  perfect  ease, 

'Tvv.as  a  jump  that  naught  on  earth  could  make 

Your  proper,  heavy-built  Christian  take. 

No,  no, — if  a  Dance  of  Sects  must  be, 

He  would  set  to  the  Baptist  willingly,'" 

At  the  Independent  deign  to  sraii-k. 

And  rigadoon  witli  old  Mother  Kirk ; 

Nay  even,  for  once,  if  needs  must  be, 

He'd  take  hands  round  with  all  the  three ; 

But,  as  to  a  jig  with  Popery,  no, — 

To  the  Harlot  ne'er  would  lie  point  his  toe. 

St.  Mandeville  was  the  next  that  rose, — 

A  Saint  who  round,  as  pedlar,  goes. 

With  his  pack  of  piety  and  prose. 

Heavy  and  hot  enough,  God  knows, — 

And  he  said  that  Papists  were  much  inclined 

To  extirpate  all  of  Protestant  kind, 

Which  he  couldn't,  in  truth,  so  much  condemn, 

Having  rather  a  wish  to  extirpate  (hem  ■ 


266 


MOOKES  WORKS. 


That  is, — to  guard  against  mistake, — 
To  extirpate  them  for  their  doctrine's  sake ; 
A  distinction  Churchmen  always  make, — 
Insomuch  that,  when  they've  prime  control, 
Though  sometimes  roasting  heretics  whole, 
Thev  but  cook  the  body  for  sake  of  the  soul. 

Next  jump'd  St.  Johnston  joUily  forth, 
Tlie  spiritual  Dogberry  of  the  North,"" 
A  right  "  wise  fellow,  and,  what's  more. 
An  ofTicer,'""  like  his  tj-pe  of  yore ; 
And  he  asked,  if  we  grant  such  toleration, 
Pray,  what's  the  use  of  our  Reformation  ?"" 
What  is  the  use  of  our  Church  and  State ' 
Our  Bishops,  Articles,  Tithe,  and  Rate? 
And,  still  as  he  yell'd  out  "  what's  the  use?" 
Old  Echoes,  from  their  cells  recluse 
Where  they'd  for  centuries  slept,  broke  loose, 
Yelling  responsive,  "What's  the  use ?" 


MORAL  POSITIONS. 


*'  Ilia  Lordship  said  that  it  took  a  loDg  time  for  a  moral  posi- 
tion to  And  it3  way  across  tho  .Atlantic.  !Iu  waj§  very  sorry  that 
tls  voyage  had  been  so  long."  Uc. — Speech  of  Lord  Dudley  and 
Ward  on  Colonial  Slavery,  March  8. 

T'other  night,  after  hearing  Lord  Dudley's  oration, 
(A  treat  that  comes  once  a-year  as  JIay-day  does,) 

I  dreamt  that  I  saw — what  a  strange  operation ! 
A  "  moral  position"  shipped  off  for  Barbadocs. 

The  whole  Bench  of  Bishops  stood  by  in  grave  at- 
titudes, 

Packing  the  article  tidy  and  neat; — 
As  their  Rev'renccs  know,  tliat  in  southerly  latitudes 

"  Moral  positions"  don't  keep  very  sweet. 


pass ; 
And,  to  guard  the  frail  package  from  lousing  and 
routing, 
There  stood  my  Lord  Eldon,  endorsing  it  "Glass," 
Though  an  to  which  side  sliould  lie  uppermost, 
doubting. 

Tlic  freight  was,  however,  stow'd  safe  in  the  hold ; 
The  windH  were  polite,  and  the  innon  jook'd  ro- 
mantic, 
While  (>IT  in  the  good  ship  "  'i'iic  Truth"  we  were 
roli'd, 
Witli  iinr  etliical  cargo,  arross  the  Atlantic. 


Long,  dolefully  long,  seem'd  the  voyage  we  made  ,- 
For  "  The  Truth,"  at  all  times  but  a  very  slow 
sailer. 
By  friends,  near  as  much  as  by  foes,  is  delay'd. 
And  few  come  .aboard  her,  though  so  many  hail 
her. 

At  length,  safe  arrived,  I  went  through  "  tare  and 
tret," 
Deliver'd  my  goods  in  tlie  "  primest  condition," 
And  next  morning  read,  in  the  Brulgetoien  Gazelle 
"  Just  arrived  by  '  Tlie  Trutli,'  a  new  moral  posi- 
tion." 

"  The  Captain" — here,  startled  to  find  myself  named 
As  "the  Captain" — (a  thing  which,  I  own  it  with 
pain, 

I  through  life  have  avoided,)  I  woke,  look'd  .ashamed, 
Found  I  wasri'l  a  capt.ain,  and  dozed  off  again. 


THE  M.\D  TORY  AND  THE  COMET. 

FOUNDED    ON    A    LATE    DISTEESSINQ    INCIDENT. 

'^Mutontem  rogna  cometem."— Lucan.'" 

1832-1 
"Though  all  the  pet  mischiefs  we  count  upon  fai, 
"Though  Cholera,  hurricanes,  Wellington  leav» 
us, 
"  We've  still  in  reserve,  mighty  Comet,  thy  tail ; — 
"Last  hope  of  tho  Tories,  wilt  thou  loo  deceive 
us? 

"No — 'tis  coming,  'tis  coming,  th'  .avenger  is  nigh  ; 

"Heed,  heed  not,  ye  placemen,  how  Herapalh 
flatters; 
"  One  whisk  from  tliat,  tail,  as  it  passes  us  by, 

"  Will  settle,  at  onco,  all  political  m.atters  ; — 

"Tho   EasUndia  Question,   the   Bank,   the   Five 
Powers, 
"(Now  turn'd   into   two)   witli   tlicir  rigmarole 
Protocols;—'" 
"Ha!  ha!  ye  gods,  how  this  new  friend  of  ours 
"Will    knock,   right  and    left,   all   diplomacy's 
wh.at-d'ye-c.allsl 

"  Yes,  nither  than  Whigs  at  our  downfall  should 
mock, 
"Meet  ]ilaiicts,  and  suns,  in  one  gcner.'il  hustle! 
"  Wliilc,  liappy  in  vengeance,  we  welcome  the  shock 
"  That  hIi.'iII  jerk  from  their  places,  Groy,  Althorp, 
and  RusaoU." 


SATIRICAL  AND  HQMOROUS  POEMS. 


267 


Tliua  spoke  a  mad  Lord,  as,  with  telescope  ruised, 

His  wild  Tory  eye  on  the  heavens  ho  set ; 
And,  though  nothing  destruetivo  appear'd  as  lie 
gazed. 
Much  hoped  that  there  would,  before  Parliament 
met. 

And  still,  as  odd  shapes  seom'd  to  fiit  through  hist 
glass, 

"  Ha!  there  it  is  now,"  the  poor  maniac  cries; 
While  his  fancy  with  forms  but  too  monstrous,  alas! 

From  his  own  Tory  zodiac,  peoples  the  skies: — 

"  Now  I  spy  a  big  body,  good  heavens,  liow  big ! 

"  Whether   Bucky'"  or    Taurus  I  cannot   well 
say : — 
"And,  yonder,  tnere's  Eldon's  old  Chancery-wig, 

"  In  its  dusty  aphelion  fast  fading  aw.ay. 

•'  I  see,  'mong  those  fatuous  meteors  behind, 
"  Londonderry,  in  vacuo,  flaring  about ; — 

"While  that  dim  double  star,  of  the  nebulous  kind, 
"Is  the  Gemini,  Roden  and  Lorton,  no  doubt. 

"  Ah,  EUenb'rough !  "faith,  I  tirst  thought  'twas  the 

Comet; 

"  So  like  that  in  Milton,  it  made  me  quite  pale ; 

"  The  head  with  the  same  '  horrid  hair'  "*  coming 

from  it, 

"And  plenty  of  v.apor,  but — where  is  the  tail  1" 

Just  tlien,  up  aloft  jump'd  the  gazer  elated — 
For,  lo,  bis  bright  gl.ass  a  phenomenon  show'd, 

Which  he  took  to  be  Cumberland,  upwards  trans- 
lated 
Instead  of  his  natural  course,  Collier  road  ! 

But  too  awful  that  sight  for  a  spirit  so  shaken, — 
Down  dropp'd  the  poor  Tory  in  fits  and  grimaces. 

Then  off  to  the  Bedlam  in  Charles  Street  w.as  taken, 
And  is  now  one  of  ILalford's  most  fovorite  cases. 


FROM  THE  HON.  HENRY 
EMMA  


-,  TO  LADY 


Paris,  March  30,  1832. 

You  bid  me  explain,  my  dear  angry  Ma'amselle, 
How  I  came  thus  to  bolt  without  s.aying  farewell ; 
And  the  truth  is, — as  truth  you  will  have,  my  sweet 
railer, — 
There  are  two  worthy  persons  I  always  feel  loth 


To  take  leave  of  at  starting, — ray  mistress  and  tai- 
lor,— 
As  somehow  one  always  has  scenes  with  them 
both ; 
The  Snip  in  ill-humor,  the  Syren  in  tears. 

She  calHng  on  Heaven,  and  he  on  th'  attorney, — 
Till  sometimes,  in  short,  'twixt  his  duns  and  his 
dears, 
A  young  gentleman  risks  being  stopp'd  in  his 
journey. 

But,  to  come  to  the  point, — though  you  think,  1  daro 

say, 
That  'tis  debt  or  the  Cholera  drives  me  away, 
'Pon  honor  you're  wrong; — such  a  mere  bagatelle 

As  a  pestilence,  nobody,  now-a-days,  fears  ; 
And  the  fact  is,  my  love,  I'm  thus  bolting,  pellmell, 

To  get  out  of  the  way  of  these  horrid  new  Peers ;'" 
Tins  deluge  of  coronets,  frightful  to  think  of. 
Which  England  is  now,  for  her  sins,  on  the  brink  of; 
This  coinage  o^  nobles, — coin'd,  all  of 'em,  b.adly. 
And  sure  to  bring  Counts  to  a  rf/scount  most  sadly. 

Only  think,  to  hiive  Lords  overrunning  the  nation. 

As  plenty  as  frogs  in  a  Dutch  inundation  ; 

No  shelter  from  Barons,  from  Earls  no  protection. 

And  tadpole  young  Lords,  too,  in  every  direction, — 

Things  created  in  haste,  just  to  make  a  Court  list  of, 

Two  legs  and  a  coronet  all  they  consist  of! 

The  prospect's  quite  frightful,  and  what  Sir  George 

Rose 
(My  particular  friend)  says  is  perfectly  true, 
Thiit,  so  dire  the  alternative,  nobody  knows, 

'Twixt  the  Peers  and  the  Pestilence,  what  he's  to 

do; 
And  Sir  George  even  doubts, — could  he  choose  his 

disorder, — 
'Twixt  coffin  and  coronet,  JohicU  he  would  order. 

This  being  the  case,  why,  I  thought,  my  dear  Emma, 
'Twere  best  to  fight  shy  of  so  cursed  a  dilemma  ; 
And  though  I  confess  myself  somewhat  a  villain, 

To've  left  idol  mio  without  an  addio, 
Console  your  sweet  heart,  and,  a  week  hence,  from 
Milan 

I'll  send  you — some  news  of  Bellini's  last  trio. 

N.  B. — Have  just  p.ack'd  up  my  travelling  set-out, 

Things  a  tourist  in  Italy  can't  go  without — 

Viz.,  a  pair  of  ganls  gras,  from  old  Houbigant's 

shop. 
Good  for  hands  that  the  air  of  Mont  Cenis  might 

chap. 
Small  presents  for  Ladies, — and  nothing  so  wheedles 
The  creatures  abroad  as  your  golden-eyed  Pfedles 


268 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


A  neat  ]iooket  Horace,  by  which  folks  are  cozen'd 
To  think  one  knows  Latin,  when — one,  perhaps, 

doesn't ; 
With  some  little  book  about  heathen  mythology, 
Jnst  large  enough  to  refresh  one's  theology ; 
Nothing  on  earth  being  half  such  a  bore  as 
Not   knowing   the   diiferfence  'twixt  Virgins   and 

Floras. 

Once  more,  love,  farewell,  best  regards  to  the  girls, 

And   mind   you  beware   of  damp  feet   and    new 

Earls. 

Henry. 


TRIUMPH  OF  BIGOTRY. 

"College. — We  announced,  in  our  hial,  tliat  Lefroy  and 
Phaw  wf  re  TL-luriied.  They  were  chaired  yeslertlay ;  the  Stu- 
dents of  the  Collei;e  determined,  it  would  seem,  to  imitate  the 
mob  in  all  things,  harnessing:  themselves  to  the  car,  and  the 
MaalCR  of  .Arts  bearin;^  Orange  flags  and  blud;,'eon3  before,  be- 
iide,  and  behind  the  car.^' 

Dublin  Errning  I'osl,  Dec.  20,  1832. 

At,  yoke  ye  to  the  bigots'  car. 

Ye  chosen  of  Alma  Mater's  scions; — 
Fleet  chargers  drew  the  God  of  War, 

Great  Cybcle  was  drawn  by  lions, 
And  Sylvan  Pan,  as  Poets  dream, 
Drove  four  young  panthers  in  his  team. 
Thus  classical  Lefroy,  for  once,  is. 

Thus,  studious  of  a  like  turn-out, 
He  liarnesses  young  sucking  dunces. 

To  draw  him,  as  their  Chief,  about. 
And  let  the  world  a  picture  see 
Of  Dulness  yoked  to  Bigotry  : 
Showing  us  how  young  College  hacks 
Can  pace  with  bigots  at  their  b.acks. 
As  tliougli  the  cubs  were  born  to  draw 


Oh  shade  of  Goldsmith,  shade  of  Swift, 

Bright  spirits  whom,  in  days  of  yore, 
This  Qucsn  of  Dulness  sent  adrift. 

As  aliens  to  her  foggy  shore; — "° 
Shade  of  our  glorious  Grattan,  too, 

Whose  very  name  her  shame  recalls ; 
Whose  elligy  her  bigot  crew 

Reversed  upon  their  monkish  walls, — '" 
Bear  witness  (lest  tlio  world  should  doubt) 

To  your  mute  Mother's  dull  renown, 
Then  famous  but  for  Wit  tiirn'd  oiU 

And  Kloquencc  turn'd  upside  ihiwn; 
liiil  now  ordaiii'd  now  wreaths  to  win, 

Kvyond  all  fume  of  former  days, 


By  breaking  thus  young  donkeys  in 

To  draw  M.  P.s,  amid  the  brays 

Alike  of  donkeys  and  M.  A.s  ; — 

Defying  O.xford  to  surpass  'em 

In  this  new  "  Gradus  ad  Parnassum." 


TRANSLATION  FROM  THE  GULL 
LANGUAGR 

Scripta  manet. 

'TwAs  graved  on  the  Stone  of  Destiny,"* 
In  letters  four,  and  letters  three  ; 
And  ne'er  did  the  King  of  the  Gnlls  go  by 
But  those  awful  letters  scared  his  eye ; 
For  he  knew  that  a  Proplict  Voice  hath  said, 
"  As  long  as  those  words  by  man  were  re.ad, 
"The  ancient  race  of  the  Gulls  should  ne'er 
"  One  hour  of  peace  or  plenty  share." 
But  years  on  years  successive  flew. 
And  the  letters  still  more  legible  grow, — 
At  top,  a  T,  an  11,  an  E, 
And  underneath,  D,  E,  B,  T. 

Some  thought  thoni  I  lobrow, — such  as  .Tews, 
More  skill'd  in  Scrip  than  Scripture,  use  ; 
While  some  surmised  'twas  an  ancient  way 
Of  keeping  accounts,  (well  known  in  the  day 
Of  the  laniod  Didlorius  Joroniias, 
Who  had  thereto  a  wonderful  bias,) 
And  provoil  in  books  most  learnedly  boring, 
'Twas  call'd  the  Vowlkk  way  of  scoring. 

Ilowe'er  this  be,  their  never  was  yet 

Seven  letters  of  the  alphabet. 

That,  'twixt  them  forin'd  so  grim  a  spoil, 

Or  scared  a  Land  of  (Jnlls  so  well. 

As  did  this  awful  riddle-mc-reo 

Of  T.  H.  E.   D.  E.  B.  T. 

***** 

Hark  I — it  is  struggling  Freedom's  cry ; 

"  Help,  liolp,  ye  nations,  or  I  die  ; 

"'Tis  IVeoilDMi's  tight,  and,  on  the  field 

"  Where  I  expire,  yinir  doom  is  seal'd." 

The  Gull-King  hears  the  awakening  call. 

He  hnlh  summon'd  his  Peers  and  Patriots  all. 

And  he  ask.s,  "  Ye  noble  Gulls,  shall  we 

"Stand  b.isely  by  at  the  fall  of  the  Free, 

"  Nor  niter  a  curse,  nor  deal  a  blow!" 

And  they  answer,  with  voice  of  thunder,  "  No." 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOKOUS  POEMS. 


269 


Out  fly  their  flashing  swords  in  the  air! — 

Make  Wethcrell  yield  to  "  some  sort  of  Reform," 

But, — why  do  they  rest  suspended  tliere? 

(As  we  all  must,  God  help  us!  with  very  wry 

What  sudden  Wight,  what  baleful  charm. 

faces,) 

.    Hath  ehill'd  each  eye,  and  chcck'd  each  arm? 

And  loud  as  he  likes  let  him  blusler  and  storm 

Alas  !  some  withering  luind  hath  thrown 

About  Corporate  Rights,  so  he'll  only  wear  braces. 

The  veil  from  oflTthat  fatal  stone. 

And  pointing  now,  with  sapless  fii.ger. 

Should  those  he  now  sports  have  been  long  in  pos- 

Showefli where  dark  those  letters  linger, — 

session. 

Letters  four,  and  letters  three, 

And,  like  hia  own  borough,  the  worse  for  tlie 

T.  H.  E.    D.  E.  B.  T. 

wear. 

Advise  him,  at  least,  as  a  prudent  concession 

At  siglit  thereof,  each  lifted  brand 

To  Intellect's  progress,  to  buy  a  new  \y.ur. 

Powerless  falls  from  every  hand; 

In  vain  the  Patriot  knits  his  brow, — 

Oh !  who  that  e'er  saw  him,  when  vocal  he  stands. 

Kven  talk,  his  staple,  fails  him  now. 

With  a  look  somewhat  midway  'twixt  Filch's 

[n  vain  the  King  like  a  hero  treads, 

and  Lockit's, 

His  Lords  of  the  Treasury  shake  their  heads; 

While  siill,  to  inspire  him,  his  deeply  thrust  hands 

And  to  .all  his  talk  of  "br.ave  and  free," 

Keep  jingling  the  rhino  in  both  breeches-pock- 

No answer  getfeth  His  M.ajesty 

ets— 

But  "  T.  H.  E.    D.  E.  B.  T." 

Who   that  ever   h.as   listen'd,  through   groan  and 

In  short,  the  whole  Gull  nation  feels 

through  cough. 

They're  tairly  spell-bound,  neck  and  heels ; 

To  the  speeches  inspired  by  this  music  of  pence, — 

And  so,  in  tlie  face  of  tlie  laughing  world, 

But  must  grieve  th.at  there's  any  thing  like  falling 

Must  e'en  sit  down,  with  kanners  furl'd. 

nir 

Adjourning  .all  their  dreams  sublime 

In  that  great  nether  source  of  his  wit  and  his 

Of  glory  and  war  to — some  other  time. 

sense  1 

Who  th.at  knows  how  he  look'd  when,  wilh  grace 
debonair, 

He    beg.an    first    to    court — rather    late    in    the 

season — 

NOTIONS  ON  REFORM. 

Or  when,  less  fastidious,  he  sat  in  the  ch.air 

Of  his  old  friend,  the  Nottingham  Goddess  of 

BY    A    MODERN    BEFOKMEE. 

Reason ;'" 

Or  .all  the  misfortunes  .as  yet  brought  to  pass 

That  Goddess,  whose  borough-like  virtue  attracted 

hy   this  comet-like  Bill,  with  its  long  tail  of 

All  mongers  in  loth  wares  to  proffer  their  love ; 

speeches. 

Whose  chair  like  the  stool  of  the  Pythoness  acted, 

riie  saddest  and  worst  is  the  scliism  which,  alas ! 

As  Wetherell's  rants,  ever  since,  go  to  prove;'*" 

It  has  caused  between  Wetherell's  w.aistcoat  .and 

breeches. 

Who,  in  short,  would  not  grieve,  if  a  man  of  hia 

graces 

Some  symptoms  of  this  Anti-Union  propensity 

Should  go  on  rejecting,  unwarn'd  by  the  past, 

Had  olt  broken  out  in  th.at  quarter  before; 

The  "moder.ate  Reform"  of  a  pair  of  new  br.aces. 

But  the  bleach,  since  the  Bill,  h.as  .attain'd  such  im- 

Till, some  day, — he'll  all  fall  to  pieces  .at  last. 

mensity. 

Daniel  himself  could  have  scarce  wish'd  it  more. 

Oh  !  haste  to  repair  it,  ye  friends  of  good  order. 

TORY  PLEDGES. 

Ve  Atvroods  and  Wynns,  ere  the  moment  is  past; 

Wlio   can  doubt   that  we   tread   upon  Anarchy's 

I  PLEDGE  myself  tlinnigli  thick  and  thin. 

border, 

To  Labor  still,  with  zeal  devout, 

When  the  ties  thjit  should  hold  men  are  loosen. 

To  get  the  Outs,  poor  devils,  in, 

ing  so  fast  ? 

And  turn  the  Ins,  the  wretches,  out. 

270 


MOUEE'S  WORKS. 


I  pledge  myself,  though  much  bereft 

Of  ways  and  mwins  of  ruling  ill, 
To  make  the  most  of  what  are  left. 

And  stick  to  all  that's  rotten  still. 

Though  gone  the  days  of  place  and  pelf. 
And  drones  no  more  take  all  the  honey, 

1  pledge  myself  to  cram  myself 
With  all  I  can  of  public  money ; 

To  quarter  on  that  social  purse 

My  nephews,  nieces,  sisters,  brothers, 

\or,  so  we  prosper,  care  a  curse 
How  much  'tis  at  th'  expense  of  others. 

I  pledge  myself,  whenever  Riglit 

And  Might  on  any  point  divide, 
Not  to  ask  which  is  black  or  wliite. 

But  take,  at  once,  the  strongest  side. 

For  instance,  in  all  Tithe  discussions, 
I'm/tir  the  Reverend  cncro.teliers : — 

I  loathe  the  Poles,  applaud  the  Russians, — 
Am  for  the  Squires  against  llie  Poachers. 

Betwi.vt  the  Corn-Lords  and  the  Poor 
Pve  not  tiie  slightest  hesitation, — 

The  people  must  be  starved  t'  insure 
The  L.ind  its  due  remuner.ition. 

I  pledge  myself  to  be  no  more 

With  Ireland's  wrongs  bcprosed  or  shnram'd- 
I  vote  her  grievances  a  bore, 

So  she  may  suffer,  and  be  d — d. 

Or  if  she  kick,  let  it  console  us, 
We  still  have  Jilenty  of  red  coats, 

To  cram  the  Church,  that  general  bolus, 
Down  any  giv'n  amount  of  tliroats. 

I  dearly  love  the  Frankfort  Diet, — 
Think  newspapers  the  worst  of  crimes; 

And  would,  to  give  some  chance  of  quiet. 
Hang  all  the  writers  of  The  Times ; 

Hreak  all  their  cnrrospondenls'  bones. 
All  authors  of  "Reply,"  "  Rejoinder," 

From  the  Anti-Tory,  Colonel  Jones, 
To  the  Anti-Suttee,  Mr.  Poyndor. 

Such  are  the  Pledges  I  propose ; 

And  though  I  can't  now  offer  gold, 
There'!!  many  n  way  of  buying  those 

Who've  but  the  taHte  for  beinj,'  Bold 


So  here's,  with  three  times  tliree  hurrahs, 
A  toast,  of  which  you'll  not  complain, — 

"Long  life  to  jobbing;  may  the  d.ays 
"  Of  Peculation  shine  again  !" 


ST.  JEROME  OX  EARTH. 
FIEST  visrr. 

As  St.  Jerome,  who  died  some  ages  ago, 
W.as  sitting,  one  day,  in  the  shades  below, 
"I've  heard  much  of  English  bishops,"  quolli  he, 
"And  sli.iU  now  take  a.  trip  to  earth,  to  see 
"Kow  far  they  agree,  in  tlieir  lives  and  ways, 
"  Witli  our  good  old  bishops  of  am-ient  days." 

He  had  learn'd — but  learn'd  without  misgivings— 
Their  love  for  good  living,  and  eke  good  livings ; 
Not  knowing  (as  ne'er  h.aving  taken  degrees) 
Th.at  good  lit  ins;  means  claret  and  fricassees, 
Wliile  its  plural  means  simply — pluralities. 
"  From  all  I  hear,"  said  the  iiinooont  man, 
"Thej'  arc  quite  on  tho  good  old  primitive  plar 
"For  wealth  and  pomp  they  little  can  care, 
"As  they  all  say  'jVo'  to  th'  Episcopal  chair; 
"And  their  vestal  virtue  it  well  denotes, 
"That  they  all,  good  men,  wear  petticoats." 

Thus  saying,  post-haste  to  earth  he  hurries, 
And  knocks  at  th'  .\rchbishop  of  Canterbury's. 
The  door  was  oped  by  a  lackey  in  lace, 
Saying,  "  What's  your  business  with  his  Grace?" 
"  His  grace !"  quoth  Jerome — for  posed  was  he. 
Not  knowing  what  sort  this  Grace  could  be; 
Whelhor  Grace  'prncnitnix,  (irace  jiniiiculiir, 
Grace  of  that  breed  called  Qiiiiujiiorliculur — "' 
In  short,  he  rumtnaged  liis  holy  niitid, 
Th'  ex.'ict  description  of  Grace  to  (iiul, 
Which  thus  could  represented  be 
By  a  footman  in  full  livery. 
At  l.-isl,  out  loud  in  a  laugh  he  l)rok<', 
(For  dearly  the  good  saint  lovi'd  his  joke,)"' 
And  said — snrveying,  as  sly  he  spoke. 
The  costly  palace  from  roof  to  base — 
"  Well,  it  i.sn't,  at  le.isl,  a  saving  Grace !" 
"Umph,"  said  tho  lackey,  ii  man  of  few  words, 
"Th'  Archbishop  is  gn\w  to  the  House  of  Lords  " 
"To  the  House  of  (he  Lord,  you  mean,  my  son. 
"For  in  7(11/  time,  at  least,  there  was  but  one; 
"  Unless  such  many./""/!/  priests  as  llieso 
"Seek,  ev'ii  in  their  Loiii>,  pinr.ilities!"  '"' 


SATIRICAL  ANL  HUxMOROUS  POEMS. 


"  No  time  for  gab,"  quoth  the  man  in  lace : 
Then,  hlamminn;  the  door  in  St.  Jerome's  face. 
With  a  curse  to  the  sinj^Ie  knockers  all, 
Went  to  finish  his  port  in  t!ie  servants'  hall. 
And  propose  a  toast  (Immaiiely  meant 
To  include  even  Curates  in  its  extent) 
"  To  all  as  serves  th'  Establishment." 


ST.  JEROME  ON  EARTH. 

SECOND    VISIT. 

"This  much  I  d.ire  say,  that,  since  tordinir  and  Initering  hath 
come  up,  preaching  hath  come  down,  contrary  to  the  Apostles* 
times.    For  they  preached  and  tordcd  not :  and  now  tliey  lord 

and  preach  not Ever  since  the  Prelates  were  made 

Lords  and  Nobles,  the  plough  standetb  ;  there  is  no  work  done, 
the  people  8tar\^." — Latimer^  Sermon  of  the  Plough. 

"Once  more,"  said  Jerome,"  I'll  run  up  and  see 

"How  the  Church  goes  on," — and  offset  he. 

Just  tiien  the  packet-boat,  which  trades 

Betwi.xt  our  planet  and  the  shades. 

Had  arrived  below,  with  a  freiglit  so  queer, 

"  My  eyes  1"  said  Jerome,  "  what  have  we  here  ?" — 

For  he  saw,  when  nearer  he  explored. 

They'd  a  cargo  of  Bishops'  wigs  aboard. 

"  They  are  gliosis  of  wigs,"  said  Charon,  "  all, 

"  Once  worn  by  nobs  Episcopal.'" 

"  For  folks  on  earth,  who've  got  a  store 

"  Of  cast-ofF  things  they'll  want  no  more, 

"  Oft  send  them  down,  .as  gifts,  you  know, 

"  To  a  certain  Gentleman  here  below." 

"  A  sign  of  the  times,  I  plainly  sec," 

Said  the  Saint  to  himself  as,  pondering,  he 

Saird  off  in  the  death-boat  gallantly. 

Arrived  on  earth,  quoth  he,  "  No  more 

'  I'll  affect  a  body,  as  before ; 

'  For  I  think  I'd  best,  in  the  company 

"  Of  Spiritual  Lords,  a  spirit  be, 

"  And  glide,  unseen,  from  See  to  See." 

But  oh !  to  tell  what  scenes  he  saw, — 

It  was  more  than  Rabelais'  pen  could  draw. 

For  instance,  lie  found  Exeter, 

Soul,  body,  inkst.and,  all  in  a  stir, — 

For  love  of  God  ?  for  .sake  of  King  ? 

For  good  of  people?— no  such  thing: 

But  to  get  for  himself  by  some  new  trick, 

A  shove  to  a  better  bishopric. 

He  found  that  pious  soul.  Van  Mildert, 
Much  with  his  money-b.igs  bewilder'd; 
Snubbing  tlie  Clerks  of  the  Diocess,"' 
Because  the  rogues  show'd  restlessness 


At  having  too  little  cash  to  touch, 

While  he  so  Christianly  bears  too  much. 

He  found  old  Sarum's  wits  as  gone 

As  his  own  beloved  text  In  John, — '" 

Text  he  hath  prosed  so  long  upon. 

That  'tis  thought  when  ask'd,  at  the  gate  of  heaven. 

His  name,  he'll  answer  "John,  v.  7." 

"But  enough  of  Bishops  I've  had  to-day," 

Said  the  weary  Saint, — "  I  must  away. 

"  Though  I  own  I  should  like,  bi fore  I  go. 

"To  see  for  once  (as  I'm  ask'd  below 

"  If  really  such  odd  sights  exist) 

"  A  regular  six-fold  Pluralist." 

Just  then  he  heard  a  general  cry — 

"  There's  Doctor  Hodgson  galloping  by  !" 

"  Ay,  that's  the  man,"  says  the  S-aint,  "  to  follow," 

And  olf  he  sets,  with  a  loud  view-hollo. 

At  Hodgson's  heels,  to  catch,  if  he  can, 

A  glimpse  of  this  singular  plural  man. 

But,— talk  of  Sir  Boyle  Roche's  bird  !'" 

To  compare  him  with  Hodgson  is  absurd. 

"  Which  way,  sir,  pray,  is  the  doctor  gone  ?" — 

"  He  is  now  at  Iiis  living  at  Hillingdon." — 

"  No,  no, — you're  out,  by  many  a  mile, 

"  He's  away  at  his  Deanery,  in  Carlisle." 

"Pardon  me,  sir;  but  I  understand 

"  He's  gone  to  his  living  in  Cumberland." — 

"  God -bless  me,  no, — ho  can't  be  there ; 

"  You  must  try  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square." 

Thus  all  in  vain  the  Saint  inquired. 
From  living  to  living,  mock'd  and  tired ; 
'Twas  Hodgson  here,  'twas  Hodgson  there, 
'Twas  Hodgson  nowhere,  everywhere ; 
Till,  fairly  beat,  the  Saint  gave  o'er, 
And  fliftcd  .away  to  the  Stygi.in  .shore. 
To  astonish  the  natives  under  ground 
With  the  comical  things  he  on  earth  h.ad  found 


THOUGHTS  ON  TAR  BARRELS 
(Vide  Descriptiom  op  a  late  fete.)'^* 


1832. 


What  a  pleasing  eontriv.ance  !  how  aptlv  devised  1 
'TwLxt  tar  and  magnolias  to  puzzle  one's  noses  I 

And  how  the  tar-barrels  must  all  be  surprised 
To  find  themselves  seated  like  "  Love  among 
roses !" 

What  a  pity  we  can't,  by  precautions  like  these, 
Clear  the  air  of  that  other  still  Wler  infection ; 


272 


MOOEE'S  "VYOEKS. 


That  radical  pest,  that  old  whiggisli  disease, 
Of  which  cases,  true-blue,  are  in  every  direction. 

Stead  of  barrels,  let's  light  up  an  Auto  da  Fe 
Of  a  few  good  combustible  Lords  of  "  the  Club ;" 

They  would  fume,  in  a  trice,  the  WTiig  cholera 
away. 
And  there's  Bucky  would  burn  like  a  barrel  of  bub. 

How  Roden  would  blaze !  and  what  rubbish  throw 
out! 
A  volcano  of  nonsense,  in  active  display ; 

While  Vane,  as  a  butt,  amidst  laughter,  would  spout 
The  hot  nothings  he's  full  of,  all  niglit  and  all  day. 

And  then,  for  a  finish,  there's  Cumberland's  Duke, — 
Good  Lord,  how  his  chin-tuft  would  crackle  in  air ! 

Unless  (as  is  shrewdly  surmised  from  his  look) 
He's  already  bespoke  for  combustion  elsewhere. 


.  THE  CONSULTATION.'" 

**  UTiun  they  d"  agree,  their  unanimity  is  wonderful." 

T/ic  Critic. 

1833. 

Seme  difeorers  Dr.  JlHiff  and  Dr.  Tory  in  eonsnUntion. 
Patient  on  thejloor  between  them. 

Dr.  Wliig. — This  wild  Irisli  patient  diKS  pester 

me  so. 
That  what  to  do  with  him,  I'm  cursed  if  I  know  ; 

Tve  promised  him  anodynes 

Dr.  Tory.  Anodynes  i—StufT. 

Tie  him  down — gag  him  well — he'll  be  tranquil 

enough. 
That's  my  mode  of  practice. 

Dr.  Whii;.  True,  quite  in  ynurWnc, 

But  unluckily  not  much,  till  latclv,  in  minr. 

'Tis  so  painful 

Dr.   Tory. — Pooh,  nonsense — ask  Ude  how  he 

feels, 
When,  for  Epicure  feast.s,  he  prepares  his  live  eels. 
By  flinging  them  in,  'twixt  the  b.irs  of  tlio  fire, 
And  letting  them  wriggle  on  there  till  they  tire. 
21'-,   too,   Bays    "'lis   p.ainful" — "()uitc    makes    his 

heart  bleed" — 
But  "your  eels  are  a  vile,  oleaginous  breed." — 
He  would  fain  use  them  gently,  but  Cookery  nays 

«  No," 
And,  in  Bhort,  oelg  were  born  to  be  Ircnlcd  just  so.'" 
"Tift  the  name  with  these  Irish, — wlio're  odder  fish 

■till,— 
Your  lender  Whig  heart  shrinks  from  using  them  ill ; 


I,  myself,  in  my  youth,  ere  I  came  to  got  wise. 
Used,  at  some  operations,  to  blush  to  the  eyes : — 
But,  in  fact,  my  dear  brother, — if  I  may  make  bold 
To  style  you,  as  Pcachum  did  Lockit,  of  old, — 
We,  Doctors,  7nust  act  with  tlie  firmness  of  Ude, 
And,  indifTcrent  like  him, — so  the  fish  is  but  stew'd, — • 
Musi  torture  live  Pats  for  the  general  good. 

\^IIcre  patient  groans  and  kichs  a  little. 
Dr.    Whig. — But    what,    if    one's    patient's   so 
devilish  perverse. 
That  he  wo'n't  be  thus  tortured? 

Dr.  Tory.  Coerce,  sir,  coerce. 

You're  a  juvenile  performer,  but  once  you  begin. 
You  can't  think  how  fast  you  may  train  your  h.ind 

in: 
And  (smi'ZiHg-)  who  knows  but  old  Tory  may  take 

to  the  shelf. 
With  the  comforting  thought  that,  in  place  and  in 

pelf, 
He's  succeeded  by  one  just  as — -bad  as  himself? 
Dr.  Whig,  (looking  flattered.)— Why,  to  tell  you 
tlie  truth,  I've  a  small  matter  here. 
Which  you  help'd  me  to  make  for  my  patient  last 
year,— 

[Goes  to  a  cnphoard  and  brings  out 
a  strait  icaistcoat  and  gag. 
And  such  rest  I've  enjoy'd  from  his  raving  since 

then. 
That  I  have  made  up  my  niiiul  he  shall  wear  it 
again. 
Dr.  Tory,  (embracing  him.) — Oh,  charming !    My 
dear  Doctor  Whig,  you're  a  treasure. 
Next  to  torluring  7nysclJ',  to  help  you  is  a  pleasure. 
[vlssi'.s'/ir!:,''  Dr.  Whig. 
Give  me  leave — I've  some  practice  in  those  mad 

machines; 
There  —  tighter — the   gag   in    the   mouth,   by   all 

means. 
Delightful! — all's  snug — not  a  squeak   need  you 

fear, — 
You  may  now  put  your  anodynes  olTlill  next  year. 

[Scene  closes. 


TO  THE  REV.  CHARLES  OVERTON 

CUUATK    OF    UOMAI.DKIIIK. 
AOTIMdl   ur  TlIK   pr)KTIrAL    roilTIt AtTl'KK    (If    TKl    rlimrn.*'' 

SwEtT  singer  of  Rinn.'ildkirk,  IIkhi  who  art  reck 

on'd, 
Hy  critics  Episcopal,  Diivid  the  Second,'" 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


273 


If  tliusi,  .13  a  Curate,  so  lofty  your  (light, 
Only  think,  in  a  Rectory,  how  you  would  write! 
Once  fairly  inspired  by  the  "  Tillie-erown'il  Apollo," 
(Who  beats,  I  confess  it,  our  lay  Phccbus  hollow, 
Having  gotten,  besides  the  old  Nine's  insj)ira(ion, 
The  Tenlh  of  all  eatable  things  in  creation,) 
There's  nothing,  in  f:ict,  that  a  poet  like  you. 
So  he-ytinr^d  and  hc-tenth\I,  couldn't  easily  do. 
Round  the  lips  of  the  sweet-tongued  Athenian,'" 

they  say, 
While  yet  but  a  babe  in  his  cradle  he  lay. 
Wild  honey-bees  swarm'd,  as  a  presage  to  tell 
Of  the  sweet-flowing  words  that  thence  afterwards 

fell. 
Just  so  round  our  Overton's  cradle,  no  doubt, 
Tenth  ducklings  and  chicks  were  seen  flitting  about ; 
Goose  embryos,  waiting  their  dooni'd  decimation. 
Came,  shadowing  forth  his  adult  destination, 
And  small,  sucking  tithe-pigs,  in  musical  droves, 
Announced  the  Cliurch   poet  whom  Chester  ap- 
proves. 

O  Horace!  wlien  thou,  in  thy  vision  of  yore. 
Didst  dream  that  a  snowy-white  plumage  came  o'er 
Thy  etherealized  limbs,  stealing  downily  on. 
Till,  by  Fancy's  strong  spell,  thou  wert  turned  to  a 

swnn,'°* 
Little  thought'st  thou  such  fate  could  a  poet  befall, 
Without  any  effort  of  fancy,  at  all ; 
Little  thought'st  thou  the  world  would  in  Overton 

find 
A  bird,  ready-made,  somewhat  different  in  kind, 
But  as  perfect  as  Michaelmas'  self  could  produce, 
Bv  gods  yclept  anser,  by  mortals  a  goose. 


SCENE 


FROM    A    PLAY    ACTED    AT    OXFOUD,    CALLED 

"  MATRICUL.^TION."  i« 

1834. 
[Boy  tliacovcred  at  a  tabic,  with  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  before 
him.— Enter  the  Rt.  Rev.  Doctor  Phillpols.] 

Doctor  P. — There,  my  hid,  lie  the  Articles — (Boy 
begins  to  count  them) — just  thirty-nine — 

No  occasion  to  count — you've  now  only  to  sign. 

At  Cambridge,  where  folks  are    ess  High-Church 
than  we. 

The  whole  Nine-and-Thirty  are  lump'd  into  Three. 

Let's  run  o'er  the  items ; — there's  Justification, 

Predestination,  and  Supererogation, — 

Not  forgetting  Salvation  and  Creed  Athanasian, 

Till  we  reach,  at  last.  Queen  Bess's  Ratification. 
35 


That's   sufficient — now,   sign — having   read    (jultc 

enough. 
You  "  believe  in  the  full  and  true  meaning  thereof?" 

{Boy  stares.) 
Oh,  a  mere  form  of  words,  to  make  things  smooth 

and  brief, — 
A  commodious  and  siiort  make-believe  of  belief. 
Which  our  Church  has  drawn  up,  in  a  form  thus 

articular. 
To  keep  out,  in  general,  all  who're  particular. 
But   wh.at's    the    boy   doing?   what!    reading   all 

through. 
And  my  luncheon  fast  cooling! — this  never  will  do. 
Boy,  {-poring  over  tlie  Articles.) — Here  arc  points 

which — pray,    Doctor,    what's    "  Grace    of 

Congruity  ?" 
Dr.  P.  (sharply.) — You'll   find  out,  young   sir, 

when  you've  more  ingenuity. 
At  present,  by  signing,  you  pledge  yourself  merely, 
Whate'er  it  may  be,  to  believe  it  sincerely. 
Both  in  dining  and  signing  we  take  the  same  plan — 
First,  swallow  all  down,  then  digest — as  we  can. 
Boy   (still   reading.) — I've   to   gulp,  I   see,   St. 

Athanasius's  Creed, 
Wliich,  I'm  told,  is  a  very  tough  morsel,  indeed; 

As  he  damns 

Dr.  P.  (aside.) — Ay,  and  so  would  /,  willingly, 

too, 
All  confounded  particular  young  boobies,  like  you. 
This  comes   of  Reforming! — all's  o'er   with  our 

land. 
When  people  won't  stand  what  they  can't  under- 
stand ; 
Nor  perceive  that  our  ever-revered  Thirty-Nine 
Were  made,  not  for  men  to  believe,  but  to  sigru 

[Exit  Dr.  P.  in  a  passion 


LATE  TITHE  CASE. 


''  Sic  vos  non  vobis." 


1833. 


"The  Vicar  of  Bramham  desires  me  to  state  that,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  passing  of  a  recent  Act  of  Parliament,  he  is 
compelled  to  adopt  measures  which  may  by  some  be  cott- 
aidered  harsh  or  precipitate ;  but,  in  duty  to  irhat  he  otccs  to 
his  sueces.<!ors,  he  feels  bound  to  preserve  the  rights  of  the 
vicarage." — Letter  from  Mr.  S.  Powell,  August  6. 

No,  not  for  yourselves,  ye  reverend  men. 

Do  you  take  one  pig  in  every  ten, 

But  for  Holy  Church's  future  heirs. 

Who've  an  abstract  right  to  that  pig,  as  theirs  ;— 

The  law  supposing  that  such  heirs  male 

Are  already  .seised  of  the  pig,  in  t.iil. 


274 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


No,  not  for  himself  hath  Brainliam's  priest 

His  "  well-beloved"  of  their  pennies  fleeced : 

But  it  is  that,  before  his  prescient  eyes, 

All  future  Vicars  of  Bramhnm  rise, 

With  their  embryo  daughters,  nephews,  nieces. 

And  'tis  for  them  the  poor  he  fleeces. 

He  hearcth  their  voices,  ages  hence, 

S.Tving,  "  Take  the  pig" — "  oh  take  the  pence ;" 

The  cries  of  little  Vicarial  dears. 

The  unborn  Branihamites,  reach  his  ears ; 

And,  did  he  resist  that  soft  appeal. 

He  would  not  like  a  trne-born  Vicar  foci. 

Thou,  too,  Lundy  of  Lackington ! 

A  Rector  true,  if  e'er  tliere  was  one. 

Who,  for  sake  of  the  Lundies  of  coming  ages, 

Gripest  the  tenths  of  laborers'  wages.'"" 

'Tis  true,  in  the  pockets  of  thy  small-clothes 

The  claim'd  "  obvention"'"  of  four-pence  goes ; 

But  its  .ibstract  spirit,  unconfined, 

Spreads  to  all  future  Rector-kind, 

Warning  them  all  their  rights  to  wake, 

.\nd  rather  to  face  the  block,  the  st.ike. 

Than  give  up  their  darling  right  to  take. 

One  grain  of  musk,  it  is  said,  perfumes 
(So  subtle  its  spirit)  a  thoiisand  rooms, 
.^nd  a  single  four-pence,  pocketed  well. 
Through  a  thousand  rectors'  lives  will  tell. 
Then  still  continue,  ye  reverend  souls, 
And  slill  as  your  rich  Pactolus  rolls. 
Grasp  every  penny  on  every  side. 
From  every  wretch,  to  swell  its  tide: 
Remembering  still  what  the  Ijiw  Lays  down, 
In  that  pure  poetic  style  of  its  own, 
"If  the  pnrson  in  rssr  submits  to  loss,  he 
"  Inflicts  the  same  on  the  parson  in  pnsse." 


FOOLS'  PARADISK 


PRKAM    THE    MUST. 


I  ifAvr.  been,  like  I'lick,  I  have  been,  m  a  trice, 
To  a  realm  they  call  FooN'  I'aradisc, 
Lying  N.  N.  R.  of  the  Ijind  of  Sense, 
And  Ki'ldoni  blcss'd  with  a  glinuner  thence. 
Util  they  want  It  not  In  Ibis  linppy  place, 
Where  a  light  of  its  own  gilds  every  face  ; 
<^)r,  if  some  wear  a  shadowy  brow, 
'Tim  the  wiiih  lo  look  wlio, — not  knowing  how. 
Self-glory  gliMleim  u'er  nil  that's  there, 
The  trcen,  the  flowers  have  a  jaunty  air  ; 


The  well-bred  wind  in  a  whisper  blows. 
The  snow,  if  it  snows,  is  couleiir  de  rose. 
The  falling  founts  in  a  titter  fall. 
And  the  sun  looks  simpering  down  on  all 

Oh,  'tisn't  in  tongue  or  pen  to  tr.tce 

The  scenes  I  saw  in  that  joyous  pl.ice. 

There  were  Lords  and  L.adies  sitting  together. 

In  converse  sweet,  "  What  charming  weather  !- 

"  You'll  all  rejoice  to  he.ar,  I'm  sure, 

"  Lord  Charles  has  got  a  good  sinecure ; 

"And  the  Premier  says,  ray  youngest  brother 

"  (Him  in  the  Guards)  shall  have  anotlier. 

"  Isn't  this  very,  very  gallant  1 — 

"  As  for  my  poor  old  virgin  aunt, 

"  Who  has  lost  her  all,  poor  thing,  .at  whist, 

"  We  must  quarter  her  on  the  Pension  List." 

Thus  smoothly  time  in  that  Eden  roll'd ; 

It  seem'd  like  an  Age  of  real  gold, 

Where  all  who  liked  might  have  a  slice, 

So  rich  was  that  Fool's  Paradise. 

But  the  sport  at  which  most  time  they  spent, 
Was  a  puppet-show,  call'd  Parliament, 
Perform'd  by  wooden  Cieeros, 
As  large  as  life,  who  rose  to  prose. 
While,  hid  behind  them,  lords  and  squires. 
Who  own'd  the  ]nippets.  pull'd  the  wires; 
And  thought  it  the  very  best  device 
Of  that  most  prosperous  Paradise, 
To  make  the  vulgar  p.ay  through  the  nose 
For  them  and  their  wooden  Cieeros. 

And  many  more  such  things  I  s.aw 
In  this  Eden  of  Church,  and  Slate,  and  Law; 
Nor  e'er  were  known  sudi  pleasant  folk 
As  those  who  bad  the  best  of  the  joke. 
There  were  Irish  Rectors,  such  as  resort 
To  Cheltenham  yearly,  to  drink — port. 
And  bunijier,  "  LoJig  m.ay  the  Church  endure 
"  May  her  cure  of  souls  be  a  sinecure, 
"And  a  score  of  P.arsons  to  every  soul — 
"  A  moderate  allowance  on  the  whole." 

There  were  Heads  of  Colleges,  lying  about, 
From  which  the  sense  h.'id  all  run  out, 
Even  lo  the  lowest  classic  lees. 
Till  nothing  was  left  but  ijiinnlilirs ; 
Which  made  them  heads  most  (it  to  be 
Stuck  up  on  a  University, 
Which  yearly  hatches,  in  its  schools, 
Such  flights  of  young  Elysian  fools. 

Thus  all  went  on,  so  sung  .'ind  nice, 
In  this  linppiest  possible  Paradise. 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


275 


But  plain  it  was  to  see,  alas ! 

That  a  downfall  soon  must  como  to  pass. 

For  grief  is  a  lot  the  good  and  wise 

Don't  quite  so  much  monopolize, 

But  that  ("  lapt  in  Elysium"  as  tl'ey  are) 

Even  blessed  fools  must  have  their  sh.ire. 

And  so  it  hiippon'd : — but  what  befell, 

[n  Dream  the  Second  I  mean  to  tell. 


THE  RECTOR  AND  IIIS  CURATE; 

OR,    ONE    POUND    TWO. 

*  I  trust  we  shall  part,  as  we  met,  in  peace  and  charity. 
My  last  payment  to  you  paid  your  salary  up  to  the  1st  of  this 
month.  Since  that,  I  owe  you  for  one  month,  which,  being  a 
long  month,  of  thirty-one  days,  amounts,  as  near  as  I  can 
calculate,  to  six  pounds  eight  shillings.  My  steward  returns 
you  as  a  debtor  to  the  amount  of  skven  pounds  ten  shil- 
lings FOR  coN-ACRE-oRouND,  which  leaves  some  triding  bal- 
ance in  my  favor." — Letter  of  Disviissnl  frum  the  Jiev.  Marcus 
Rcresfurd  tit  his  Curate,  the  Jiev.  T,  A.  Lyons. 

The  account  is  balanced — the  bill  drawn  out, — 
The  debit  and  credit  all  right,  no  doubt — 
The  Rector,  rolling  in  wealth  and  state, 
Owes  to  his  Curate  six  pound  eight ; 
The  Curate,  that  least  well-fed  of  men. 
Owes  to  his  Rector  seven  pound  ten. 
Which  maketh  the  balance  clearly  due 
From  Curate  to  Rector,  one  pound  two. 

Ah  balance,  on  earth  unfair,  uneven ! 
But  sure  to  be  all  set  riglit  in  heaven, 
Where  bills  like  these  will  be  check'd,  some  day, 
And  the  balance  settled  the  other  way : 
Where  Lyons  the  curate's  hard-wrung  sum 
Will  b.ick  to  his  shade  with  interest  come, 
And  Marcus,  the  rector,  deep  may  rue 
Tliis  tot,  in  his  favor,  of  one  pound  two. 


I'ADDY'S  METAMORPHOSIS.'"' 

1833. 

About  nfty  years  since,  in  the  days  of  our  daddies, 
That  plan  was  commenced  which  tlie  wise  now 
applaud, 

Of  shipping  off  Ireland's  most  turbulent  Paddies, 
As  good  raw  materials  for  settlers,  abroad. 

Some  West-Indi»T  island,  whose  name  I  forget, 
Was  the  regioij  then  chosen  for  this  scheme  so 
romantic  : 


And  such  the  success  the  first  colony  met, 

That  a  second,  soon  after,  set  sail  o'er  th'  At- 
lantic. 

Behold  them  now  safe  .it  the  long-look'd  for  shore, 
Sailing  in  between  banks  that  the  Shannon  might 
greet, 
And  thinking  of  friends  whom,  but  two  years  be- 
fore, 
Tlicy  had  sorrow'd  to  lose,  but  would  soon  agiiia 
meet. 

And,  hark !  from  the  shore  a  glad  welcome  there 

came — 

"  Arrah,  Paddy  from  Cork,  is  it  you,  my  sweet 

boy  ?" 

While  Pat  stood  astounded,  to  hear  his  own  name 

Thus  hail'd  by  black  devils,  who  caper'd  for  joy ! 

Can  it  possibly  be? — h.alf  amazement — half  doubt, 
Pat    listens   again  —  rubs   his   eyes   and    looks 
steady ; 
Then  heaves  a  deep  sigh,  and  in  horror  yells  out, 
"  Good  Lord !    only  think — black  and  curly  .al- 
ready I" 

Deceived  by  tliat  well-mimick'd  brogue  in  his  ears, 
Pat  read  his  own  doom  in  tliese  wool-headed 
figures. 
And   thought,  what   a  climate,  in   less  tlian   two 
years, 
To  turn  a  whole  cargo  of  Pats  into  niggers! 

MORAL. 

'Tis  thus, — but  alas ! — by  a  marvel  more  true 
Than  is  told  in  this  rival  of  Ovid's  best  stones, — 

Your  Whigs,  when  in  office  a  short  year  or  two, 
By  a  lusus  naturic,  all  turn  into  Tories. 

And  thus,  when  I  hear  them  "  strong  measures" 
advise, 
Ere  the  seats  that  they  sit  on  h.ave  time  to  gel 
steady, 
I  say,  while  I  listen,  with  tears  in  my  eyes, 
"Good    Lord!- -only   think, — bl.ack   and    cutly 
ah-eadv !" 


COCKER,  ON  CHURCH  REFORM. 


FOUNDED    UPON    SOME    LATE    CAI.CULATION.l 


183J. 


Fine  figures  of  speech  let  your  orators  follow. 
Old  Cocker  has  figures  that  beat  them  all  hollow; 


276 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


Though  fonied  for  his  rules  Anslolk  may  be, 

In  but  half  of  this  Sage  any  merit  I  see, 

For,  as  honest  Joe  Hume  says,  the  "  tottJe"  "°  for 


For  instance,  while  others  discuss  and  debate, 
It  is  thus  about  Bishops  /  ratiocinate. 

In  England,  where,  spite  of  tlie  infidel's  laughter, 
"Tis  certain  our  souls  are  look'd  very  well  after, 
Two  Bishops  can  well  (if  judiciously  sunder'd) 
Of  parishes  manage  two  thousand  two  hundred, — 
Said  number  of  parishes,  under  said  teachers. 
Containing  three  millions  of  Protestant  creatures, — 
So  that  each  of  said  Bishops  full  ably  controls 
One  million  and  five  hundred  thousands  of  souls. 
And  now  comes  old  Cocker.     In  Ireland  we're  told, 
Haifa,  million  includes  the  whole  Protestant  fold  ; 
If,  therefore,  for  Ihrce  million  souls  'tis  conceded 
Tu-o  proper-sized  Bishops  are  all  that  is  nctrdcd, 
Tis  plain,  for  the  Irish  /la//"  million  who  want  'em, 
One  third  of  one  Bishop  is  just  the  riglit  quantum. 
And  thus,  by  old  Cocker's  sublime  Rule  of  Three, 
The  Irish  Church  question's  resolved  to  a  T ; 
Keeping  always  that  excellent  maxim  in  view, 
That,  in  saving  men's  souls,  we  must  s.avc  money 
too. 

Nay,  if — as  St.  Roden  complains  is  the  case — 
The  half  million  of  soul  is  decreasing  apace, 
The  demand,  too,  for  bishop  will  also  fall  off, 
Till  the  tilhe  of  one,  taken  in  kind,  be  enough. 
But,  as  fractions  imply  that  we'd  have  to  dissect, 
And  to  cutting  up  Bishops  I  strongly  object. 
We've  a  small,  fractious  prelate   whom   well   we 

could  spare, 
Who  ha-s  just  the  same  decimal  worth,  to  a  hair ; 
And,  not  to  leave  Ireland  too  much  in  the  lurch. 
We'll  let  her  have  Exeter,  sole'"  as  her  Church. 


LKS  IIOMMES  AUTOMATES. 

1834. 
**  \Vi-  nn;  |*<Tsiimlrd  Hint  this  our  nrtillcliil  ninn  will  nut  only 
walk  nii'l  Bfx'Qk,  miit  perrorrn  most  of  lliu  oiilwnrd  riinctioiiB 
offtiiimal  UtVf  but  (liulng  wound  up  oncu  n  wc<;k)  will  perlinps 
reuon  an  well  rm  modi  of  your  country  pftrHona.'* — Mcmoirf  of 
Mtrliitm  SerMtru;  chap.  xll. 

It  being  an  object  now  to  meet 
Willi  I'nrsoim  that  don't  want  to  eal. 
Fit  men  to  fill  those  Iri»li  rectories, 
Which  Hoon  will  have  but  scant  rcfectorioH, 


It  has  been  suggested, — lest  that  Church 
Should,  all  at  once,  be  left  in  the  lurcli, 
For  want  of  reverend  men  endued 
With  this  gift  of  ne'er  requiring  food, — 
To  try,  by  way  of  experiment,  whether 
Tliere  couldn't  be  made,  of  wood  and  leatlier,"" 
(Howe'er  the  notion  may  sound  chimerical.) 
Jointed  figures  not  Iny,""'  but  clerical. 
Which,  wound  up  carefully  once  a  week. 
Might  just  like  parsons  look  and  speak, 
Nay  even,  if  requisite,  reason  too, 
As  well  as  most  Irish  parsons  do. 

Th'  experiment  having  succeeded  quite, 

(Whereat  those  Lords  must  much  delight, 

Who've  show-n,  by  stopping  the  Church's  fiod. 

They  think  it  isn't  for  her  spiritual  good 

To  be  served  by  parsons  of  flesh  and  blood,) 

The  Patentees  of  this  new  invention 

Beg  leave  respectfully  to  mention. 

They  now  are  enabled  to  produce 

An  ample  supply,  for  present  use, 

Of  these  reverend  pieces  of  machinery, 

Ready  for  vicarage,  rectory,  deanery, 

Or  any  such-like  post  of  skill 

That  wood  .and  leather  are  fit  to  fill. 

N.  B. — In  places  addicted  to  arson, 

We  can't  recoiumend  a  wooden  parson  : 

But,  if  tlie  Church  any  such  appoints. 

They'd  better,  at  least,  have  iron  joints. 

In  parts,  not  much  by  Protestants  haunted, 

A  figure  to  look  at\  all  that's  wanted — 

A  block  in  bl.'ick,  to  eat  and  sleep, 

Which  (now  that  the  eating's  o'er)  comes  cheaji 

P.  S. — Should  the  Lords,  by  way  of  a  treat. 

Permit  the  clergy  again  to  eat. 

The  Church  will,  of  course,  no  longer  need 

Imitation-parsons  that  never  feed  ; 

And  tliese  kyW  creatures  of  ours  will  sell 

For  secular  purposes  just  as  well — 

Our  Beresfords,  tnrn'd  to  bludgeons  stout, 

Jlay,  '.stead  of  beating  their  own  about. 

Be  knocking  the  brains  of  Papists  out; 

While  our  smooth  O'Sullivans,  by  all  mean;*, 

Should  transmigrate  into  lurn'.ni^  inacliincii 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


277 


HOW  TO  MAKE  ONE'S  SELF  A  PEER, 

AOCOKDING    TO    Tllli    NEWEST     EECEII'T,    AS    DISCLOSED    IN 

A    LATE    HEUALDIO    WORK.'"' 

1634. 

Choose   some  title   tliat'a  dormant — tlio   Peerage 

Iiatli  many — 
Lord  Baron  of  Sliamdos  sounds  noble  as  any. 
Next,  catch  a  dead  cousin  of  said  defunct  Peer, 
And  marry  iiim  otT-liand,  in  some  given  year, 
To  the  daughter  of  somebody, — no  matter  wlio, — 
Pig,  the  grocer  himself,  if  you're  Iiard  run,  will  do ; 
For,  the  Medici  pills  still  in  heraldry  tell, 
And  why  shouldn't  loUypops  quarter  as  well? 

Thus,  having  your  couple,  and  one  a  lord's  cousin, 
Young   materials  for  peers   may  be  had   by   the 

dozen ; 
And  'tis  hard  if,  inventing  each  small  mother's  son 

of  'em, 
You  can't  somehow  manage  to  prove  yourself  one 

of 'em. 
Should  registers,  deeds,  and  such  matters  refractory. 
Stand  in  the  way  of  this  lord-manufactory, 
I've  merely  to  hint,  as  a  secret  auricular, 
One  grand  rule  of  cntei-prise, — don't  be  particular. 
A  man  who  once  takes  such  a  jump  at  nobility. 
Must  not  mince  the  matter,  like  folks  of  nihility,'"' 
But  clear  tliick  and  thin  with  true  lordly  agility. 

'Tis  true,  to  a  would-be  descendant  from  Kings, 
Parish-registers  sometimes  are  troublesome  things; 
Aa  oft,  when  the  vision  is  near  brought  about, 
Some  goblin,  in  sliape  of  a  grocer,  grins  out ; 
Or  some  barber,  perhaps,  with  my  Lord  mingles 

bloods. 
And  one's  patent  of  peerage  is  left  in  the  suds. 

But  there  are  ways — when  folks  are  resolved  to  be 

lords — 
Of  e.^purging  ev'n  troublesome  parish  records  : 
What  think  ye  of  scissors?  depend  on't  no  licir 
Of  a  Sliamdos  should  go  unsupplied  with  a  pair. 
As,  whate'er  else  the  learn'd  in  such  lore  may  invent. 
Your  scissors  does  wonders  in  proving  descent. 
Yes,  poets  may  sing  of  those  terrible  shears 
With  which  Atropos  snips  off  both  bumpkins  and 

peers. 
But  tliey're  naught  to  that  weapon  which  shines  in 

the  hands 
Of  some  would-be  Patrician,  when  proudly  he  stands 
O'er  the  careless  churchwarden's  baptismal  arr.ay, 
And  sweeps  at  each  cut  generations  away. 
By  some  b.abe  of  old  times  in  his  peerage  resisted  ? 
One  snip, — and  the  urchin  hath  never  existed! 


Docs  some  marriage,  iti  days  near  the  Flood,  inter- 
fere 

With  his  one  sublime  object  of  being  a  Peer' 

Quick  the  shears  at  once  nullify  bridegroom  and 
bride, — 

No  such  people  have  ever  lived,  married,  or  died ! 

Such  the  newest  receipt  for  those  high-minded 
elves, 

Who've  a  fancy  for  making  great  lords  of  tliem- 
selves. 

Follow  this,  young  aspirer,  who  panl'st  for  a  peer- 
age. 

Take  S — m  for  thy  model  and  B — z  for  thy  steer- 
age. 

Do  all  and  much  wor.s'e  than  old  Nicholas  Flam 
does, 

And — who  knows  but  you'll  be  Lord  Baron  of 
Shamdos  ? 


THE  DUKE  IS  THE  LAD. 

(duke    of    CUMBERLAND.) 

^ir. — "A  master  I  have,  and  I  am  his  man, 
Calloping  dreary  dun." 

Castle  of  jjndalugiom 

The  Duke  is  the  lad  to  frighten  a  lass. 

Galloping,  dreary  Duke; 
The  Duke  is  the  lad  to  frigliten  a  lass, 
He's  an  ogre  to  meet,  and  the  d — 1  to  pass, 
With  his  charger  prancing, 
Grim  eye  glancing. 
Chin,  like  a  jMufti, 
Grizzled  and  tufty. 
Galloping,  dreary  Duke. 

Ye  misses,  beware  of  the  neighborhooQ 

Of  this  galloping,  dreary  Duke; 
Avoid  him,  all  who  see  no  good 
In  being  run  o'er  by  a  Prince  of  the  Blood. 
For,  surely,  no  nymph  is 
Fond  of  a  grim  phiz, 
And  of  the  married. 
Whole  crowds  have  miscarried 
At  sight  of  this  dreary  Duke. 


278 


MOOKE'S  WOKKS. 


EPISTLE 

FEOM    ER.\SMUS    OK    E.IETH    TO    CICEEO    IX    THE    SHADES. 

Southampton. 
As  'tis  now,  my  dear  Tully,  some  weeks  since  I 

started 
By  railroad,  for  earth,  having  vow'd,  ere  we  parted, 
To  drop  you  a  line,  Ijy  the  Dead-Letter  post, 
Just  to  say  how  I  thrive,  in  my  new  line  of  ghost, 
And  how  deucedly  odd  this  live  world  all  appears, 
To  a  man  who's  been  dead  now  for  three  hundred 

years, 
I  take  up  my  pen,  and,  with  news  of  this  earth, 
Hope  to  waken,  by  turns,  both  your  spleen  and 

your  mirth. 

In  my  way  to  these  .shores,  taking  Italy  first. 
Lest  the  change  from  Elysium  too  sudden  should 

burst, 
I  forgot  not  to  visit  those  haunts  where,  of  yore, 
You  took  lessons  from  Pa;tus  in  cookery's  lore,'" 
Turn'd  aside  from  the  calls  of  the  rostrum  and  Muse, 
To  di.scuss  the  rich  merits  o{  rolls  and  stews, 
And  preferr'd  to  all  honors  of  triumph  or  trophy, 
A  supper  on  prawns  with  that  rogue,  little  Sophy.'"" 

Having  dwelt  on  such  classical  musings  awhile, 

I  set-off,  by  a  steamboat,  for  this  happy  isle, 

(A  convevance  you  ne'er,  I  think,  sail'd  by,  mv 

Tu'lly, 
And  tJierefore,  per  ne.\t,  I'll  describe  it  more  fully,) 
Having   lic;u-d,  on   the  way,  what   distresses   me 

greatly. 
That  England's  o'errun  by  idolaters  lately, 
SUirk,  staring  adorers  of  wood  and  of  stone. 
Who  will  let  neither  .stick,  stock,  or  statue  alone. 
Such  the  sad  news  I  heard  from  a  tall  man  in  black, 
Who  from  sports  continental  was  hurrying  back. 
To  look  afler  liis  tithes ; — seeing,  doubtless,  'twould 

follow, 
Tliat,  just  as,  of  old,  your  great  idol,  Apollo, 
Devour'd  all  the  Tenths,'"  so  the  idols  in  question. 
These  wood  and  stone  gods,  may  have  equal  diges- 
tion. 
And   th'  idolatrous  crew,   whom   this  Rector  de- 
spises, 
-May  cat  up  the  tithe-pig  which  /«:  idolizes. 


"I'Ib  all  but  too  true — grim  Idolatry  reigns, 
In  full  pomp,  over  England's  lust  cities  and  plains! 
On  arriving  just  now,  as  my  first  thought  and  care 
Was,  n.s  usual,  to  seek  out  Home  nc.ir  House  of 
Prayer, 


Some  calm,  holy  spot,  fit  for  Christians  to  pr.iy  on, 
I  was  shown  to — what  think  yout — a  downright 

Pantheon ! 
A  grand,  pillar'd  temple,  with  niches  and  halls,""' 
Full  of  idols  and  gods,  which  they  nickname  St, 

Paul's;— 
Though  'tis  clearly  the  place  where  the  idolatrous 

crew. 
Whom  the  Rector  complain'd  of,  their  dark  rites 

pursue ; 
And,  'inong  all  the  '•  strange  gods"  Abraham's  f;i- 

ther  carved  out,""' 
That  he  ever  carved  stranger  than  these  I  much 

doubt. 

Were  it  even,  my  dear  Tully,  your  Hebes  and 

Graces, 
And  such  pretty  tilings,  that  usurped  the  Saints' 

places, 
I  should"iit  much  mind, — for,  in  this  classic  dome. 
Such  folks  from  Olympus  would  feel  quite  at  home.' 
But  the   gods  they've   got  here! — such  a   queer 

omnium  gatherum 
Of  misbcgot  things,  that  no  poet  would  father  'em ; — 
Britannias,  in  light,  summer-wear  for  the  skies, — 
Old  Thames,  turn'd  to  stone,  to  his  no  small  sur- 
prise,— 
Father  Nile,  too, — a  portrait,  (in  spite  of  what's 

said. 
That  no  mortal  e'er  yet  got  a  glimpse  of  his  head,)'^" 
And  a  Ganges,  which  India  would  think  somewhat 

fat  for't. 
Unless   'twas  some   full-grown   Director  had   sat 

for't  ;— 
Not    to    mention    th'    et    cateras    of    Genii   and 

Sphinxes, 
Fame,  Victory,  and  other  such  semi-clad  min.vos; — 
Sea  Captains,'" — the  idols  here  most  idolized; 
And  of  whom  some,  ala.s,  might  too  wvll  be  com- 
prised 
Among  ready-made    Saints,  as  they  died  cannon- 

i/.ed ; — 
With  a  multitude  more  of  odd  eockneyfied  deities, 
Shrined  in  such  pomj)  that  quite  shocking  to  see  it 

'tis; 
Nor  know  I  what  belter  the  Rector  could  do 
Than  to  shrine  there  his  own  beloved  quadiuped 

too; 
As   most  surely   a    tithc-l)ig,   whale'cr    the   word 

thinks,  is 
A  much  filter  be.ast  for  a  -hurch  th:in  a  Sphinx  is. 

But  I'm  call'd  ell   to  (liniicr — gr.ice  just,  has  been 

said. 
And  my  hoxt  wails  for  nobody,  living  or  <le.ad. 


SATIRICAL  AND  nUMOROUS  POEMS. 


279 


LINES-'' 

ON    THE    IlEl'ARTUEE    OF    LOttDS    CASTLEREAGH    AND 
STEWAKT    FOR   TUE    CONTINENT. 

At  Paria^^^  ot  Fratrca,  et  qui  rapucre  sub  ilHs, 
Vix  tonu^re  inaiius  (scis  lioc,  Menelaii)  ncraiidas. 

Ovid,  Jdetam.  lib.  xiii.  v.  2(12. 

Go,  Brotliers  in  wisdom — go,  bright  jwii'  of  Peers, 
Anil  in.-iy  Cupid  .ind  Fame  fan  you  botli  with 
their  pinions! 
The  nne,  tlie  Ijest  lover  we  have — iifhis  years, 
And  the  other  Prime  Statesman  of  Biitain's  do- 
minions. 

Go,  Hero  of  Chancery,  bleas'd  with  the  smile 
Of  the  Misses  th.at  love,  and  the  monarchs  tliat 
prize  thee ; 
Forget  Mrs.  Angelo  Taylor  .awhile. 

And  all  tailors  but  him  who  so  well   dantlifies 
thee. 

Never  mind  how  thy  junioi's  in  gallantry  scoff. 
Never  heed  how  perverse  affidavits  may  thwart 
thee, 

Bnt  show  the  young  Misses  thou'rt  scholar  enough 
To  translate  "Amor  Fortis"  a  love,  about forly ! 

And   sui'e  'tis  no  wonder,  when,  fresh   as  young 
Mars, 
From  the  battle  you  came,  with  the  Orders  you'd 
earn'd  in't, 
That  sweet  Lady  Fanny  should  cry  out  "  My  stars .'" 
And  forget  that  the  Moon,  too,  was  some  w-ay 
concern'd  in't. 

For  not  the  great  Regent  himself  has  endured 
(Though  Pve  seen  him  with  badges  and  orders 
all  shine. 

Till  he  loiik'd  like  a  house  that  was  oxer  insured) 
A  much  heavier  burden  of  glories  than  thine. 

And   'tis   plain,  when   a  wealthy  young   lady  so 
mad  is, 
Or  any  young  ladies  can  so  go  astray, 
As  to  marry  old  T^andies  that  might  be  their  daddies, 
The  stars'"'  are  in  fault,  my  Lord  Stewart,  not 
they! 

Thou,  too,  t'other  hrotlier,  thou  Tully  of  Tories, 

Thou  Malaprop  Cicero,  over  whose  lips 
Kucli  a  smooth  rigmarole  about  "  monarchs,"  and 
"  glories," 
And  "nuZZ)'%e,"="and  "  featui-es,"  like  syllabub 
slips. 


Go,  haste,  at  the  Congress  pursue  thy  vocation 
Of  adding  fresh  sums  to  this  National  J)eht  of 
ours, 
I.e.iguing  with  Kings,  who,  for  mere  recreation, 
Break  promises,  fast  as   your  Iiordship  breaks 
metiiphors. 

Fare  ye  well,  fare  ye  well,  hi'iglit  Pair  of  Peers, 
And  may  Cupid  and  Fame  fan  you  both  witli 
their  pinions ! 

The  one  the  best  lover  we  have — of  jiis  years. 
And  the  other.  Prime  tstatesman  of  Britain's  do- 


TO  THE  SHIP 

IN    WHICH    LOUD    CASTLERIACII    BAILED    FOR    THE 
CONTINENT. 

Imitated  from  I{oracc,  lib.  i.,  ode  3. 

So  may  my  Lady's  prayers  prevail,"" 

And  Canning's  too,  and  lucid  Bragge's, 
And  Eldon  beg  a  favoring  gale 

From  Eolus,  that  older  Bags,'" 
To  speed  thee  on  thy  destined  way. 
Oh  ship,  th.at  bear'st  our  Castlereagh,'" 
Our  gracious  Regent's  better  half,'" 

And,  therefore,  quarter  of  a  King — 
(As  Van,  or  any  other  calf, 

May  find,  without  much  figuring.) 
Waft  him,  oh  ye  kindly  breezes, 

Waft  this  Lord  of  place  and  jielf. 
Anywhere  his  Lordship  pleases, 

Though  'twere  to  Old  Nick  himself! 

Oh,  what  a  face  of  brass  was  his,'"° 
Who  first  at  Congress  show'd  his  phiz — 
To  sign  away  the  Rights  of  Man 

To  Russian  threats  and  Austrian  juggle  ; 
And  leave  the  sinking  African"' 

To  fall  without  one  saving  struggle — 
'Mong  ministers  from  North  and  South, 

To  show  his  lack  of  sh.amc  and  sense. 
And  hoist  the  Sign  of  "  Bull  and  Mouth" 

For  blunders  and  for  eloquence  ! 

Ill  vain  we  wisli  our  Sees,  at  home"'' 

To  mind  their  papers,  desks,  .and  shclvea, 

If  silly  Sees,  abroad  will  roam, 

And  make  such  noodles  of  themselves. 

But  such  hath  alw.ays  been  tlie  case — 
For  m.atchless  impudence  of  face. 
There's  nothing  like  your  Tory  race ! '" 


280 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


First,  Pitt,"*  tlie  chosen  of  England,  taught  hei 
A  taste  for  famine,  fire,  and  slaugliter. 
Then  came  the  Doctor,""  for  our  ease, 
With  Eldons,  Chathams,  Hawkesburys, 
And  otiier  deadly  maladies. 
When  each,  in  turn,  had  run  their  rigs. 
Necessity  brought  in  the  Whigs :"° 
And  oh,  I  blush,  I  blush  to  say, 

When  these,  in  turn,  were  put  to  flight,  toe, 
llustrious  Temple  flew  away 

With  lots  of  pens  he  had  no  riglU  to !  ^" 
,n  short,  what  icill  not  mortal  man  do  ?  "' 

And  now,  that — strife  and  bloodshed  past — 
We've  done  on  earth  what  harm  we  can  do, 

We  gravely  take  to  heaven  at  last,''' 
And  tliink  its  favorite  smile  to  purchase 
(Oh  Lord,  good  Lord !)  by — building  churches ! 


SKETCH  OF  THE  FIRST  ACT  OF  A  NEW 
ROMANTIC  DRAMA. 

"  And  now,"  quoth  the  goddess,  in  accents  jocose, 
"  Having  got  good  materials,  I'll  brew  such  a  dose 
"Of  Double  X  mischief  as,  mortals  shall  say, 
"  They've  not  known  its  equal  for  many  a  long  day." 
Here   she   wink'd   to    her    subaltern   imps   to   be 

steady. 
And  all  wagg'd  their  fire-tipp"d   tails   and   stood 

ready. 

"So,  now  for  tli'  ingredients: — first,  hand  me  that 

bisliop;" 
Whereon,  a  whole  bevy  of  imps  run  to  fish  up. 
From  out  a  large  reservoir,  wherein  they  pen  'cm. 
The  blackest  of  all  its  black  dabblers  in  venom ; 
And  wrapping  him  up  (lest  the  virus  should  ooze. 
And  one  '-drop  of  th'  immortal"-"  Right  Rev.'" 

they  might  lose) 
[n  the  sheets  of  Ids  own  speeches,  charges,  reviews. 
Pop  him  into  the  caldron,  while  loudly  a  burst 
From  the  by-staiiders  welcomes  ingredient  the  first! 

"  Now    fetch    the    Ex-Chancellor,"    niutlcr'd    the 

dame — 
"He  who's  call'd  after  Harry  th(^  Older,  by  name." 
"The  E.\-Cliancellorl"  eclio'd  her  imps,  the  whole 

crew  of 'em — 
"  Why  talk  of  one  E-V,  when  your  Mischief  ha.s  two 

of  'em  V 
"  True,  true,"  wild  the  hag,  look'ng  nrch  nt  her  elves, 
•And  a  donble-Kx  dose  the;    compose,  in  Ihem- 

•clved." 


This  joke,  the  sly  meaning  of  which  was  seen  lucidly 

Set  all  the  devilo  a  laughing  most  deucedly, 

So,  in  went  the  pair,  and   (what  none   thought 

surprising) 
Show'd  tiilents  for  sinking  as  great  as  for  rising ; 
While   not   a   grim  phiz   in   that  realm   but  was 

lighted 
With  joy  to  set.  spirits  so  twin-like  anited — 
Or  (plainly  to  speak)  two  such  birds  of  a  feather. 
In  one  mess  of  venom  thus  spitted  together. 
Here  a  flashy  imp  rose — some  connection,  no  doubt. 
Of  the   young   lord    in    question — and,    scowling 

about, 
"  Hoped  his  fiery  friend,  Stanley,  would  not  bo  left 

out ; 
"  As  no  schoolboy  unwhipp'd,  the  whole  world  mus 

agree, 
"  Loved  mischief,  pure  mischief,  more  dearly  than 

he." 


But, 


hag   wouldn't    hear    of    tho 


no — the    wise 
whipster; 
Not  merely  because,  as  a  shrew,  ho  eclipsed  her. 
And  nature  had  given  him,  to  keep  him  still  young, 
Jluch  tongue  in  his  head  and  no  head  in  his  tongue ; 
But  because  she  well  knew  that,  lor  change  ever 

ready, 
He'd  not  even  to  mischief  keep  properly  steady ; 
That  soon  even  the  wrong  side  would  cease  to  de- 
light, 
And,  for  want  of  a  change,  he  must  swerve  to  the 

right ; 
Wliile,  on  each,  so  at  random  his  missiles  he  tlirew, 
That  the  side  he  at'.ack'd  was  most  safe  of  the  two. — 
This  ingredient  was  therefore  put  by  on  the  shelf, 
There  to  bubble,  a  bitter,  hot  mess,  by  itself. 
"  And  now,"  quoth  the  hag,  as  her  CJildron  she  eyed, 
And  the  titbits  so  fricndlily  rankling  inside, 
"There  wants  but  some  seasoning; — so,  conio,  ore 

I  stew  'em, 
"  By  way  of  a  relish,  we'll  throw  in  '  -f-  John  Tnani.' 
"  In  cooking  tip  mischief,  there's  no  flesh  or  lish 
"  Like  your  meddling  High  Priest,  to  add  zest  to 

the  dLsh." 
Thus  saying,  she  pops  in  the  Irish  Grand  Lama — 
Which  great  event  ends  the  First  Act  of  the  DraiinL 


ANIMAL  MAGNETISM. 

Tliouoil  famed  was  Mesiner,  In  his  day 
Nor  lesH  so,  in  ours,  !.■»  Diipolet, 


SATIKiCAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


28x 


To  say  notliiiin;  of  all  tlio  wonders  done 
By  Hint  wizMrd,  Dr.  EUiotson, 
When,  standing  as  if  the  gods  to  invoke,  he 
Up  w.-ivcs  his  arm,  and — down  drops  Okey  !°" 

Though  .straiigc  Ihese  things,  ,u  mind  and  sense, 
If  you  wish  still  stranger  things  to  .see — 

If  you  wish  to  know  the  power  immense 

Of  the  true  magnetic  influence. 
Just  go  to  her  Majesty's  Treasury, 

And  learn  the  wonders  working  there — 

And  I'll  be  liang'd  if  you  don't  stare ! 

Talk  of  your  animal  raagnetists. 

And  th.-it  wave  of  the  hand  no  soul  resists, 

Not  all  its  witcheries  can  compete 

With  the  friendly  beckon  towards  Downing  Street, 

Which  a  Premier  gives  to  one  who  wishes 

To  taste  of  the  Treasury  lo.ives  and  fishes. 

It  actually  lifts  the  lucky  elf, 

Thus  acted  upon,  ahow  himself; — 

He  jumps  to  .a  state  oi  clairvoyance., 

And  is  placeman,  stiitesman,  all,  at  once ! 

These  effects  observe,  (with  wliich  I  begin,) 
'  Take  place  when  the  patient's  motioned  in ; 
Far  diflcrent,  of  course,  the  mode  of  affe<?tion. 
When  the  wave  of  the  hand's  in  the  out  direction  ; 
The  effects  being  then  extremely  unpleasant, 
As  Is  seen  in  the  case  of  Lord  Brougham,  at  present ; 
In  whom  this  sort  of  manipulation 
Has  lately  produced  such  inflammation. 
Attended  with  constant  irritation. 
That,  in  short — not  to  mince  his  situation — 
It  has  work'd  in  the  man  a  transformation 
That  puzzles  .ill  human  calcuLation ! 

Ever  since  the  fatal  day  which  saw 

That  "  pass"  ''^^  perform'd  on  this  Lord  of  Law — 

A  pass  potential,  none  can  doubt. 

As  it  sent  Harry  Brougham  to  tlie  right  about — 

The  condilio.n  in  which  the  p.atient  has  been 

Is  a  thing  quite  awful  to  be  seen. 

Not  that  a  casual  eye  could  scan 

This  wondrous  change  by  outward  survey; 
It  being,  in  fact,  th'  interior  man 

That's  turn'd  completely  topey-turvy: — 
Like  a  case  that  lately,  in  reading  o'er  'em, 
I  found  in  the  Acta  Eruditormn, 
Of  a  man  in  whose  inside,  when  disclosed. 
The  whole  order  of  things  was  found  transposed  ;^^* 
By  a  lusus  natura:,  strange  to  sec. 
The  liver  placed  where  the  heart  should  be. 
And  the  spleen  (like  Brougham's,  since  laid  on  the 

shelf) 
As  diseased  and  as  much  out  of  place  as  liimself 
36 


In  short,  'tis  a  case  for  consultation. 

If  e'er  there  was  one,  in  this  tlunking  nation  ; 

And  therefore  I  humbly  beg  to  propose. 

To  those  saxans  who  mean,  as  the  rumor  gees. 

To  sit  on  Miss  Okey's  wonderful  case. 

Should  also  Lord  Harry's  case  embrace; 

And  inform  us,  in  both  these  patients'  states, 

Which  ism  it  is  tluat  predominates, 

AVhether  magnetism  and  somnambulism. 

Or,  simply  and  solely,  mountebankism. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BOX. 

Let  History  boast  of  her  Romans  and  Spartans, 
And  tell  how  they  stood  against  tyranny's  shocks ; 

They  were  all,  I  confess,  in  my  eye,  Betty  Martins, 
Compared  to  George  Grote  and  his  wonderful 
Box. 

Ask,  where  Liberty  now  has  her  seat ' — Oh,  it  isn't 
By  Delaware's  banks  or  on  Switzerland's  rocks; 

Like  an  imp  in  some  conjuror's  bottle  imprison'd, 
She's  slyly  shut  up  in  Grote's  wonderful  Bo.v. 

How    snug! — 'stead   of   floating   through    etiicr's 
dominions. 

Blown  tliis  way  and  thai,  by  the  "populi  vo.v," 
To  fold  thus  in  silence  her  sinecure  pinions. 

And  go  fast  asleep  in  Grote's  wonderful  Box. 

Time  was,  when  free  speech  was  the  life-breafh  of 
freedom — 
So  thought  once  the  Seldens,  the  Hampdens,  the 
Lockcs ; 
But  mute  be  our  troops,  when  to  ambush  we  le.ad 
.   'em. 
For  "Mum"  is  the  word  with  us  KniMits  of  the 
Box. 

Pure,  exquisite  Box !  no  corruption  can  soil  it; 

There's  Otto  of  Rose,  in  e.ach  bre.ath  it  unlocks ; 
While  Grote  is  the  "  Betty,"  that  serves  at  the  toilet, 

And  breathes  all  Arabia  around  from  his  Box."* 

'Tis  a  singular  fact,  that  the  famed  Hugo  Grotius,'" 
(A  namcs.ake  of  Grote's — being  both  of  Dutch 
stocks,) 

Like  Grote,  too,  a  genius  profound  as  precocious, 
Was  also,  like  him,  much  reno.wn'd  for  a  Box  : — 

An  immortal  old  clothes-box,  in  which  the  great 
Grotius 
When  suffering,  in  prison,  for  views  heterodox. 


282 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Was  pack'd  up  incog.,  spite  of  jailers  ferocious,"" 
And  sent  to  liis  wife,"''  carriage  free,  in  a  Box  I 

But  tlie  fame  of  old  Hugo  now  rests  on  tlie  slielf. 
Since  a  rival  hath  risen  that  all  parallel  mocks ; — 

That  Grotius  ingloriously  saved  but  himself, 
While  ours  saves  the  whole  British  realm  by  a 
Box! 

And  oh  when,  at  last,  even  this  greatest  of  Grofes 
Must   bend  to  the  Power  that   at  every  door 
Knocks,''^^ 

May  he  drop  in  the  urn  like  his  own  "  silent  votes," 
And  the  tomb  of  his  rest  be  a  large  Ballot-Bo.x. 

\Miile  long  at  his  shrine,  both  from  county  and 
city, 
Shall  pilgrims  triennially  gather  in  flocks, 
And  sing,  while  they  whimper,  th'  appropriate  ditty, 
"Oh  breathe  not  his  name,  let  it  sleep — in  the 
Box." 


ANNOUNCEMENT  OF  A  NEW  TIIALABA. 

ADDBESSED   TO    KOBEET    80UTUEY,    ESQ. 

Wiin.N  erst,  my  Soullicy,  tliy  tuneful  tongue 
The  terrible  t.'ile  of  Thahiba  sung — 
Of  him,  the  Destroyer,  doom'd  to  rout 
That  grim  divan  of  conjurors  out, 
Wliosc  dwelling  dark,  as  legends  say, 
Beneath  the  roots  of  the  ocean  lay, 
(Fit  place  for  deep  ones,  such  as  tlicy,) 
IIow  little  thou  knew'st,  dear  Dr.  Southc);, 
Although  bright  genius  all  allow  thee, 
That,  some  years  thence,  thy  wond'ring  eyes 
Should  .see  a  second  Thalaba  rise — 
As  ripe  for  ruinous  rigs  as  thine. 
Though  his  havoc  lie  in  a  dillcrent  line. 
And  should  find  this  new,  improved  Destroyer 
Beneath  the  wig  of  a  Yankee  lawyer; 
A  sort  of  an  "  alien,"  alias  man, 
Whose  country  or  parly  guess  who  can, 
Being  Cockney  half,  half  Jonathan  ; 
And  his  life,  to  make  the  thing  completer, 
Being  all  in  the  genuine  Thalaba  metre, 
Loose  and  inegiil.ir  as  lliy  feel  arc; — 
t'ifsl,  into  Whig  Pindarics  rambling, 
Then  into  low  Tory  doggrcl  scrambling ; 
Now  !me  bin  tliomo,  now  Church  bin  glory, 
(At  iiJiCD  both  Tory  and  amo-tory,) 


Now  in  th'  Old  B;uley-fa^  meandering, 
Now  in  soft  couplet  style  pliilandering ; 
And,  lastly,  in  lame  Alexandrine, 
Dragging  his  wounded  length  along,"*" 
When  scourged  by  Holland's  silken  thong. 

In  short,  dear  Bob,  Destroyer  the  Second 
May  fairly  a  match  for  the  First  be  reckon'd; 
Save  that  your  Thalaba's  talent  lay 
In  sweeping  old  conjurors  clean  away. 
While  ours  at  aldermen  deals  his  blows, 
(Who  no  great  conjurors  are,  God  knows,) 
Lays  Corporations,  by  wholesale,  level, 
Sends  Act  of  Parliament  to  the  devil. 
Bullies  the  whole  Jlilesian  race — 
Seven  millions  of  Paddies,  face  to  face ; 
And,  seizing  that  magic  wand,  himself, 
Which  ei-st  thy  conjurors  left  on  the  shelf. 
Transforms  the  boys  of  the  Boyne  and  Liffej 
All  into  foreigners,  in  a  jiffey — 
Aliens,  outcasts,  every  soul  of  'em. 
Born  but  fur  whips  and  chains,  the  whole  of  t^ 

Never,  in  short,  did  parallel 
Betwixt  two  heroes  gcc  so  well ; 
And,  among  the  points  in  which  they  fit, 
There's  one,  dear  Bob,  I  can't  omit. 
That  hacking,  hectoring  blade  of  thine 
Dealt  much  in  the  Domilanid  line;"' 
And  'tis  but  rendering  justice  due. 
To  say  that  ours  and  his  Tory  crew 
Damn  Daniel  most  devoutly  too. 


RIVAL  TOPICS.'" 


AN    h.'.TRAVAGANZA. 


Oil  Wellington  and  Stephenson, 

Oh  morn  and  evening  papers. 
Times,  Herald,  Courier,  Globe,  anil  Sun, 
When  will  ye  ceaao  our  cars  to  stun 

With  these  two  heroes'  capers? 
Still  "  Stephenson"  and  "  Wellington," 

The  everl'isting  two! — 
Slili  dtiom'd,  from  rise  to  set  of  snn, 
To  hear  what  misehief  one  has  done, 

And  t'other  means  to  do: — 
What  bills  the  banker  pass'd  to  friends. 

But  never  meant  to  jiay  I 
What  Bills  the  other  wight  intends, 

As  honcHl,  in  their  way; — 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOEOUS  POEMS. 


2S3 


Bills,  payable  at  (listniii  sight, 

Beyond  the  Grecian  kalends. 
When  all  good  deedsi  will  come  to  light, 
When  Wellington  will  do  what's  right, 

And  Rowland  pay  his  balance. 

To  cateh  the  banker  all  have  sought. 

But  still  the  rogue  unhurt  is; 
While  t'other  juggle — who'd  have  thought? 
Though  slippery  long,  has  just  been  caught 

By  old  Archbishop  Curtis ; — 
And,  such  the  power  of  papal  crook, 

The  crosier  scarce  had  quiver'd 
About  his  ears,  when,  lo,  the  Duke 

Was  of  a  Bull  deliver'd ! 

Sir  Richard  Birnie  doth  decide 

That  Rowland  "  must  be  mad," 
In  private  coach,  with  crest,  to  ride. 

When  chaises  could  be  had. 
And  t'otlicr  hero,  all  agree, 

St.  Luke's  will  soon  arrive  at. 
If  thus  he  shows  oif  publicly. 

When  he  might  pass  in  private. 

Oh  Wellington,  oh  Stephenson, 

Ye  ever-boring  pair. 
Where'er  I  sit,  or  stand,  or  run. 

Ye  haunt  me  everywhere. 
Though  Job  had  patience  tough  enough. 

Such  duplicates  would  try  it ; 
Till  one's  turn'd  out  and  t'other  off, 

We  sluan't  have  peace  or  quiet 
But  small's  the  chance  that  Law  alTords — 

Such  folks  are  dally  let  off; 
And,  'twi.\t  th'  Old  Bailey  and  the  Lords, 

They  both,  I  fear,  will  get  off. 


THE  BOY  STATESMAN. 

BY    A    TORY. 

"TLat  boy  will  be  the  death  of  rae."— .Vaf Acws  at  Home, 

An,  Tories  dear,  our  ruin  is  near, 
With  Stanley  to  help  us,  we  can't  but  fall ; 

Already  a  warning  voice  I  hear. 

Like  the  late  Charles  JIathews'  croak  in  my  ear, 
"  That  boy— th.at  boy'll  be  the  death  of  you  all.' 

He  will,  God  help  us ! — not  even  Scriblerius 
In  the  "  Art  of  Sinking"  his  match  cou.d  be 

And  our  case  is  growing  exceeding  serious. 
For,  all  being  in  the  same  boat  as  ho, 


If  down  my  Lord  goes,  down  go  we. 

Lord  Baron  Stanley  and  Company, 
As  deep  in  Oblivion's  swamp  below 
As  such  "  Masters  Shallow"  well  could  go ; 
And  where  we  shall  all,  both  low  and  high, 
Embalm'd  in  mud,  as  forgotten  lie  ' 

As  .already  doth  Graham  of  Netherby ! 
But  that  boy,  that  boy  \ — there's  a  tale  I  know. 
Which  in  talking  of  him  comes  d  propos. 
Sir  Thomas  More  had  an  only  son. 
And  a  foolish  lad  was  that  only  one. 

And  Sir  Thomas  said,  one  day,  to  his  wife, 
"My  dear,  I  .an't  but  wish  you  joy, 
"  For  you  pray'd  for  a  boy,  and  you  now  have  a  boy, 

"  Who'll  continue  a  boy  to  the  end  of  his  life." 

Even  such  is  our  own  distressing  lot. 

With  the  ever-young  statesman  we  h.ave  got ; — 

Nay  even  still  worse ;  for  Master  More 

Wasn't  more  a  youth  than  he'd  been  before. 

While  ours  such  power  of  boyhood  shows, 

That,  the  older  he  gets,  the  more  juvenile  he  grows, 

And,  at  what  e.\treme  old  atr&  he'll  close 

His  schoolboy  course,  heaven  only  knows ; — 

Some  century  hence,  should  he  reach  so  far. 

And  ourselves  to  witness  it  heaven  condemn. 
We  sh.all  find  him  a  sort  of  cuh  Old  Parr, 

A  whipper-snapper  Methus.alem ; 
Nay,  ev'n  should  he  make  still  longer  stay  of  it, 
The  boy'll  want  judgment,  ev'n  to  the  d.ay  of  it ! 
Meanwhile,  'tis  a  serious,  s.ad  infliction ; 

And,  day  and  night,  with  awe  I  recall 
The  late  Jlr  iMathews'  solemn  prediction, 

"That  boy"ll  be  the  de.ath,  the  death  of  you  .-il! 


LETTER 

FROM    L.VRRY    o'bEA.VIGAN    TO   THE    REV.    MUP.TUAGH 

o'mulligax. 

Areah,  where  were  yon,  Murthagh,  that  beautiful 
day? — 
Or,  how  came  it  your  rivcrence  was  laid  on  the 
shelf. 
When   that  poor  cr.aythur,  Bobby — as  you  were 
away — 
Had  to  make  twice  as  big  a  Tom-fool  of  himself. 

Throth,  it  wasn't  at  all  ci\  il  to  lave  in  the  lurch 
A  boy  so  desarving  your  tindh'rest  affection  ; — 

Two  such  illigant  Siamase  twins  of  the  Church, 
As  Bob  and  yourself,  ne'er  should  cut  the  con. 
nection 


284 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


If  thus  in  two  different  directions  ym  pul  , 

'Faitli,  they'll  swear  tliat  yourself  and  your  n\- 
erend  brother 
Are  like  those  quai^  foxes,  in  Gregory's  Bull, 
Whose  tails  were  join'd  one  way,  while  they 
look'd  another!'" 

Och  tless'd  be  he,  whosomdever  he  be, 
Tliat  help-d  soft  Magee  to  that  Bull  of  a  Letther ! 

Not  ev'n  my  own  self,  though  I  sometimes  make  free 
At   such  bull-manufacture,  could   make   him  a 
bettlier. 

To  be  sure,  when  a  lad  takes  to  forgiii\  this  way, 
'Tis  a  tlirick  he's  much  timptcd  to  carry  on  gayly  ; 

Till,  at  last,  his  "injanious  devices,"  ""  some  day. 
Show  him  up,  not  at  Exetlicr  Hall,  but  th'  Ould 
Bailey. 

That  parsons  should  forge  thus  appears  mighty  odd. 
And  (as  if  somethin'  "  odd"  in  their  names,  too, 
must  be.) 

One  forger,  of  ould,  was  a  rivercnd  Dod, 
Wiile  a  rivcrend  Todd's  now  his  match,  to  a  T.°" 

But,  no  matther  rcho  did  it — all  blessins  betide  him. 

For  dishin'  up  Bob,  in  a  manner  so  nate; 
And  there  wanted  but  ynti,  ^Murlhagh  'vournoen, 
beside  him. 
To  make  the  whole  grand  di^li  nf  lntll-rM  eom- 
plate. 


MUSIXGS  OF  AX  UNREFORMED  PEER. 

Or  all  the  odd  plans  of  Ihis  monstrously  queer  age, 
The  oddest  is  that  of  reforming  the  peerage; — 
Just  as  if  we,  great  don-i,  with  a  lilh;  and  star. 
Did  not  get  on  exceedingly  well,  as  wo  are. 
And  perform  all  the  functions  of  noodles,  by  birlli. 
As  completely  as  any  born  noodles  on  earth. 

IIow  acres  dc.>(Cond,  i.s  in  law-books  display'il. 
But  we  as  jci.wicres  descend,  ready  made  ; 
And,  by  right  of  our  rank  in  DebrcH's  nomenclature. 
Are,  !i\\  of  us,  born  Icgislnlors  by  nature  ; — 
Like  dui'J<lingH,  to  water  inKlinctively  takin/, 
80  we,  with  like  quackery,  take  to  law-making; 
And  fiod  forbid  any  reform  should  eome  o'er  us. 
To  make  iis  more  wixe  than  our  sires  were  before  us. 

Th'  Gg)'ptianH  of  old  tho  same  policy  knew — 
tf  yon.'  wre  wn»  n  cook,  von  must  be  a  cook  too: 


Thus  making,  from  father  to  son,  a  good  trade  of  it, 
Poisoners  hy  right,  (so  no  more  could  be  said  of  it.) 
The  cooks,  like  our  lordships,  a  pretty  mess  made 

of  it; 
While,  filmed  for  conservative  stomachs,  th'  Egyp- 
tians 
Witliout  a  wry  face  bolted  all  the  prescriptions. 

It  is  true,  we've  among  us  some  peers  of  the  past, 
Who  keep  pace  with  the  present  most  awfully  fast — 
Fruits,  that  ripen  beneath  the  new  light  now  arising 
With  speed  th.at  to  ns,  old  conserves,  is  surprising. 
Conserves,    in    whom — potted,    for    grandmamma 

uses — 
'Twould  puzzle  a  sunbeam  to  find  any  juices. 
'Tis  true,  too,  I  fear,  midst  the  general  movement, 
Ev'n  our  House,  God  help  it,  is  doom'd  to  im- 
provement. 
And  all  its  live  furniture,  nobly  descended, 
But  sadly  worn  out,  must  be  sent  to  bo  mended. 
With  moveables  'raong  ns,  like  Brougham  and  like 

Durham, 
No  wonder  ev'n _/(.iYiH-es  should  lenrn  to  bestir 'em; 
And,  distant,  ye  gods,  be  that  terrible  day, 
Wlien — .ns  playful  Old  Niek,  for  liis  pastime,  thev 

say, 
Flies  off  with  old  houses,  sometimes,  in  a  storm — 
So  ours  may  be  whipp'd  off,  some  night,  by  Ref.inn  : 
And,  as  up,  like  Loretto's  famed  house,""  through 

the  air, 
Not  angels,  but  devils,  our  lordships  sh.all  bear. 
Grim,  radical  phizzes,  nnused  to  the  sky, 
Shall  flit  round,  like  cherubs,  to  wish  ns  "  good  by," 
While,  perch'd  up  on  clouds,  little  imps  of  pie. 

beians, 
Sm.all  Grotes  and  O'Connells,  sliall  sing  lo  Pa'ans. 


T1!H  REVEREND  PAMrilLETEKR. 

A    UO.MAVnO    KALI, All. 

Oh,  have  you  heanl  what  hiqip'd  of  l.ate? 

If  not,  come  lend  an  ear, 
Wliile  sad  I  stale  the  piteous  fato 

Of  the  I{ev<'rend  Panqilileteer. 

All  pr.iised  his  skilful  jockey.ship, 

Loud  rung  llio  Tory  dieer. 
While  away,  away,  with  spur  and  whip, 

Went  the  Reverend  Pamplili-leer. 

The  nag  he  rode — how  could  it  err? 
'Twns  the  same  tli.al  took,  last  year 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


285 


Tliat  wonderful  jump  to  Exeter 

"  'Tis  fit  that  in  this  question,  we 

Willi  llic  Reverend  Pamplilctcer. 

"  Stick  each  to  his  own  art — 

"  That  yours  should  be  the  sophistry, 

Set  a  beggar  oi'.  liorseljael;,  wise  men  say, 

"And  mine  i\\c  fighting  part. 

The  course  he  will  take  is  clear; 

"My  creed,  I  need  not  tell  you,  is 

And  in  that  direction  lay  tlie  way 

"  Like  th.at  of  Wellington, 

Of  tlie  Reverend  Pamphleteer. 

"To  whom  no  harlot  comes  amiss. 

"  Save  her  of  Babylon ; "" 

"  Stop,  stop,"  said  Trutli,  but  vain  her  cry — 

"  And  when  we're  at  a  loss  for  words, 

Left  far  away  in  the  rear, 

"  If  laughing  re.isoners  float  us. 

She  heard  but  the  usu.al  gay  "  Good-by" 

"  For  lack  of  sense  we'll  draw  our  swords— 

From  her  faithless  Pamphleteer. 

"  The  sole  thing  sharp  about  us." — 

"Dear  bold  dragoon,"  the  bishop  said. 

You  may  talk  of  the  jumps  of  Homer's  gods, 

"  'Tis  true  for  war  tliou  art  meant ; 

When  cantering  o'er  our  sphere — 

"And  reasoning — bless  that  dandy  head! 

I'd  back  for  a  bounce,  'gainst  any  odds. 

"  Is  not  in  thy  department. 

This  Reverend  Pamphleteer. 

"  So  leave  the  argument  to  me — 

• 

"  And,  when  my  holy  labor 

But  .ah,  wh.at  tumbles  a  jockey  hath  I 

"Hath  lit  the  fires  of  bigotry, 

In  tlie  midst  of  his  career. 

"  Thou'lt  poke  them  with  thy  sabri<. 

A  file  of  the  Times  lay  right  in  the  path 

"  From  pulpit  and  from  sentry-box. 

Of  the  headlong  Pamphleteer. 

"  We'll  make  our  joint  attacks. 

"  I  at  the  head  of  my  Cassocks, 

Whether  he  tripp'd  or  shy'd  thereat. 

"  And  you  of  your  Cossacks. 

Doth  not  so  clear  appear : 

"  So  here's  your  health,  my  brave  hussar, 

But  down  he  came,  as  his  sermons  flat — 

"  My  exquisite  old  fighter — 

The  Reverend  Pamphleteer. 

"  Success  to  bigotry  and  war, 

"  The  musket  and  the  mitre !" 

Lord  King  himself  could  scarce  desire 

Thus  pray'd  the  minister  of  heaven — 

To  see  a  spiritu.al  Peer 

While  York,  just  entering  then, 

Pall  much  more  de.ad,  in  the  dirt  and  mire. 

Snored  out,  (as  if  some  Clerk  had  givrn 

Than  did  this  P.amphlefeer! 

His  nose  the  cue.)  ".Amen." 

T.   B 

Yet  pitying  parsons,  many  a  day, 

Shall  visit  his  silent  bier, 

And,  thinking  the  while  of  Stanhope,  say, 

"  Poor  de.ar  old  Pamnhleteer  ! 

THE  WELLINGTON  SPA. 

"  He  has  finish'd,  at  last,  his  busy  span. 

"  And  now  lies  coolly  here — 

"And  drink  ohtivion  to  our  woes." — .Anna  Matilda. 

"As  often  he  did  in  life,  good  man, 

1839. 

"  Good,  Reverend  Pamphleteer !" 

Talk  no  more  of  your  Cheltenham  and  Ilarrowgate 

springs. 

'Tis   from  Lethe  we   now  our   potations   must 
draw ; 
Your  Lethe's  a  cure  for — all  possible  filings. 

A  RECENT  DIALOGUE. 

1825. 

And  the  doctors  have  named  it  the  Wellington 

A  Bishop  and  a  bold  dragoon, 

Spa. 

Both  heroes  in  their  way. 

Did  thus,  of  late,  one  afternoon. 

Cither  physical  waters  but  cure  you  in  pari  ; 

Unto  each  other  s.ay : — 

One  cobbles  your  gout^/'o//ier  mends  vour  di- 

"  Dear  bishop,"  quoth  the  brave  hussar. 

gestion — 

"  As  nobody  denies 

Some  settle  your  stom.ach,  but  this — bless  your 

"  That  you  a  wise  logici.in  are, 

heart  !— 

"  And  I  am — otherwise, 

It  will  settle,  for  ever,  your  Catholic  Question. 

286 


MOOEE'S  WOKKS. 


Unlike,  loo,  the  potions  in  ftishion  at  present, 
This  Wellington  nostrum,  restoring  by  stealth, 

So  purges  the  mem'ry  of  all  that's  unpleasant, 
That  patients/org-e^  themselves  into  rude  health. 

For  instance,  th'  inventor — his  having  once  said 
"  He  should  think  himself  mad,  if,  at  any  one's 
call, 
"  He  became  what  he  is" — is  so  purged  from  his 
head, 
Tliat  he  now  doesn't  think  he's  a  madman  at  all. 

Of  course,  for  your  mem'ries  of  very  long  stand- 
ing- 
Old  chronic  diseases,  tliat  date  back,  undaunted, 

To  Brian  Boroo  and  Fitz-Stephens'  first  landing — 
A  dev'l  of  a  dose  of  the  Lethe  is  wanted. 

But  ev'n  Irish  patients  can  hardly  regret 
An  oblivion,  so  much  in  their  own  native  style. 

So  conveniently  i)lann"d,  that,  whate'er  they  forget. 
They  may  go  on  rememb'ring  it  still,  all  the 
while !  ■" 


A  CIIARACTEB. 

1834. 

IIai.f  Whig,  half  Tory,  like  those  midway  things, 
'Twi.\t  bird  and  beast,  that  by  mistake  have  wings; 
A  mongrel  Statesman,  'twi.xt  two  factions  nursed. 
Who,  of  the  faults  of  each,  combines  the  worst — 
The  Tory's  loftiness,  the  Whigling's  sneer, 
The  leveller's  rashness,  and  the  bigot's  fear ; 
The  thirst  for  meddling,  restless  .still  to  gtiow 
Mow  Freedom'.s  clock,  ropair'd  by  Whigs,  will  go; 
Tir  alarm  when  others,  more  sincere  than  tlicy, 
Advance  the  hands  to  the  true  time  of  day. 

By  Jlolhcr  Church,  high-fed  and  haughty  dame. 
The  boy  was  dandled,  in  his  dawn  of  fame; 
l.isl'ning,    she    smiled,    and    bless'd    the   flippant 

tongue 
On  which  the  fate  of  unborn  lilhc-pigs  hung. 
Ah,  who  gliall  paint  llie  grandain's  grim  dismay. 
When  loose  Reform  enticed  her  boy  away; 
When,  sliock'd,  she  heard  him  ape  the  rabble's  tone, 
And,  in  OM  Sarum's  fate,  fcjredoom  her  own! 

Groaning  she  cried,  while  tcar.s  roll'd  down  her 

chn'k.H, 
"I'oor,  glib-lotigiicd  youth,  Iw;  means  not  what  ho 

iptuka. 


"Like  oil  at  top,  these  Whig  professions  flow, 
"But,  pure  as  lymph,  runs  Toryis'n  below. 
"  Alas,  th.at  tongue  should  start  thus,  in  tiie  race, 
"  Ere  mind  can  reach  and  regulate  its  pace  1 — 
"For,  once  outstripp'd  by  tongue,  poor,  lagging 

mind, 
"At  every  step,  still  furtlier  limps  beliind. 
"But,  bless  the  boy  ! — whate'er  his  wandering  be, 
"  Still  turns  his  heart  to  Toryism  and  me. 
"  Like  those  odd  shapes,  portray'd  in  Dante's  Lay,"" 
"  Witli  heads  ti.\'d  on,  tlie  wrong  and  backward 

way, 
"  His  feet  and  eyes  pursue  a  diverse  track, 
"  While   those   march    onward,   these    look   fondly 

b-ick." 
And  well  she  knc<,v  him — well  foresaw  the  day. 
Which  now  hath  come,  when  snatch'd  from  Whigs 

away. 
The  self-same  changeling  drops  the  mask  he  wore, 
And  rests,  restored,  in  granny's  arms  once  more. 

But  whither  now,  mix'd  brood  of  modern  light 
And  ancient  darkness,  canst  thou  bend  thy  llight? 
Tried  by  bolh  factions,  and  to  neither  true, 
Fear'd  by  the  old  school,  laugh'd  at  by  the  new; 
For  this  too  feeble,  and  for  that  too  rash, 
This  wanting  more  of  fire,  that  less  of  flash ; 
Lone  shall  thou  stand,  in  isolation  cold, 
Betwi.xt  two  worlds,  tlie  new  one  and  the  old, 
A  small  and  "  vex'd  Bermootlics,"  which  the  eye 
Of  venturous  seaman  sees — and  passes  by. 


A  GHOST  STORY. 

TO    THE    Altt    OF    "  UNKOUTU.NATK    MISS    BAILKl'.' 

Not  long  in  bed  had  Lyndhurst  lain. 

When,  as  his  lamp  burn'd  dimly, 
Tlie  ghosts  of  oorjiorate  bodies  slain,"" 

Stood  by  his  bedside  grimly. 
Dead  aldermen,  who  once  could  feast. 

But  now,  themselves,  are  fed  on. 
And  skeletons  of  mayors  deceased, 
This  doleful  chorus  led  on: — 
"Oh,  Lord  Lyndhurst, 
"Unmerciful  Lord  Lymlhurst, 
"  Corpses,  we, 
"  All  burk'd  by  Ihee, 
"Unnicnifiil  Lord  Lyndhur.sl  I" 

"  AvaunI,  yc  frights!"  his  Lordship  cried, 
"  Yo  look  most  glum  and  wKilely." 


l«a. 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOEOUS  POEMS. 


2S7 


"Ah,  Lyiidhui'st,  dear!"  the  frighls  replied, 

"You've  used  us  unpolitely, 
"And  now,  ungr.ileful  ni:in!  to  drive 

"Dead  bodies  from  your  door  so, 
"  Who  quite  corrupt  enougli,  .ilive, 
"  You've  made,  by  deatli,  still  more  so, 
"  Oh,  Ex-Chancellor, 
"Destructive  Ex-Chancellor, 
"  See  thy  work, 
"  Thou  second  Burke, 
"  Destructive  Ex-Chaneellor!" 

Bold  Lyndliurst  then,  whom  naught  could  keep 

Awake,  or  surely  thai  would. 
Cried,  "  Curse  you  all" — fell  fast  asleep — 

And  dreamt  of  "  Small  v.  Attwood." 
While,  shock'd,  the  bodies  flew  down  stairs, 

But,  courteous  in  their  panic. 
Precedence  gave  to  ghosts  of  majors, 
And  corpses  aldermanie. 

Crying,  "  Oh,  Lord  Lyndhurst, 
"  That  terrible  Lord  Lyndhurst, 
"  Not  Old  Scratch 
"  Himself  could  match 
"  That  terrible  Lord  Lyndhurst." 


THOUGHTS 


ON  THE  LATE 


DESTRUCTIVE  PROPOSITIONS  OF  THE  TORIES.'" 

BY    A    COMMOSCOL'SCILMAN. 

1835. 
I  SAT  me  down  in  my  easy  chair, 

To  read,  as  usu.il,  the  morning  papers; 
But — who  shall  describe  my  look  of  despair. 

When  I  cam«  to  Lefroy's  "  destructive"  capers! 
That  he — that,  of  all  live  men,  Lefroy 
Should  join  in  the  cry,  '-Destroy,  destroy  I" 
Who,  ev'n  when  a  babe,  as  I've  heard  said. 
On  Orange  conserve  was  chiefly  fed. 
And  never,  till  now,  a  movement  made. 
That  wasn't  most  manfully  retrograde! 
Only  think — to  sweep  from  the  light  of  day 
Mayors,  maces,  criers,  and  wigs  away ; 
To  annihil.afe — never  to  rise  again — 
\  whole  generation  of  aldermen. 
Nor  leave  them  ev'n  tli'  accustomed  tolls. 
To  keep  together  their  bodies  and  souls ! — 
At  a  time,  too,  when  snug  posts  and  places 

Are  falling  aw.ay  from  us  one  by  one, 
3rash — crash— like  the  mummy-cases 

Belzoni,  in  Egypt,  sat  upon. 


Wherein  lay  pickled,  in  state  sablime, 

Conservatives  ol  the  .incient  time  ; — 

To  choose  such  a  moment  to  ..n'erset 

The  few  snug  nuisances  left  us  yet ; 

To  add  to  the  ruin  that  rounc^  us  reigns. 

By  knocking  out  mayo-s'  and  town-clerks'  brains; 

By  dooming  all  corporate  bodies  to  fall, 

Till  they  leave,  at  last,  no  bodies  at  all — 

Naught  but  the  ghosts  of  by-gone  glory, 

Wrecks  of  a  world  that  once  wa»  Tory  ! 

Where  pensive  criers,  like  owls  unbless'd, 

Robb'd  of  their  roosts,  sli.ill  still  hoot  o'er  then 
Nor  mayors  shall  know  where  to  seek  a  nesl, 

Till  Gaily  Knight  sh.all/rt(/  one  for  them;— 
Till  m.ayors  and  kings,  with  none  to  rue  'em. 

Shall  perish  all  in  one  common  plague ; 
And  the  sorcreigns  of  Belfast  and  Tuam 

Must  join  their  brother,  Charley  Dix,  at  Prague. 

Thus  mused  I,  in  my  chair,  alone, 

(As  above  described,)  till  dozy  grown, 

And  nodding  assent  to  my  own  opinions, 

I  found  myself  borne  to  sleep's  dominions. 

Where,  lo,  before  ir.y  dreaming  eyes, 

A  new  House  of  Commons  appcird  to  ri.se, 

Whose  living  contents,  to  fancy's  survey, 

Seein'd  to  me  all  turn'd  topsy-turvy — 

A  jumble  of  polypi — nobody  knew 

Which  w.as  the  he.id  or  which  the  queue. 

Here,  Inglis,  turn'd  to  a  sans-culotte, 

Was  dancing  the  hays  with  Hume  and  Grote  ; 

There,  ripe  for  riot,  Recoi'der  Shaw 

Was  learning  from  Roebuck  "Ca-ira;" 

While  Stanley  and  Graham,  as  poissarde  wenches. 

Screamed  "  a,  has .'"  from  the  Tory  benches ; 

And  Peel  and  O'Connell,  cheek  by  jowl. 

Were  dancing  an  Irish  carm.agnole. 

The  Lord  preserve  us  ! — if  dreams  come  true. 
What  is  this  hapless  realm  to  do  ? 


ANTICIPATED  MEETING 


BRITISH  .ASSOCIATION  IN  THE  YE.\R  3836 

1830. 

After  some  observations  from  Dr.  JI'Grig 
On  that  fossil  reliquium  call'd  Petrified  Wig, 
Or  Perruquolithus — a  specimen  rare 
Of  those  wigs,  made  for  antediluvian  wear, 
Which,  it  seems,  stood  tho  Flood  without  turning 
,1  hair  — 


28S 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Mr.  Tompkins  rose  up,  and  requested  attention 
To  facts  no  less  wondrous  which  he  had  to  mention. 

Some  large  fossil  creatures  had  lately  been  found 
Of  a  species  no  longer  now  seen  above  ground, 
But  the  same  (as  to  Tomkins  most  clearly  appears) 
With  those  animals,  lost  now  for  hundreds  of  years, 
Wliich  our  ancestors  used  to  call  "Bishops'' and 

"  Peers," 
But  which  Tomkins  more  erudite  names  has  be- 

stow'd  on, 
Haung  called  the  Peer  fossil  th'  Aristocrafodon,"" 
And,  finding  much  food  under  fother  one's  thorax, 
lias  christen'd  that  creature  th'  Episcopus  Vorax. 

f/est  the  saranlcs  and  d-indies  should  thirk  this  all 

fable, 
Mr.  Tomkins  most  kindly  produced  on  the  table, 
A  sani[)le  of  each  of  these  species  of  creatures. 
Both  tol'rably  human,  in  structure  and  features, 
Except  that  th'  Episcopus  seems.  Lord  deliver  us ! 
To've  been  carnivorous  as  well  as  granivorous ; 
And  Tomkins,  on    searching    its   stomach,  found 

there 
Large  lumps,  such  as  no  modern  stomach  could. 

bear, 
Of  a  substance  eall'd  Tithe,  upon  wliich,  as  'tis  said, 
The  whole  Genus  Clericum  formerly  fed ; 
And  which  having  lately  himself  decomponilded, 
Just  to  .see  wh.at 'twas  m.ade  of,  he  actually  found  it 
Compulsed  of  all  possible  cookable  things 
That   e'er  tripp'd    upon   trotters  or    soar'd   upon 

wings — 
All  products  of  earth,  both  gramineous,  herbaceous, 
Hordeaceous,  fabaccous,  and  eke  farinaceous, 
All  clubbing  their  quotas  to  glut  the  oesophagus 
Of  this  ever  greedy  and  grasping  Tithophagus.'" 
"  Admire,"  exclaim'd  Tomkins,  "  the  kind  dispensa- 
tion 
"  By  Providence  shed  on  this  much  favor'd  nation, 
"  In  sweeping  so  ravenous  a  race  from  the  earth, 
"  That    might    else    have    occasion'd    a    general 

dearth — 
"And  thus  burying 'em,  deep  as  even  Joe  llunie 

would  sink  'cm, 
"  With  the  Ichthyosaurus  and  Palicorynchuni, 
"  And  other  queer  ci-<leiant  things,  under  ground — 
"  iNot  forgetting  that  fossilized  youth,'"  so  renown'd, 
"  Who  lived  just  to  witness  the  Deluge — wa.s  grati- 
fied 
"Much  by  the  sight,  nnd  has  since   been   found 
Kratified  !" 

Thit  pirturvm|UR  touch — quite  inTomkins's  way — 
Call'd  forth  from  the  snyrinlrs  a  general  hurrah; 


While  inquiries  among  them  went  rapidly  round. 
As  to  where  this  young  stratified  man  could  be 
found. 

Tlie  "  Icarn'd  Theban's"  discourse  next  as  live  ily 

ilow'd  on. 
To  sketch  t'other  wonder,  th'  Aristocratodon — 
An  animal,  didering  from  most  human  creatures 
Not  so  much  in  speech,  inward  structure,  or  fea. 

tures. 
As  in  having  a  certain  excrescence,  T.  said. 
Which  in  form  of  a  coronet  grew  from  its  head. 
And  devolved  to  its  heirs,  when  the  creature  was 

dead ; 
Nor  matter'd  it,  while  this  heir-loom  was  trans- 
mitted, 
How  unfit  were  the  heads,  so  the  coronet  fitted. 

He  then  mention'd  a  strange  zoological  fact. 
Whose  announcement  appear'd  niucli  applause  to 

attract. 
In  France,  said  the  learned  professor,  this  race 
Had  so  noxious  become,  in  some  centuries'  space. 
From  their  numbers  and  strength,  that  the  land  was 

o'errun  with  'em. 
Every  one's  question  being,  '•  Wh.-it's  to  be  done 

with  'em  ?" 
When,  lo!  certain  knowing  ones — savans,  mayhap, 
Who,  like  Buckland's  deep  followers,  understood 

trap,'" 
Slyly  hinted  that  nauglit  upon  earth  was  so  good 
For  A?').s-tocratodons,  when  rampant  and  rude, 
As  to  stop,  or  curtail,  their  allowance  of  fiuid. 
This  expedient  was  tried,  and  a  proof  it  alfords 
Of  th'  effect  that  short  commons  will  have  upon 

lords; 
For  this  whole  race  of  bipeds,  one  fine  summer's 

morn, 
Shed  their  coronets,  just  as  a  deer  sheds  his  horn. 
And  the  moment  these  gewgaws  fell  off,  lliey  lie- 
came 
Quite  a  new  sort  of  creature — so   harndoss  nnd 

tame, 
That  zoologists  miglil,  for  the  first  tinu',  maintain 

'cm 
To  bo  near  akin  Id  tlio  i;cniis  hiiminium. 
And  th'  cxperinuMit,  tried  so  successfully  then. 
Should  be  kept  in  remembrance,  when  wanted  agaia 


SATIIIICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


289 


SONGS  OF  THE  CHURCH. 

Na  ', 

LEAVE    ME    ALONE. 

X  PASTOKAL  BALLAD. 

**  Wo  aro  over  standing  on  tho  defenMiv!!.  All  tliat  wn  s.iy 
to  them  ii, '/cafjff  jts  alone.''  Tlio  Established  Church  is  part 
rind  parcel  of  the  constitution  of  this  country.  Vou  are  bound 
to  conlbrin  to  this  constitution.  We  a.sk  of  you  notliint^  more: 
—let  us  u^onc."— Letter  in  T/ic  Times,  Nov.  1838. 

1834, 

Come,  list  to  my  pastoral  tones, 

In  clover  my  sliepherds  I  keep  ; 
My  stalls  are  well  furnish'd  with  drones, 

Whose  preaching-  invites  one  to  sleep. 
sAt  my  spirit  let  infidels  soofF, 

So  they  leave  but  the  substance  my  own ; 
For,  in  sooth,  I'm  extremely  well  off, 

If  the  world  will  but  let  me  alone. 

Dissenters  are  grumblers,  we  know; — 

Though  excellent  men,  in  their  way. 
They  never  like  things  to  be  so, 

Let  things  be  liowevcr  they  may. 
But  dissenting's  a  trick  I  detest ; 

And,  besides,  'tis  an  axiom  well  known, 
'J"he  creed  that's  best  paid  is  the  best, 

If  the  !/npaid  would  let  it  alone. 

To  me,  I  own,  very  surprising 

Your  Newmans  and  Puseys  all  seem, 
Who  start  first  with  rationalizing. 

Then  jump  to  the  other  extreme. 
Far  better,  'twixt  nonsense  and  sense, 

A  nice  half-way  concern,  like  our  own. 
Where  piety's  mix'd  up  with  pence. 

And  the  latter  are  Jie'er  left  alone. 

Of  all  our  tormentors,  the  Press  is 

The  one  that  most  tears  us  to  bits; 
And,  now,  Mrs.  Woolfrey's  "  excesses" 

Have  thrown  all  its  imps  into  fits. 
The  dev'ls  have  been  at  us,  for  weeks. 

And  there's  no  saying  when  they'll  have  done; — 
Oh,  dear,  how  I  wish  Mr.  Brecks 

Had  left  Mrs.  Woolfrey  .alone  ! 

If  any  need  pray  for  the  dead, 

'Tis  those  to  whom  post-obits  fall ; 
Since  wisely  hath  Solomon  s.aid, 

'Tis  "money  th.at  answereth  all." 
But  ours  be  the  patrons  who  lire ; — 

For.  once  in  their  glebe  they  are  thrown. 
The  dead  h.ave  to  living  to  give. 

And  llnrefore  wp  leave  them  alone. 
il 


Though  in  morals  we  may  not  excel, 

Such  perfection  is  rare  to  be  had ; 
A  good  life  is,  of  course,  very  well. 

But  good  living  is  also — not  bad. 
And  when,  to  feed  earth-worms,  I  go, 

Let  this  epitapli  stare  from  my  stone, 
"  Here  lies  the  Right  Rev.  so  and  so; 

"Pass,  stranger,  and — leave  him  alone." 


EPISTLE  FROM  HENRY  OF  EXETER  'I . 
JOHN  OF  TUAM. 

Dear  John,  as  I  know,  like  our  brother  of  Loudon, 
You've  sipp'd  of  all  knowledge,  both  sacred  and 

mundane. 
No  doubt,  in  some  ancient  Joe  Miller,  you've  read 
Wh.at  Cato,  that  cunning  old  Roman,  once  said — 
That  lie  ne'er  saw  two  lev'rend  soothsayers  meet, 
Let  it  be  where  it  might,  in  the  shrine  or  the  street, 
Without  wondering  the  rogues,  'mid  their  solemn 

grimaces. 
Didn't  burst  out  a  laughing  in  each  other's  faces."'" 

What  Cato  then  meant,  though  'tis  so  long  ago, 
Even  we  in  tho  present  times  pretty  well  know; 
Having  soofhs:iyers  also,  who — sooth  to  say,  John — 
Are  no  better  in  some  points  than  those  of  days 

gone, 
And  a  pair  of  whom,  meeting,  (between  you  .and  me,) 
Jlight  laugh  m  their  sleeves,  too — all  lawn  though 

they  be. 
But  tills,  by  the  way — my  intention  being  chiefly 
In  this,  my  first  letter,  to  hint  to  you  briefly 
That,  seeing  how  fond  you  of  Titum'"  must  be. 
While  MeuirCs  at  all  times  the  main  point  with  me. 
We  scarce  could  do  better  than  form  an  alliance. 
To  set  these  s.ad  Anti-Church  times  at  defiance : 
You,  John,  recollect,  being  still  to  omba/k. 
With  no  share  in  the  firm  but  your  title'"'  and  mark , 
Or  ev'n  should  you  feel  in  your  grandeur  inclined 
To  call  yourself  Pope,  why,  I  shouldn't  much  mind 
While  my  church  as  usual  holds  fast  by  your  Tuum, 
And  every  one  else's,  to  make  it  all  Suum. 

Thus  allied,  I've  no  dou'ot  we  shall  nicely  agree. 
As  no  twins  can  be  liker,  in  most  points,  than  we , 
Both,  specimens  choice  of  th.at  mL\'d  sort  of  beast, 
(See  Rev.  xiii.  1,)  a  political  priest ; 
Both  mettlesome  chargers,  both  brisk  pamphleteers, 
Ripe  and  ready  for  all  that  sets  men  by  the  ears ; 
And  I,  at  least  one,  who  would  scorn  to  stick  lono-er 
By  any  giv'n  cause  than  I  found  it  the  stronger, 


290 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


And  who,  smooth  in  my  turnings  as  if  on  a  swivel, 
'\,\nien  tlie  tone  ecclesiastic  wo'n't  do,  try  tlie  chil. 
In  short  (not  to  bore  you,  ev'ajure  divino) 
We've  the  same  cause  in  common,  John — all  but 

the  rhino; 
And  tliat  vulgar  surplus,  whatc'er  it  may  be, 
As  you're  not  used  to  cash,  John,  you'd  best  leave 

to  me. 
And  so,  without  form — as  the  postman  wo'n't  tarry — 
I'm  dear  Jack  of  Tunm, 

Yours, 

Exeter  IIarkt. 


SOXG  OF  OLD  PUCK. 

"  And  tbose  things  do  best  please  me, 
Tliat  befall  preposterously." 

PccK  Junior,  .Viilsnvimer  J\'iffhCs  Dream. 

Wiiu  wants  old  Puck  ?  fur  here  am  I, 
A  mongrel  imp,  'twixt  earth  and  sky, 
Ready  alike  to  crawl  or  fly ; 
Now  in  the  mud,  now  in  the  air, 
And,  so  'tis  for  mischief,  reckless  where. 

As  to  my  knowledge,  there's  no  end  to't. 
For  where  I  haven't  it,  I  pretend  to't ; 
And,  '.stead  of  taking  a  Icam'd  degree 
At  some  dull  university, 
Puck  found  it  handier  to  commence 
With  a  certain  share  of  impudence. 
Which  passes  one  off  as  learri'd  and  clever, 
Beyond  all  other  degrees  whatever; 
And  en-iblcs  a  man  of  lively  sconce 
To  be  JIaster  otall  the  Arts  at  once. 
No  matter  what  the  science  may  be — 
Ethics,  Physics,  Theology, 
Alalhemalics,  Hydrostatics, 
Aerostatics  or  Pneumatics — 
Whatever  it  be,  I  take  my  luck, 
'Tis  all  the  same  to  ancient  Puck  ; 
Whose  head's  so  full  of  all  sorts  of  wares, 
That  a  brother  imp,  old  Smugden,  swears 
If  I  had  but  oilaw  n  little  smatt'ring, 
I'd  then  be  jicrfccl""'' — which  is  flatt'riiig. 

.My  hkill  ns  a  linguist  all  nuist  know 
Who  met  me  abroad  Home  inDiiliis  ago; 
(And  heard  mc  abroid  exceedingly,  loo, 
In  lilt!  moods  and  tenses  oi parlcz-vous,) 
When,  n»  old  Chamband's  shade  stood  muto, 
I  Hpoko  Kiich  French  to  the?  Instilule 
Ah  puz/.li'd  ihoHC  Iparni'd  Thrlians  nini'li, 
To  know  if 'twas  Sani«rit  or  llixh  Dutch, 


And  viiglU  have  pass'd  with  th'  unobacrving 
As  one  of  the  unknown  tongues  of  Irving. 
As  to  my  talent  for  ubiquity, 
There's  nothing  like  it  in  all  anticjuiiy. 
Like  Mungo,  (my  peculiar  care,) 
"  I'm  here,  Tin  dere,  I'm  ebery  where." '" 
If  any  one's  wanted  to  take  the  chair. 
Upon  any  subject,  anywliere, 
Just  look  around,  and — Puck  is  there  ! 
When  slaughter's  at  hand,  your  bird  of  pre> 
Is  never  known  to  be  out  of  the  way  ; 
And  wherever  mischief's  to  be  got, 
There's  Puck  instanler,  on  the  spot. 

Only  find  me  in  negus  and  applause. 

And  I'm  your  man  for  any  cause. 

\i  wrong  the  cause,  the  more  my  dcliglit ; 

But  I  don't  object  to  it,  ev'n  when  right. 

If  I  only  can  vex  some  old  friend  by't ; 

There's  Durham,  for  instance ; — to  worry  'm'»i 

Fills  up  my  cup  of  bliss  to  the  brim! 

(note  bv  the  editoe.) 
Those  who  are  anxious  to  run  a  muck 
Can't  do  better  than  join  with  Puck  ; 
They'll  find  him  hon  diable — spite  of  his  phir— 
And,  in  fact,  his  great  ambition  is. 
While  playing  old  Puck  in  first-rate  stylo, 
To  be  thought  Robin  Goodfellow  all  llic  while. 


POLICE  REPORTS. 

CASE  OF  IMrOSTL'BE. 

Ajiong  other  stray  llashmen,  disposed  of,  this  wei.k, 
Was  .1  youngster,  named  Stanley,  gentecly  con. 
nccted. 
Who  has  lately  been  passing  ofl" coins,  as  anliiine, 
Which  have  proved  to  be  fhfi?n  ones,  though  long 
unsuspected. 

The  ancients,  our  readers  need  hardly  be  told, 
Had  a  coin  they  eali'd  "  Talents,"  for  wholosaltj 
demands :"' 
And  'twas  some  of  said  coinage  this  vonth  was  so 
bold 
Am  In  fancy  he'd  got,  Ood  knows  how,  jji  Imh  li.uids. 

People  look  him,  however,  like  fools,  at  his  word ; 

And  IheNC  talcnis  (all  prized  at  his  own  valuation) 
Were  bid  for,  with  cigeriiess  ev'n  more  absurd 

Than  h:w  often  dislinguish'd  this  great  thinking 
nation 


SATIEICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


20J 


Talk  of  wonders  one  now  and  then  sees  advertised, 
"Black   swans" — "Queen  Anne  farthings" — or 
ev'n  "  a  cliild's  caul" — 
Much  and  justly  as  all  tliese  rare  objects  arc  prized, 
"Stanley's    talents"    outdid    them — swans,    far- 
things, and  all ! 

At  length,  some  mistrust  of  this  coin  got  abroad ; 
Even  quandam  believers  began  much  to  doubt  of 
it; 
Some  rung  it,  some  rubb'd  it,  suspecting  a  fraud — 
And  the  hard  rubs  it  got  rather  took  the  shine  out 
ofit. 

Others,  wishing  to  break  the  poor  prodigy's  fall, 
Said  'twas  known  well  to  all  who  had  studied 
t!ie  matter, 
That  the  Greeks  had  not  only  great  talents  but 
small,"'- 
A»d  those  found  on  the  youngster  were  clearly 
the  latler. 

While  others,  who  view'd  the  grave  farce  with  a 
grin- 
Seeing  counterfeits   pass   tlius   for   coinage   so 
massy. 
By  way  of  a  hint  to  the  dolts  taken  in. 
Appropriately  quoted  Budeeus  de  Asse. 

In  short,  the  whole  sham  by  degrees  was  found  out. 
And  this  coin,  which  tliey  chose  by  such  fine 
names  to  call. 

Proved  a  mere  lackcr'd  article — showy,  no  doubt. 
But,  ye  gods,  not  the  true  Attic  Talent  at  all. 

As  til'  impostor  was  still  young  enough  to  repent. 
And,  Ijcsides,  had  some  claims  to  a  grandee  con- 
nection, 
Their  \Vorbhii)s — considerate  for  once — only  sent 
The  young  Thimblerig  ofl'  to  the  House  of  Cor- 
rection. 


REFLECTIONS. 

»I>I)EESSED    TO    THE    ALTIIOR     OF     THE    ARTICLE    ON     THE 

cnuBcn,  IN  ">HE  last  numbes  of  the 
QUAl^TERLV  REVIEW. 

['m  quiie  of  your  mind; — though  these  Pats  cry 
aloud 
"hat  they've  got  "  too  much  Church,"  'tis  all 
nonsense  an!  stuff' 


For  Church  is  like  Love,  of  which  Figaro  vow'd 
That  even  loo  much  of  it's  not  quite  enough.^"' 

Ay,  dose  them  with  parsons,  'twill  cure  all  theii 
ills:— 
Copy  Morison's  mode  wlicn  from  jiill-hox  iin- 
daunted  he 
Pours  through  the  patient  his  black-coated  pills, 
Nor   cares   what   their   quality,  so   there's   bat 
quantity. 

I  verily  think,  'twouhl  be  worth  England's  wliile 
To  consider,  for  Paddy's  own  benefit,  whether 

'Twould  not  be  as  well  to  give  up  the  green  isle 
To  file  care,  wear  and  tear  of  the  Church  alto- 
gether. 

The  Irish  are  well  used  to  treatment  so  pleas.ant ; 
Tlie  harlot  Church  gave  them  to  Henry  Plantiu 
genet,''" 
And  now,  if  King  William  would  make  them  a 
present 
To  t'other  chaste  lady — ye  Saints,  just  imagine 
it! 

Chief    Sees.,    Lord-Lieutenants,    Conimanders-m- 
chie  f. 
Might   then   all    be   eull'd    from   th'   episcopal 
benches ; 
While  colonels  in  black  would  afford  some  relief 
From  the  hue  that  reminds  one  of  th'  old  scarlet 
wench's. 

Think   how   fierce    at  a  charge   (being   practised 
therein) 
The  Right  Reverend  Brigadier  Philli)ots  would 
slash  on ! 
How  General  Bloomfield,  through  tliick  and  through 
thin. 
To  the  end  of  the  chapter  (or  chapters')  would 
dash  on! 

For,  in  one  point  alone  do  the  amply  fed  race 

Of  bishops  to  beggars  similitude  bear — 
That,   set    them    on    horseback,  in    full    steeple 
chase. 
And  they'll  ride,  if  not  pulfd  up  in  time — you 
know  where. 

But,  bless  you,  in  Ireland,  that  matters  not  much. 
Where  affairs  have  for  centuries  gone  the  same 
way ; 
And  a  good  stanch  Conservative's  system  is  such 
That  he'd  back  even  Beelzebub's  long-frund<"i 
swav. 


292 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


I   am    therefore,   dear  Quarterly,   quite   of   your 
mind ; — 
Church,   Church,  in  all  shapes,  iuto  Erin  let's 
pour; 
And  the  more  she  rejecteth  our  med'cine  so  kind, 
The  more  let's  repeat  it — "Black  dose,  as  be- 
fore." 

|jet  Coercion,  that  peace-maker,  go  liand  in  hand 
With   demure-eyed   Conversion,   fit    sister   and 
brother ; 

Aud,  covering  with  prisons  and  churches  the  land. 
All  that  won't  go  to  one,  we'll  put  iiUo  the  otlier. 

For  the  sole,  leading  maxim  of  us  who'rc  inclined 
To  rule  over  Ireland,  not  well,  but  religiously, 
Fs  to  treat  her  like  ladies,  who've  just  been  con- 
fined, 
(Or  who  ought  to  be  so,)  and  to  cliurch  her  pro- 
digiously. 


NEW  ORAXD  EXHIBITION  Ol''  MODELS 

or  TUB 

TWO  IIOL'SES  OF  P.VRLI.VMENT. 

Come,  step  in,  gentlefolks,  here  ye  nmy  view 

An  e.\act  and  nat'ral  representation 
(Like  Siburn's  Jlodel  of  Waterloo)"' 

Of  llic  Lords  and  Commons  of  this  here  nation. 

There  they  are — all  cut  out  in  cork — 

The  "Collective  Wisdom"'  wondrous  to  see; 

My  eyes!  wlien  all  them  heads  are  at  work. 
What  a  vastly  weighty  consarn  it  must  be. 

A.s  for  the  "  wisdom," — that  may  come  anon  ; 

Though,  to  say  truth,  we  sometimes  sec 
(And  lind  the  phenomenon  no  uncommon  'un) 

A  man  who's  M.  P.  with  a  head  that's  M.  T. 

Uiir  l-ords  are  rather  too  small,  'tis  true; 

Hut  they  do  well  enough  for  Cabinet  bIicIvcs  ; 
And,  beMJdes, — ivhat's  a  man  with  creeturs  to  do 

'J'hat  make  such  icernj  small  figures  themselves? 

I'here — don't  toncli  those  lords,  mv  pretty  dears — 

(Asitle.) 
CufHO  tlic  children  1 — this  comes  of  reforming  a 

nation : 
Those  meddling  young  bral»  have  so  damaged  my 

pC(TH, 

I  mimt  lay  in  more  cork  for  a  new  creation. 


Them  yonder's  our  bishops — "(owhom  much  is 
given," 
And  W'ho're  ready  to  take  .ns  much  more  as  yi  u 
please : 
The  seers  of  old  times  saw  visions  of  heaven. 
But  these  holy  seers  see  nothing  but  Sees, 

Like  old  Atlas,'-''°  (the  chap,  in  Cheapside,  there  be- 
low,) 
'Tis  for  so  much  per  cent,  they  take  heaven  on 
their  shoulders ; 
And  joy  'tis  to  know  that  old  High  Church  and  Co., 
Though   not   capital   priests,   are    snch   capital, 
holders. 

There's  one  on  "en.,  Phillpots,  who  now  is  away. 
As  we're  having  him  fiU'd  with  bumbustible  stuff. 

Small  crackers  and  squibs,  for  a  gre.at  gala-day, 
W^hen  we  annually  fire  his  Right  Reverence  off. 

'Twould  do  your  heart  good,  ma'am,  then  to  be  bv, 
When,  bursting  with  gunpowder,  'stead  of  with 
bile, 

Craek,  crack,  goes  the  bishop,  while  dowagers  cry, 
"How like  the  dear  m.an, both  in  m.atterand  stylo  1"' 

Should  you  w.mt  a  few  Peers  and  M.  P.s,  to  bestow, 
As  presents  to  friends,  we  can  recommend 
these :— =" 

Our  nobles  arc  come  down  to  nine-|ience,  you  know, 
And  we  charge  but  a  ]ienny  a  piece  for  M.  P.s. 

Those  of  6o«/e-corks  made  take  most  witii  liie  tr.ide, 
(At  least,  'mong  .sucli  as  my  Irish  writ  snnunons.) 
Of  old  whiskey  corks  our  O'Coiuiclls  are  made, 
But  those  we  make  Shaws  and  Lefroys  of  .-ire  rum 
'uns. 
So,  step  in,  gentlefolks,  &.'c.  &c. 

Da  Cajm. 


ANNOUNCEMENT 

OP 

A   Ni;\V   CliANl)   AOCl'.l.KltATlON  CllMPANY 

FOR  TIIK   PKUMOTinN   OP 

TIIH  SPKKD  OF  I.ITKRATUKK. 

Ijovi)  complaints  being  made,  in  these  quick-reading 

tinu's, 
Of  too  slack  a  supply,  both  of  prose   works  and 

rhymes, 
A  new  Company,  form  d  on  the  keep-moving  plan. 
First  jiropo.sed  by  the  great  lirni  of  Cal<'li-'em-who 

ran. 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOKOUS  POEMS. 


293 


Beg  to  say  they've  now  ready,  in  full  wind  and  speed, 
Some  fast-goinrr  autliors,  of  quite  a  new  breed — 
Sueh  as  not  he  who  runs  but  who  gallops  may  read, 
And  who,  if  well  curried  and  fed,  they've  no  doubt. 
Will  beat  ev'n  Bentlcy's  swift  stud  out  and  out. 
It  is  true,  in  these  days,  sueh  a  drug  is  renown, 
We've  "  Imniortids"  as  rife  as  M.  P.s  about  town ; 
And  not  a  Blue's  rout  but  can  off-hand  supply 
Some  invalid  bard  who's  insured  "  not  to  die." 
Still,  let  England  but  once  try  our  authors,  she'll  find 
How  fast  they'll  leave  ev'n  these  Immortals  behind  ; 
And  how  truly  the  toils  of  Alcides  were  light, 
Compared  with  his  toil  who  can  read  all  they  write. 

In  fact,  there's  no  saying,  so  gainful  the  trade. 
How  fast  immortalities  now  may  be  made ; 
Since  Helicon  never  will  want  an  "  Undying  One," 
As  long  as  the  public  continues  a  Buying  One; 
And  the  Company  hope  yet  to  witness  the  hour, 
When,   by  strongly   applj'ing   the   mare-motive°" 

power, 
A  three-decker  novel,  'mid  oceans  of  pr.aise, 
May  be  written,  launch'd,  read,  and — forgot,  in  three 

days ! 

In  addition  to  all  this  stupendous  celerity 

Which — to  the  no  small  relief  of  posterity — 

Pays  oft"  at  sight  the  whole  debit  of  fame, 

Nor  troubles  futurity  ev'n  with  a  name, 

(A  project  that  wo'n't  as  much  tickle  Tom  Togg 

as  vs, 
Since  'twill  rob  him  of  his  second-price  Pegasus;) 
We,  the  Company — still  more  to  show  how  im- 
mense 
Is  the  power  o'er  the  mind  of  pounds,  shillings,  and 

pence ; 
Add  that  not  even 'Phoebus  himself,  in  our  day. 
Could  get  up  a  lay  without  first  an  ouAay — 
Beg  to  add,  as  our  literature  soon  may  compare. 
In  its  quick  make  and  vent,  with  our  Birmingham 

ware, 
And  it  doesn't  at  all  ni.atter  in  cither  of  these  lines, 
How  sha7n  is  the  article,  so  it  but  shines, — 
We  keep  authors  ready,  all  pereh'd,  pen  in  hand, 
To  write  off,  in  any  given  style,  at  command. 
No  matter  what  bard,  be  he  living  or  dead,""" 
Ask  a  work  from  his  pen,  and  'tis  done  soon  as  said ; 
There  being,  on  th'  establishment,  si.\  Walter  Scotts, 
One  capital  Wordsworth,  and  Soutlieys  in  lots  ; — 
Three  choice  Mrs.  Nortons,  all  singing  like  .syrens. 
While  most  of  our  pallid  young  clerks  are  Lord 

Byrons. 
Then  we'ye  ***s  and  **'*s  (for  whom  there's  small 

call,) 
And  ***s  and  ***s,  (for  whom  no  call  at  all.) 


In  short,  whosoe'er  the  last  "  Lion"  may  ha, 
We've  a  Bottom  who'll  copy  his  roar''°  to  a  T, 
And  so  well,  that  not  one  of  the  buyers  who've  got 

'cm 
Can  tell  which  is  lion,  and  whicli  only  Bottom. 

N.  B. — The  comp.any,  since  they  set  up  in  this  line. 
Have  moved  their  concern,  and  are  now  at  the  sign 
Of  the  Muse's  Velocipede,  I'Hcel  Street,  where  all 
Who  wish  well  to  the  scheme  are  invited  to  call. 


SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  LATE  DINNER  TO 
DAN. 

Fkom  tongue  to  tongue  the  rumor  flew ; 
All  ask'd,  aghast,  "  Is't  true  ?  is't  true  ?" 

But  none  knew  whether  'twas  fact  or  fable : 
And  still  the  unholy  rumor  ran. 
From  Tory  woman  to  Tory  m.in. 

Though  none  to  come  at  the  truth  was  able — 
Till,  lo,  at  last,  the  fact  came  out. 
The  horrible  fact,  beyond  all  doubt. 

That  Dan  had  dined  at  the  Viceroy's  table ; 
Had  flesh'd  his  Popish  knife  and  fork 
In  the  heart  of  th'  Establish'd  mutton  and  pork 

Who  can  forget  the  deep  sensation 

That  news  produced  in  this  orthodox  nation? 

Deans,  rectors,  curates,  all  agreed. 

If  Dan  was  allow'd  at  the  Castle  to  feed, 

'Twas  clearly  all  up  with  the  Protestant  creed ! 

There  hadn't,  indeed,  such  an  apparition 

Been  heard  of,  in  Dublin,  since  that  day 
When,  during  the  first  grand  e.xhibitioc 

Of  Don  Giovanni,  that  naughty  play. 
There  appear'd,  as  if  raised  by  necromancers, 
An  exlra  devil  among  the  dancers  ! 
Yes — ev'ry  one  saw,  with  fearful  thrill. 
That  a  devil  too  much  had  join'd  the  quadrille  ;" 
And  sulphur  was  smelt,  and  the  lami>s  let  fall 
A  grim,  green  light  o'er  the  ghastly  ball. 
And  the  poor  sham  devils  didn't  like  it  at  all ; 
For,  they  knew  from  whence  th'  intruder  had  come 
Though  he  left,  ihat  night,  his  fail  at  home. 

This  fact,  we  see,  is  a  parallel  case 

To  the  dinner  that,  some  weeks  since,  took  p!ace. 

With  the  difference  slight  of  fiend  and  man. 

It  shows  what  a  nest  of  Popish  sinners 
That  city  must  be,  where  the  devil  and  Dan 

May  thus  drop  in,  at  quadrilles  and  dinners  I 


29-1 


MOOEE'S  ^OEKS. 


Bat,  mark  the  end  of  these  foul  proceedings, 
These  demon  hops  and  Popish  feedings. 
Some  comfort  'twili  be— to  those,  at  least, 

Who've  studied  this  awful  dinner  question — 
To  know  that  Dan,  on  the  night  of  the  feast. 

Was  seized  with  a  dreadful  indigestion  ; 
That  envoys  were  sent,  post-haste,  to  his  priest. 
To  come  and  absolve  the  suffering  sinner, 
For  eating  so  much  at  a  heretic  dinner ; 
And  some  good  people  were  even  afraid 
That  Peel's  old  confectioner — still  at  the  trade — 
Had  poison'd  the  Papist  with  orangeade. 


NEW  HOSPITAL  FOR  SICK  LITERATI. 

With  all  humility  we  beg 

To  inform  the  public,  that  Tom  Tegg — 

Known  for  his  spunky  speculations. 

In  buying  up  dead  reputations, 

And,  by  a  mode  of  g:ilv.inizing 

Which,  all  must  own,  is  quite  surprising. 

Making  dead  authors  move  again. 

As  thougli  they  still  were  living  men  ; — • 

All  this,  too,  managed,  in  a  trice, 

I5y  those  two  magic  words,  "  Half  Price," 

Which  brings  the  charm  so  quick  about, 

That  worn-out  poets,  left  williout 

A  second/t)0<  wlicreon  to  stand. 

Are  made  to  go  at  second  hand ; — 

'Twill  please  the  public,  we  repeat. 

To  learn  that  Tegg,  who  works  this  feat, 

And,  therefore,  knows  what  care  it  needs 

To  keep  alive  Fame's  invalids, 

Has  oped  an  Hospital,  in  town. 

For  cases  of  knock'd-up  renown — 

Falls,  fractures,  dangerous  Kpic _/?/.<, 

(By  some  call'd  Canlos,)  stabs  from  wits ; 

And,  of  all  wounds  for  which  they're  nursed 

Dciid  cuts  from  publishers,  the  worst ; — 

All  these,  and  other  suoh  fatalities, 

That  happen  to  frail  innnorlalilies. 

By  Tegg  arc  so  expert ly  treated, 

That  oft-times,  when  the  cure's  conipleted, 

The  pa'iicnl's  made  robust  enough 

To  Hiand  a  few  more  rounds  of  puff, 

Till,  like  the  ghost  of  D.mte's  lay, 

lie's  piilT'd  into  thin  air  nsv.ay ! 

Ah  titled  poi'ls  (being  jihenoinenons) 
Don't  like  to  mix  with  low  and  common  'uns, 
Tcgg'H  Hospiinl  ban  Hepnrute  wards, 
IbXprcs'*  fol  literary  lords, 


Where  jwose-peers,  of  immoderate  length, 
Are  nursed,  when  they've  outgrown  their  strength. 
And  poets,  whom  their  friends  despair  of. 
Are — put  to  bed  and  taken  caro  of. 

Tegg  begs  to  contradict  a  story. 

Now  current  both  with  Whig  and  Tory, 

That  Doctor  Warburton,  M.  P., 

Well  known  for  his  antipathy. 

His  deadly  hate,  good  man,  to  all 

The  race  of  poets,  great  and  small — 

So  much,  tliat  he's  been  heard  to  own. 

He  would  most  willingly  cut  down 

The  holiest  groves  on  Pindus'  mount. 

To  turn  the  timber  to  account ! — 

The  story  actually  goes,  that  he 

Prescribes  at  Tegg's  Infirmary; 

And  oft,  not  only  stints,  for  spite. 

The  patients  in  their  copy-riglit, 

But  that,  on  being  call'd  in  lately 

To  two  sick  poets,  suffering  g;-eatly, 

Tliis  vatieidal  Doctor  sent  them 

So  strong  a  dose  of  Jeremy  Bentliam, 

That  one  of  tlie  poor  bards  but  cried, 

"  Oil,  Jerry,  Jerry  !"  and  then  died  : 

Wliile  t'other,  tliough  less  stufl"was  given, 

Is  on  his  road,  'tis  fear'd,  to  Iieaven! 

Of  this  event,  howe'er  unpleasant, 
Tegg  means  to  say  no  more  at  present  — 
Intending  shortly  to  prepare 
A  statement  of  the  whole  affair. 
With  full  accounts,  .at  the  same  time, 
Of  some  late  cases,  (prose  and  rhyme,) 
Subscribed  with  every  autlior's  name, 
3'hars  now  on  the  Sick  List  of  Fame. 


RELIGION  AXD  TRADE 

"Bir  Uolicrl  Tfi'l  bulievnl  11  was  mici'asnry  lo  onslrinto  all 
r«flpt'Clin(^  ri'IiKion  nntl  Iriuli*  in  (i  Commltteo  of  tho  HuuHi." — 
Church  Kitrniioii,  May  '.'■.',  1H3U. 

Sav,  who  was  the  wag,  indecorously  witty, 
Who,  first  in  a  statule,  this  libel  convey'd  ; 

And  thus  slyly  referr'd  to  the  self-same  committee, 
As  matters  congenial.  Religion  and  Trade  ? 

Oh  sin-ely,  my  Phillpots,  'twas  thou  didst  the  deed ; 

For  none  but  thyself,  or  some  pluralist  brother, 
Aceustrnn'd  lo  mix  up  the  crall  with  the  creed. 

Could  bring  such  a  pair  thus,  to  twin  with  eaoli 

OtllPI. 


SATIRICAL  AND  nUMOROUS  POEilS. 


295 


And  yet,  when  one  tliinks  of  times  present  unci  ffone, 
One  is  forced  to  confess,  on  maturer  rcllection, 

Tliat  'tisn't  in  the  eyes  of  committees  alone, . 
That  the  shrine  and  the  sliop  seem  to  iiavc  some 
connection. 

Not  to  mention  those  nionarchs  of  Asia's  fur  land, 
Whose  civil  list  all  is  in  "  god-money"  paid  ; 

And  where  the  whole  people,  by  royal  command. 
Buy  their  gods  at  the  government  mart,  ready 
made; — "^ 

'J'hero   was  also  (as  mention'd,  in   rhyme  and  in 

prose,  is) 

Gold  heap'd,  tliroughout  Egypt,  on  every  shrine. 

To  make  rings  for  riglit  reverend  crocodiles'  noses — 

Just  such  as,  my  Phillpots,  would  look  well  in 

thine. 

But  one  needn't  (ly  ofl',  in  this  erudite  mood; 

And  'tis  cle.ar,  witliout  going  to  regions  so  sunny, 
Tiiat  priests  love  to  do  tlie  least  possible  good, 

For  the  largest  mosl  possible  quantum  of  money. 

'Of  him,"  saith  the   text,  "unto  whom  mucli  is 
given, 
"Of  liim  mucli,  in  turn,  will  be  also  required  :" — 
"  By   me"  quoth   the   sleek   and   obese   man   of 
heaven — 
"Give  as  much  as  you  will — more  will  still  be 
desired." 

More  money!  more  churches! — oh  Nimrod,  hadst 
thou 
Stead  of   T'oice;--e\tension,  some   shorter  way 
gone — 
Hadst  thou  known  by  what  methods  wo  mount  to 
heaven  now, 
And  tried   Cliurch-cxtcn^inw,  the  feat  had  been 
done ! 


MUSINGS, 

St'GGESTEU    BY    TUE    LATE    I'ROMOTIO.X    Of    MltS.    NETIIER- 
COAT. 

"The  widow  Nethercoat  is  appninted  jailer  of  Longbrea,  in 
Hie  room  of  Iier  deceased  husbaud." — Limcricfc  Ckroniclc, 

Whether  as  queens  or  subjects,  in  these  days, 
Women  seem  fcm'dto  grace  alike  each  sta- 
tion ; — 

As  Captain  Flaherty  galhintly  says, 

"  You,  ladies,  are  the  lords  of  the  creation  !" 


Thus  o'er  my  mind  did  prescient  visions  float 

Of  all  that  matchless  woman  yet  may  be ; 
When,  hark,  in  rumors  less  and  less  remote, 

Came  the  glad  news  o'er  Erin's  ambient  sea. 
The  important  news — th.at  Airs.  Nethercoat 
Had  been  appointed  jailer  of  Loughrea; 
Yes,  mark  it.  History — Nethercoat  is  dead, 
And  Mrs.  N.  now  rules  his  realm  instead ; 
Hers  the  high  task  to  wield  th'  uplocking  keys, 
To  rivet  rogues  and  reign  o'er  Rapparees ! 
Thus,  while  your  blust'rers  of  the  Tory  school 
Find  Ireland's  sanest  sons  so  hard  to  rule. 
One  meek-eyed  matron,  in  Whig  doctrines  nursed. 
Is  all  that's  ask'd  to  curb  the  maddest,  worst ! 

Show  me  the  man  that  dares,  with  blushless  brow 

Prate  about  Erin's  rage  and  riot  now; — 

Now,  when  her  temperance  forms  her  sole  excess ; 

When  long-loved  whiskey,  fading  from  her  sight, 
"  Sm.all  by  degrees,  and  beautifully  less," 

Will  soon,  like  other  spirits,  vanish  quite ; 
When  of  red  coats  the  number's  grown  so  small, 

That  soon,  to  cheer  the  warlike  parson's  eyes. 
No  glimpse  of  scarlet  will  be  seen  at  all, 

Save  that  which  she  of  Babylon  supplies ; — 
Or,  at  the  mos"*,  a  corporal's  guard  will  be, 

Of  Ireland's  red  defence  the  sole  remains  ; 
While  of  its  jails  bright  woman  keeps  the  key. 

And  captive  Paddies  languish  in  her  chains ! 

Long  may  such  lot  be  Erin's,  long  be  mine! 

Oh  yes — if  ev'n  this  world,  though  bright  it  sliira, 
In  Wisdom's  eyes  a  prison-house  must  be. 

At  least  let  woman's  hand  our  fetters  twine, 
And  blithe  I'll  sing,  more  joyous  than  if  free, 
The  Nethercoats,  the  Netherco.ats  for  me ! 


INTENDED  TRIBUTE 


AUTUOU  OK  AN  ARTICLE  IM  THE  LAST  NUMBTR  Of  THE 
QU.UITEELT    EETIEW, 

ENTITLED 

"RO.MANISM  IN  IREL.VND." 

It  glads  us  much  to  be  .able  to  say, 

That  a  meeting  is  tix'd,  for  some  early  d.ay. 

Of  all  such  dowagers — lie  or  she — 

(No  matter  the  sex,  so  they  dowagers  be,) 

Whose  opinions,  concerning  Church  and  State, 

From  about  the  time  of  the  Curfew  da'.e — 


296 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Stanch  sticklers  still  for  days  bygone, 

And  admiring  litem  for  their  rust  alone — 

To  whom  if  we  would  a  leader  give. 

Worthy  their  tastes  conservative, 

We  need  but  some  mummy-statesman  raise, 

Who  was  pickled  and  potted  in  Ptolemy's  days  ; 

For  that's  the  man,  if  waked  from  his  shelf. 

To  conserve  and  swaddle  this  world,  like  himself. 

Such,  we're  happy  to  state,  are  the  old  /ic-dames 

\\'lio've  met  in  committee,  and  given  tlieir  names, 

(In  good  hieroglyphics,)  witli  kind  intent 

To  pay  some  handsome  compliment 

To  their  sister-author,  the  nameless  he. 

Who  wrote,  in  the  last  new  Quarterly, 

That  charming  assault  upon  Popery  ; 

An  iirtide  justly  prized  by  them, 

As  a  perfect  antediluvian  gem — 

The  work,  as  Sir  Sampson  Legend  would  say. 

Of  some  "  fellow  the  Flood  couldn't  wash  away.""* 

The  fund  being  raised,  there  romain'd  but  to  see 
What  the  duwagcr-autlior's  gift  was  to  be. 
And  here,  I  must  say,  the  Sisters  Blue 
Sliow'd  delicate  taste  and  judgment  too. 
For,  finding  the  poor  man  suffering  greatly 
From  the  awful  stuff  he  h.is  thrown  up  lately — 
So  much  bO,  indeed,  to  the  alarm  of  all. 
As  to  bring  on  a  fit  of  what  doctors  call 
The  Antijjajiistico-monomania, 
(I'm  sorry  with  sucli  a  long  word  to  detain  ye,) 
They've  acted  the  part  of  a  kind  physician. 
By  suiting  their  gift  to  the  patient's  condition ; 
And,  as  soon  as  'tis  ready  for  presentation. 
We  shall  publish  the  facts,  for  the  gratification 
Of  this  liighly-favor'd  anil  Protestant  nation. 

^feanwhile,  to  the  gre.it  alarm  of  his  neighbors, 
lie  still  continues  his  Quarterly  labors; 
And  often  has  strong  No-Popcry  fits. 
Which  frighten  hia  old  nurse  out  of  her  wits. 
Sometimes  he  screams,  like  Scrub  in  the  play,"' 
"Thieve."'  JcHuils!  Popery  1"  night  and  day; 
Takes  the  Printer's  Devil  for  Doctor  Dens,'" 
And  shies  at  him  heaj)s  of  High-church  pons;'"' 
Which  the  Devil  (himself  a  touchy  Dissenter) 
Feels  all  in  his  hide,  like  arrows,  enter. 
'Stead  of  Hwallowing  wholesome  stuff  from   tlie 

drugifist's, 
lie  will  keep  raving  of  "Irish  Thnggista;"  "' 
'IVlls  iiH  Ihey  all  go  nnirdVing,  for  fun, 
From  ri<c  of  morn  till  set  of  sun, 
Pop,  pop,  ns  fast  as  n  iiiinulc  gun!"' 
If  ask'd,  Inw  comes  it  the  gown  and  cnsHOck  are 
Hafii  nnil  fat,  'mid  this  ;;eneral  massacre — 


IIow  haps  it  that  Pat's  own  population 
But  swarms  the  more  for  this  trucidation — 
He  refers  you,  for  all  such  memoranda. 
To  the  ^- archives  of  the  Propaganda  I" "'" 

This  is  al.  we  ve  got,  for  the  present,  to  say — 
But  shall  take  up  the  subject  some  future  dav. 


GRAND  DINNER  OF  TYPE  AND  CO 

A  rooK  poet's  dream.-'" 

As  I  sate  in  my  study,  lone  .and  still. 
Thinking  of  Sergeant  Talfourd's  Bill, 
And  the  speech  by  Lawyer  Sugden  made, 
In  spirit  congenial,  for  "  the  Trade," 
Sudden  I  sunk  to  sleep,  .ind,  lo. 

Upon  Fancy's  reinless  night-m^ro  flittmg, 
I  found  myself,  in  a  second  or  so, 
At  the  t.ablc  of  Messrs.  Type  and  Co. 

With  a  goodly  group  of  diners  sitting ; — 
All  in  the  printing  and  publishing  line, 
Dress'd,  I  thought,  extremely  fine. 
And  sipping,  like  lords,  their  rosy  wine ; 
Wliile  I,  in  a  state  near  inanition, 

With  coat  that  hadn't  much  nap  to  spare, 
(Having  just  gone  into  its  second  edition,) 

Was  the  only  wretch  of  an  author  there. 
But  think,  how  great  was  my  surprise. 
When  I  .saw,  in  casting  round  my  eyes. 
That  the  dishes,  sent  up  by  Type's  she-cooks, 
Core  all,  in  appearance,  the  shape  of  books ; 
Large  folios — God  knows  where  they  got  'em, 
In  these  small  times — at  top  and  bottom  ; 
And  quartos  (such  as  the  Press  provides 
For  no  one  to  read  them)  down  the  sides. 
Tlien  flash'd  a  horrible  thought  on  my  brsju, 
And  I  said  to  myself,  "  'Tis  all  too  plain ; 
"  Like  those  well  known  in  school  quotations 
"  Who  .ate  up  for  dinner  their  own  relation? 
"I  sec  now,  before  me,  smoking  here, 
"Tlie  bodies  and  bones  of  my  brethren  dear , 
"  Bright  sons  of  the  lyric  and  epic  Muse, 
"  .Ml  cut  up  in  cutlets,  or  hash'd  in  slews; 
"  Their  works,  n  light  through  ages  to  go, 
"  Themsrhcs,  e.'ilen  up  by  'I'vpe  and  Cn.\" 

Wliile  thus  I  moralized,  on  they  went, 

Finding  the  fare  most  excellent; 

And  .all  so  kindly,  brother  lo  brother. 

Helping  Ihe  tilbils  to  each  oilier; 

"  A  slice  of  Soutlicy  let  me  send  you" — 

"Tliiscnl  (if  ('anijilirll  1  ri'roiniiiend  you"— 


SATIHICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


297 


"  And  hero,  my  friends,  is  a  treat  indeed, 
"  Tlie  immortal  Wordsworth  fricasseed!" 

Thus  li:iving,  the  cormorants,  fed  some  time, 
Upon  joints  of  poetry — all  of  the  prime — 
Witli  also  (as  Type  in  a  whisper  averr'd  it) 
"  Cold  prose  on  the  sideboard,  for  such  as  pre- 

ferr'd  it" — 
They  rested  awhile,  to  recruit  llieir  force, 
Then  pounced,  like  kites,  on  the  second  course. 
Which    was    singing-birds     merely — Moore    and 

others — 
Who  all  went  the  way  of  tlicir  larger  brothers; 
And,  num'rous  now  though  such  songsters  be, 
'Twas  really  quite  distressing  to  see 
A  whole  dishful  of  Toms — Moore,  Dibdin,  Bayly, — 
Bolted  by  Type  and  Co.  so  gayly ! 

Nor  was  this  the  worst — I  shudder  to  think 
What  a  scene  was  disclosed  when  they  came  to 

drink. 
The  warriors  of  Odin,  as  every  one  knows. 
Used  to  drink  out  of  skulls  of  slaughter'd  foes : 
And  Type's  old  port,  to  my  horror  I  found. 
Was  in  skulls  of  bards  sent  merrily  round. 
And  still  as  each  well-filled  cranium  came, 
A  health  was  pledg'd  to  its  owner's  name ; 
Wliile  Type  said  slyly,  'midst  general  laughter, 
"  We  eat  them  up  first,  then  drink  to  them  after." 

There  was  no  standing  this — incensed  I  broke 
From  my  bonds  of  sleep,  and  indignant  woke, 
E.xclaiming,  "  Oh  shades  of  other  times, 
"  Whose  voices  still  sound,  like  deathless  cliimes, 
"  Could  you  e'er  have  foretold  a  day  would  be, 
"  When  a  dreamer  of  dreams  should  live  to  see 
"  A  party  of  sleek  and  honest  John  Bulls 
■'Hobnobbing  each  other  in  poets'  skulls!" 


CHURCrf  EXTENSION. 

TO    THE    EDITOR    OF   THE    MORNING    CBRONICLE. 

Sir, — A  well-known  classical  traveller,  while  employed  ia 
exploring,  some  time  since,  the  supposed  site  of  the  Temple 
of  Diana  of  Ephesiis,  was  so  foitiinate,  in  the  course  of  his 
researches,  as  to  li^i^ht  upon  a  very  ancient  bark  manuscript, 
which  has  t:n'ncd  out,  on  examination,  to  be  part  of  an  old 
Ephesian  newspaper: — a  newspaper  published,  as  you  will 
see,  so  far  back  as  the  time  when  Demetrius,  the  great 
Bhj'ine-Extender,-^'  flourished. 

ErHESr.\N    GAZETTE. 

Second  edition. 

[mportant  event  for  the  rich  and  religious  ! 
Great  Meeting  of  Silversmiths   held  in  Queen 
Square ; — 

38 


Church   Extension,  their   object, — th'   e.vcitement 
prodigious; 
Demetrius,  head  man  of  the  craft,  takes  the  chair! 

Third  tdiiion* 
The  Cliairman  still  up,  when  our  dev'l  came  away 
Having  prefaced  his  speech  with  the  usual  state 
prayer. 
That  the  Three-headed  Dian""  would  kindly,  this 
day. 
Take  the  Silversmiths'  Company  under  her  care. 

Being  ask'd  by  some  low,  unestablisli'd  divines, 
"  When  your  churches  are  up,  where  are  flocks 
to  be  got  ?" 
He  manfully  answer'd,  "  Let  us  build  the  shrines,"" 
"  And  we  care  not  if  flocks  are  found  for  them 
or  no't." 

He   then   .added — to  show   that  the  Silversmiths' 

Guild 

Were  .above  all  confined  and  intolerant  views — 

"  Only  pay  through  tlie  nose  to  the  altars  we  build, 

"  You  may  fray  tlirough  the  nose  to  what  altars 

you  choose." 

This  tolerance,  rare  from  a  shrine-dealer's  lip, 
(Though  a  tolerance  mix'd  with  due  taste  for  the 
till,)-  ' 

So  much  charm'd  all  the  holders  of  scriptural  scrip, 
Tliat  their  shouts  of  "  Hear !"  "  Hear  !"  are  re- 
echoing still. 

Fi}urth  edition^ 

Great  stir  ia  the  Slirine  JIarket !  altars  to  Pho2bus 
Are  going  dog-cheap — m.ay  be  had  for  a  rebus. 

Old  Dian'.s,  as  usual,  outsell  all  the  rest; — 
But  Venus's  also  are  in  much  request. 


LATEST  ACCOUNTS  FROM  OLYMPUS. 

As  news  from  Olympus  has  grown  rather  rare. 
Since  bards,  in  their  cruises,  have  ceased  to  tomh 

there, 
We  extract  for  our  readers  th'  intelligence  giv„„. 
In  our  latest  accounts  from  th.at  ci-decant  heaven — 
That  realm  of  the  By-gones,  where  still  sit,  in  state, 
Old  god-heads  and  nod-heads,  now  long  out  of  date. 

Jove  himself,  it  appears,  since  his  love  days  are  o'er 
Seems  to  find  imnoTfalitv  rather  a  bore ; 


298 


MOOEE'S  AYOEKS. 


Though  he  still  asks  for  news  of  earth's  capers  and 

crimes. 
And    reads    daily   his    old   fellow-Tliund'rer,    the 

Times. 
He  and  Vulcan,  it  seems,  by  their  wives  still  hen- 

■pecVd  are. 
And  kept  on  a  stinted  allowance  of  nectar. 

Old  Phoebus,  poor  lad,  has  given  up  inspiration. 
And  p.nck"d  ofl  to  earth  on  a  pi/^-speculation. 
The  fact  is,  he  found  his  old  shrines  had  grown  dim, 
Since  bards  look'd  to  Bcntley  and  Colburn,  not  liim. 
So,  he  sold  ofl'  his  stud  of  ambrosia-fed  nags, 
Came  incog,  down  to  earth,  and  now  writes  for  the 

Mags ; 
Taking  care  that  Ixis  va\\  not  a  gleam  hath  to 

linger  in't, 
From  which  men  could  guess  that  th'e  god  had  a 

finger  in't. 

Tiiefe  are  other  small  facts,  well  deserving  attention, 
Of  which  our  Olympic  dispatches  make  mention. 
Poor  Bacchus  is  still  very  ill,  they  allege. 
Having  never  recover'd  the  Temperance  Pledge. 
"  What,  the  Irish  !"  he  cried — "  those  I  look'd  to 

the  most! 
"If  tliey  give  up  the  s-piril,  I  give  up  the  ghost:" 
While  Momus,  wlio  used  of  the  gods  to  make  fun, 
*  Is  turn'd  Socialist  now,  and  declares  there  are  none ! 

But  these  changes,  though  curious,  are  all  a  more 

farce. 
Compared  to  the  new  "casus  belli"  of  Mars, 
Wlio,  for  years,  has  been  sufleriiig  the  horrors  of 

quiet, 
Unchcer'd  by  one  glimmer  of  bloodalicd  or  riot ! 
In  vain  from  the  clouds  his  belligerent  brow 
Did  he   pop  forth,  in   hopes   that    somewhere  or 

somehow. 
Like  Pat  at  a  fair,  he  might  "coa.x  up  a  row  ;"' 
But  the  joke  wouldn't  take — the  whole  world  had 

got  wiser ; 
Men  liked  not  to  take  a  Groat  Gun  for  adviser; 
And,  still  leas,  to  march  in  fnic  clothes  to  bo  .shot. 
Without  very  well  knowing  for  whom  or  for  wli.it. 
The  French,  wlio  of  slaughter  had  had  their  full 

swing. 
Were  content  with  n  shot,  now  and  then,  at  their 

King; 
While,  in  England,  good  fighting's  a  pastime  so  Imrd 

to  gain, 
Nobody's  left  to  fight  w-iV/i,  but  Lord  Cardigan. 

Tin  nevillcHs  to  wiy,  then,  how  monstrously  happy 
Old  Mars  has  been  made  by  what's  now  on  the  ta]yis ; 


How  much  it  delights  liim  to  see  the  French  rally, 
In  Liberty's  name,  around  Mehemet  Ali ; 
Well  knowing  that  Satan  liimself  could  not  find 
A  confection  of  mischief  much  more  to  his  mind, 
Than  the  old  Bonnet  Rouge  and  the  Bashaw  com- 
bined. 
Right  well,  too,  he  knows,  that  there  ne'er  were 

attackers. 
Whatever  their  cause,  that  they  didn't  find  backers ; 
While  any  slight  care  for  Humanity's  woes 
Maybe  sooth'd  byth.at  "Art  Diplomatique,"  wliich 

shows 
How  to  come,  in  the  most  approved  method,  to 
blows. 

This  is  all,  for  to-d.ay — whether  Mars  is  much  v  ex'd 
At  his  friend  Thier's  e.xit,  we'll  know  by  our  next. 


THE  TRIUMrHS  OF  FARCE. 

OuE  earth,  as  it  rolls  through  the  regions  of  sp.nce, 
Wears  .alw.iys  two  faces,  the  dark  and  the  sunny; 

And  poor  human  life  runs  the  same  sort  of  race. 
Being  sad,  on  one  side — on  the  other  side,  funny 

Thus  oft  we,  at  eve,  to  the  Ilaymarket  hie. 

To  weep  o'er  the  woes  of  Macready  ; — but  scarce 

Hath  tlie  tear-drop  of  Tragedy  pass'd  from  the  eye, 
When,  lo,  we're  all  laughing  in  fits  at  tlie  Farce. 

And  still  let  us  laugh — preach  the  world  as  it  may — 
Where  the  cream  of  the  joke  is,  the  swarm  will 
soon  follow; 

Heroics  are  very  grand  things,  in  their  way. 

But  the  laugh  at  the  long  run  will  carry  it  Iiollow. 

For  instance,  wh.at  sermon  on  human  atVairs 

Could  equal  the  scene  thai  took  place  t'other  day 

'Twi.xt  Romeo  and  Louis  Philippe,  on  the  stairs — 
The  Sublime  and  Ridiculous  mocling  hall'-way! 

Yes,  Jocus!  gay  god,  whom  the  Gciililes  supplied. 
And  whose  worship  not  ev'n  among  Clirislians 

(U'cliupS, 

In  our  scuiite  tliou'st  languish'd  .since  Sheridan  died, 
But  Sydney  still  keeps  thee  alive  in  our  shrines. 

Rjire  Sydney!  thrice  honor'd  Iho  st.ill  whore  ho  sits, 
And  be  his  every  honor  ho  doignolh  lo  oliuib  at! 

Ilml  Kngland  a  hiorari'hy  I'orin'd  all  of  wits, 

Who  but  Sydney  would  England  procl.iim  aH  its 
prini.if*;  ? 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


299 


And  lonjj  may  he  llourisli,  fnuik,  meriy,  and  bravo — 

A  Ilor.iee  to  iiear,  and  a  Paschal  to  road;"'* 
While  he  laughs,  all  is  safe,  but,  when  Sydney 
grows  grave, 
We  shall  then  think  the  Cliurcli  is  in  danger 
indeed. 

Meanwhile,  it  niucli  glads  us  to  find  he's  preparing 
To  teach  other  bishops  to  "  seek  the  right  way ;""" 

And  moans  shortly  to  treat  the  whole  bench  to  an 
airing, 
Just  such  as  he  gave  to  Charles  James  t'other  day. 

For  our  parts,  though  gravity's  good  for  the  soul. 
Such  a  fancy  have  wo  for  tlie  side  tliat  there's 
fun  on. 
We'd  rather  with  Sydney  southwest  take  a  "  stroll," 
Than  coach  it  northeast   with  his  Lordship  of 
Lunnun. 


THOUGHTS  ON  PATRONS,  PUFFS,  AND 
OTHER  MATTERS. 

I.V    AS    EPISTLE    FROM    T.    M.    TO    S.    K. 

What,  thou,  my  friend  !  a  man  of  rhymes. 
And,  better  still,  a  man  of  guineas, 

To  talk  of  "  p.atrons,"  in  these  times. 

When  authors  thrive,  like  spinning  jennies. 

And  Arkwright's  twist  and  Buhver's  gage 

Alike  may  laugh  at  patronage! 

No,  no — those  times  are  pass'd  .iw.ay. 

When,  doom'd  in  upper  floors  to  st.ir  it. 
The  bard  inscribed  to  lords  his  lay, — 

Himself,  the  while,  my  Lord  JMoiintgarret. 
No  more  he  begs,  with  air  dependent. 
His  "little  bark  m.ay  sail  attendant" 

Under  some  lordly  skipper's  steerage ; 
But  launch'd  triumphant  in  the  Row, 
Or  ta'en  by  Murray's  self  in  tow. 

Cuts  both  Star  Chamber  and  the  peerage. 

I'atrons,  indeed !  when  scarce  a  sail 
[s  whisk'd  from  England  by  the  g.ale. 
But  bears  on  bo.ard  some  authors  shipp'd 
For  foreign  shores,  all  well-cquipp'd 
With  proper  book-making  machinery. 
To  sketch  the  morals,  manners,  scenery. 
Of  .all  such  lands  .as  they  sliall  see. 
Or  not  see,  as  the  case  may  be : — 
It  being  enjoin'd  on  .all  who  go 
'J'o  study  first  Miss  Martineau, 


And  learn  from  her  the  method  true. 
To  do  one's  books — and  readers,  too. 
For  so  this  nymph  of  twus  and  nerve 
Teaches  mankind  "  How  to  Observe ;" 
And,  lest  mankind  .at  .all  .should  swerve, 
Teaches  them  also  "  What  to  observe." 

No,  no,  my  friend — it  can't  be  blink'd — 
The  Patron  is  a  race  extinct; 
As  dead  as  any  Megatherion 
That  ever  Buckland  built  a  theory  on. 
Instead  of  bartering,  in  this  age. 
Our  praise  for  pence  and  p.atronage. 
Wo  authors,  now,  more  prosperous  elves, 
Have  le.arn'd  to  patronize  ourselves; 
And  since  all-potent  Puffing's  made 
The  life  of  song,  the  soul  of  trade, 
Jlore  frug.al  of  our  praises  grown. 
We  puff  no  merits  but  our  own. 

Unlike  those  feeble  gales  of  pr.aise 
Which  critics  blew  in  former  days. 
Our  modern  puffs  are  of  a  kind 
Th.at  truly,  really  raise  the  wind; 
And  since  they've  fairly  set  in  blo\ving. 
We  find  them  the  best  ;?'a(Z<'-wind3  going. 

'Stead  of  frequenting  p.aths  so  slippy 

As  her  old  haunts  dear  Aganippe, 

The  Muse,  now,  t.aking  to  the  till. 

Has  open'd  shop  on  Ludgate  Hill, 

(Far  handier  than  the  Hill  of  Pindus, 

As  seen  from  bard's  back  attic  windows ;) 

And  sw.allowing  there  without  cessation 

Large  draughts  (at  sight)  of  inspiration. 

Touches  the  notes  for  each  new  theme. 

While  still  fresh  "change  comes  o'er  her  dream  " 

What  Steam  is  on  the  deep — and  more — 
Is  the  v.ast  power  of  Puff  on  shore; 
Which  jumps  to  glory's  future  tenses 
Before  the  present  even  commences ; 
And  makes  "  immortal"  and  "  divine"  of  us 
Before  the  world  has  read  one  line  of  us. 

In  old  times,  when  the  God  of  Song 
Drove  his  own  two-horse  team  along. 
Carrying  inside  a  bard  or  two, 
Book'd  for  posterity  "all  through;" — 
Their  luggage,  a  few  close-pack'd  rhymes, 
(Like  yours,  my  friend,)  for  after-times — 
So  slow  the  pull  to  Fame's  abode, 
Th.at  folks  oft  slept  upon  the  road  ;— 
And  Homer's  self,  sometimes,  they  say, 
Took  to  his  nightcap  on  the  wav." 


300 


MOOEE'S  W0EK3. 


Ye  Gods !  how  different  is  the  story 
With  our  ne.v  galloping  sons  of  glory, 
Who,  scorning  all  such  slack  and  slow  time, 
Dash  to  posterity  in  no  time  I 
Raise  but  one  general  blast  of  Puff 
To  start  your  author — that's  enough. 
In  vain  the  critics,  set  to  watch  him, 
Try  at  the  starting  post  to  catch  liim : 
lie's  off — the  puffers  c;irry  it  hollow — 
The  critics,  if  they  please,  may  follow. 
Ere  they've  laid  down  tlieir  first  posilions, 
lie's. fairly  blown  through  si.Y  editions! 
In  vain  doth  Edinburgh  dispense 
Ilerblue  and  yellow  pestilence 
(That  plague  so  awful  in  my  time 
To  young  and  touchy  sons  of  rhyme) — 
The  Quarterly,  at  three  months'  date. 
To  catch  th'  Unread  One  comes  too  late ; 
And  nonsense,  litter'd  in  a  hurry, 
Becomes  "immortal,"  s\nte  of  Murr.iy. 

But,  bless  me  I — while  I  thus  keep  fooling, 
I  hear  a  voice  cry,  "  Dinner's  cooling." 
The  postman,  too,  (who,  truth  to  tell, 
'Mong  men  of  letters  bears  the  bell,) 
Keeps  ringing,  ringing,  so  infernally 
That  I  mxisl  stop — 

Yours  scmpitcrnally. 


THOUGUTS  ON  MISCHIEF. 

BY  LORD  ST.\NI-KY. 

(ills    FIRST    ArrKMFr    I.V    VEUSE.) 

"  Evil,  be  thou  my  good." — Milton. 

Iluw  various  are  the  inspirations 
Of  different  men,  in  different  nations  ! 
As  genius  prompts  to  good  or  evil. 
Some  call  the  JIuse,  some  raise  the  devil. 
Old  Socrates,  lliat  pink  of  sages 
Kept  a  pet  demon,  on  board  wages 
To  go  about  with  liim  incog.. 
And  sometimes  give  his  wits  a  jog. 
So  Lyndhurst,  in  our  day,  we  know, 
Keeps  fresh  relays  of  imps  below. 
To  forward,  from  that  nameless  spot. 
His  inspirations,  hot  and  hot. 

But,  neat  as  are  old  Lyndhursl's  doings^ 
Beyond  even  Hecate's  "  licll-broth"  brewings- 
Had  I,  I/or<l  SlJinlcy,  but  my  will, 
I'd  dhow  vou  iniseliicr  prettier  still; 


Mischief,  combining  boyhood's  tricks 
With  age's  sourest  politics; 
Tlie  urcliin's  freaks,  the  veteran's  gall, 
Both  duly  mix'd,  and  matchless  all ; 
A  compound  naught  in  history  reaches 
But  JIachiavel,  when  first  in  breeches ! 

Yes,  Miscliief,  Goddess  multiform. 

Whene'er  thou,  witch-like,  rid'st  the  storm, 

Let  Stanley  ride  cockhorse  behind  thee — • 

r<o  livelier  lackey  could  they  find  thee. 

And,  Goddess,  as  I'm  well  aware. 

So  mischief's  done,  you  care  not  where, 

I  own,  'twill  most  my  fancy  tickle 

In  Paddyland  to  play  the  Pickle ; 

Having  got  credit  for  inventing 

A  new,  brisk  method  of  tormenting — 

A  way,  they  call  the  Stanley  fashion, 

Wliich  puts  all  Ireland  in  a  passion ; 

So  neat  it  hits  the  mixture  due 

Of  injury  and  insult  too  ; 

So  legibly  it  bears  upon't 

The  stamp  of  Stanley's  brazen  front. 

Ireland,  we're  told,  means  land  of  Ire , 

And  why  she's  so,  none  need  inquire, 

Who  sees  her  millions,  martial,  manly. 

Spat  upon  thus  by  me.  Lord  Stanley. 

Already  in  the  breeze  I  scent 

The  whitV  of  coming  devilment; 

Of  strife,  to  ine  more  stirring  far 

Than  Ih'  Opium  or  the  Sulphur  war, 

Or  any  such  drug  ferments  are. 

Yes — sweeter  to  this  Tory  soul 

Than  all  such  pests,  from  pole  to  pole, 

Is  the  rich,  "  sweltor'd  venom"  got 

By  stirring  Ireland's  "charmed  pot;""' 

And,  thanks  to  practice  on  that  land, 

I  stir  it  with  a  master-hand. 

Again  thou'lt  see,  when  forth  luith  gone 

The  War-Church-ery,  "On,  Stanley,  on!" 

How  Caravats  and  Shanavests 

Shall  swarm  from  out  their  mountain  nests, 

Willi  all  tlieir  nierry  moonlight  brothers. 

To  whom  the  Church  (.s7r;Mlame  to  others^ 

Hath  been  the  best  of  nursing  motlier.s. 

Again  o'er  Erin's  rich  domain 

Shall  Rockitos  and  right  reverends  rcigi 

And  both,  exempt  from  vulgar  toil, 

Between  them  share  that  titheful  soil; 

Puzzling  ambition  i/7ii<r/i  to  climb  at. 

The  post  of  Captain,  or  of  Primate. 

And  so,  long  life  to  Church  and  Co. — 
Hurrah  for  mischief! — here  wo  go 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOEOUS  POEMS. 


301 


EPISTLE  FROM  CAPTAIN  ROCK  TO  LORD 
LYNDUURST. 

Dear  Lyiuiliurst, — you'll  pardon  my  making  tliiis 

free, — 
But  form  is  all  fudge  'twixt  suen  ••  comrogues"  as 

we, 
Who,  whate'cr  tne  smooth  views  we,  in  public,  may 

drive  at, 
Have  both  the  same  praiseworthy  objcet,  in  private, 
Namely,  never  to  let  the  old  regions  of  riot. 
Where  Rock  hath  long  reigu'd,  Iiave  one  instant  of 

quiet. 
But  keep  Ireland  still  in  that  liquid  we've  taught 

her 
To  love  more  than  meat,  drink,  or  clothing — hot 

water. 

All  the  difference  betwixt  you  and  me,  as  I  take  it. 

Is  simply,  that  you  make  the  law  and  I  break  it ; 

And  never,  of  big-wigs  and  small,  were  there  two 

Play'd  so  well  into  each  other's  hands  as  we  do ; 

Insomuch,  that  the  laws  you  and  yours  manuf:ic- 
ture. 

Seem  all  made  express  for  the  Rock-boys  to  frac- 
ture. 

Not  Birmingham's  self — to  her  shame  be  it  spo- 
ken— 

E'er  made  things  more  neatly  contrived  to  be 
broken ; 

And  hence,  I  confess,  in  this  island  religious. 

The  breakage  of  laws — and  of  heads  is  prodigious. 

And  lortg  may  it  thrive,  my  Ex-Bigwig,  say  I, — 
Though,  of  late,  much  I  fear'd  all  our  fun  was  gone 

by; 
As,  except  when  some  titlie-hunting  parson  show'd 

sport, 
Some  rector — a  cool  hand  at  pistols  and  port. 
Who  "  keeps  dry"  his  powder,  but  never  himself- — 
One  who,  leaving  his  Bible  to  rust  on  the  shelf, 
Sends  his  pious  texts  home,  in  the  shape  of  ball- 
cartridges, 
Sliooting  Ilia  "  dearly-beloved,"  like  partridges; — 
Except  when  some  hero  of  this  sort  turn'd  out. 
Or,  th'  Exchequer  sent,  flaming,  it.s  tithe-writs"" 

about — 
A  contrivance  more  neat,  I  may  say,  without  flat- 
tery. 
Than  e'er  yet  was  thought  of  for  bloodshed  and 

battery ; 
So  neat,  that  even  /  might  be  proud,  I  allow. 
To  have  hit  off  so  rich  a  receipt  for  a  row  ;  — 
Except  for  such  rigs  turning  up,  now  and  then, 
I  was  actually  growing  the  dullest  of  men  ; 


And,  had  this  blank  fit  been  allow'd  to  increase. 
Might  have  snored  myself  down  to  a  Justice  of 

Peace. 
Like  you,  Reformation  in  Cliurch  and  in  State 
Is  the  thing  of  all  things  I  most  cordially  hate; 
If  once  these  cursed  Ministers  do  as  they  like. 
All's  o'er,  my  good  Lord,  with  your  wig  and  niv 

pike. 
And  one  may  be  hung  up  on  t'other,  henceforth, 
Just  to  show  what  snch  Captains  and  Chancellors 

were  worth. 

But  we  must  not  despair — even  already  Hope  sees 
You're  about,  my  bold  Baron,  to  kick  up  a  breeze 
Of  the  true  baffling  sort,  such  as  suits  me  and  vou, 
Who  have  box'd  the  whole  compass  of  party  right 

til  rough, 
And  care  not  one  farthing,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
So  we  but  raise  the  wind,  from  what  quarter  it 

blows. 
Forgive  me,  dear  Lord,  that  thus  rudely  I  dare 
My  own  small  resources  with  thine  to  compare : 
Not  even  Jerry  Diddler,  in  "  raising  tlie  wind,"  durst 
Compete,   for   one   instant,   with    thee,    my   dear 

Lyndliurst. 

But,  hark,  there's  a  shot! — some   parsonic  prac 

titioner  ? 
No — merely  a  bran-new  Rebellion  Commissioner ; 
The  Courts  having  now,  with  true  law  erudition. 
Put  even  Rebellion  itself  "  in  commission." 
As  seldom,  in  this  way,  I'm  any  man's  debtor, 
I'll  just  pay  my  shot,  and  then  fold  up  this  letter. 
In  the  mean  time,  hurrah  for  the  Tories  and  Rocks 
Hurrali    for    the   parsons    who   fleece   well    theii 

flocks! 
Hurrah  for  all  mischief  in  all  ranks  and  spheres, 
And,   above  all,  liurrah  for  that   dear   House   of 

Peers ! 


CAPTAIN  ROCK  IN  LONDON. 

LETTER    FROM   TUE    CAPTAIN   TO    TERKV    ALT,    ESQ.  "' 

Here  I   am,  at   head-quarters,  dear  Terry,  once 

more. 
Deep  in  Tory  designs,  as  I've  oft  been  before : — 
For,  bless  them !  if  'twasn't  for  this  wrong-headed 

crew, 
Y'ou  and  I,  Terry  Alt,  would  scarce  know  what  to 

do; 
So  ready  they're  always,  when  dull  we  are  growing, 
To  set  our  old  concert  of  discord  a-going, 


'602 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


UTiile  Lyndhurst's  the  lad,  witli   liis  Tory-Whig 

face, 
To  play,  in  such  concert,  the  true  double-base. 
1  had  fear'd  this  old  prop  of  my  realm  was  begin- 
ning 
To  tire  of  his  course  of  political  sinning, 
And,  like  Mother  Cole,  when  her  Ueyday  was  past. 
Meant,  by  way  of  a  change,  to  try  virtue  at  last. 
But  I  wrong'd  the  old  boy,  who  as  stanchly  derides 
All  reform  in  himself  as  in  most  things  besides; 
And,  by  using  two  faces  through  life,  all  allow. 
Has  acquired  face  sufficient  for  any  thing  now. 

In  short,  he's  all  right ;  and,  if  mankind's  old  foe, 
My  "  Lord  Harry"  himself — who's  the  leader,  we 
know. 

Of  another  red-hot  Opposition,  below — 

If  that  "Lord,"  in  his  well-known  discernment,  but 

spares 
Me  and  Lyndhurst,  to  look  after  Ireland's  affairs, 
We  shall  soon  such  a  region  of  denlment  make  it 
That  Old  Nick  himself  for  his  own  may  mistake  it. 

Even  already — long  life  to  such  Big-wigs,  s.ay  I, 
For,  as  long  as  they  flourish,  we  Rocks  cannot  die — 
He  lias  served  our  right  riotous  cause  by  a  speech 
Whose  perfection  of  mischief  he  only  could  reach; 
As  it  shows  (iff  both  his  and  my  merits  alike, 
Bolli  the  swell  of  the  wig,  and  the  point  of  the  pike ; 


Slixes  up,  with  a  skill  which  one  can't  but  admire, 
Tiie  lawyer's  cool  craft  with  th'  incendiary's  lire. 
And  enlists,  in  tlie  gravest,  most  plausible  manner, 
Seven  millions  of  souls  under  Rockery's  banner! 
Oh  Terry,  my  man,  let  this  speech  never  die ; 
Through  the  regions  of  Rockl.ind,  like  flame,  let  it 

fly; 

Let  e.ich  syllable  dark  the  Law-Oracle  utter'd 
By  all  Tipperary's  wild  echoes  be  mutter'd, 
Till  naught  shall  be  heard,  over  hill,  dale,  or  flood, 
But  "  You're  aliens  in  language,  in  creed,  and  in 

blood;" 
While  voices,  from  sweet  Connemara  afar. 
Shall  answer,  like  true  Irisk  echoes,  "  We  are !" 
And,  though  false  be  the  cry,  and  though  sense 

must  abhor  it. 
Still  th'  echoes  may  quote  Law  authority  for  it. 
And   naught  Lyndliurst  cares  for  my  spread  of 

dominion, 
So  he,  in  the  end,  touches  cash  " for  th'  opinion" 

But  I've  no  time  for  more,  my  dear  Terry,  just 

now, 
Being  busy  in  helping  these  Lords  through  their 

row : 
They're  bad  hands  at  mob-work,  but,  once  they 

begin, 
Tliey'll  have  plenty  of  practice  to  break  thera  well 

in. 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


303 


NOTES. 


(1)  "  All  hoiir 

Of  love,  of  worldly  in  iltcr  and  diiuclion.'' 

(2)  It  uppears,  however,  that  Ovid  :vn,3  a  friend  to  the  re- 
iiimption  of  payment  in  specie  :— 


-  "finem,  specie  cseleste  rcsumtd 


Luctibiis  imposyit,  venitque  salutiber  nrbi.'" 

Met.  1.  XV.  V.  743. 

(3)  Honorable  Frederick  Robinson. 

(4)  So  called,  to  distinguish  her  fronn  the  "Aurea"or  Golden 
Venus. 

(5)  See  the  proceedings  of  the  Lords,  Wednesday,  March  1, 
1826,  when  Lord  King  was  severely  reproved  by  several  of  the 
noble  Peers,  for  making  so  many  speeches  against  the  Corn 
Laws. 

(6)  This  noble  Earl  said,  (hat  "when  he  beard  the  petition 
came  from  ladies'  boot  and  shoemakers,  he  thought  it  must  be 
against  the  'corns'  which  they  inflicted  on  the  fair  sex." 

(7)  The  Duke  of  Alhol  said,  that  "  at  a  former  period,  when 
these  weavers  were  in  great  distress,  the  landed  interest  of 
Perth  had  supported  1500  of  them.  It  was  a  poor  return  for 
these  very  men  now  to  petition  against  the  persons  who  hud 
fed  them." 

(8)  An  improvement,  we  flatter  ourselves,  on  Lord  L.'s  joke. 

(9)  In  1824,  when  the  Sinking  Fund  was  raised  by  the  impo- 
lition  of  new  taxes  to  the  sura  of  five  millions. 

(10)  A  sort  of  "  breakfast  powder,"  composed  of  roasted 
corn,  was  about  this  time  introduced  by  Mr.  Hunt,  as  a  substi- 
tute for  coffee. 

(11)  The  venerable  Jeremy's  phrase  for  his  after-dinner  walk. 
(_12)  A  phrase  in  one  of  Sir  Thomas's  last  speeches. 

(13)  Great  efforts  were,  at  that  ti  me,  making  for  the  exclusion 
of  foreign  silk. 

(14)  "Road  to  Ruin." 

(15)  This  is  meant  not  so  much  for  a  pun,  as  in  allusion  to 
the  natural  liistory  of  the  Unicorn,  whicli  is  supposed  to  be 
something  between  the  Bos  and  the  Asinus,  and,  as  Rees's 
Cyclopiedia  assures  us,  has  a  particular  liking  for  every  thing 
"  chaste." 

(i6)  An  item  of  expense  which  Mr.  Hume  in  vain  endeavor- 
ed to  get  rid  of: — trumpeters,  it  appears,  like  the  men  of  All- 
Souls,  must  be  "■  bene  vcstiti.'''' 

(IT)  The  gentleman,  lately  before  the  public,  who  kept  his 
Jttinf-Stock  Tea  Company  all  to  himself,  singing  '•^Tc  aolo 
Btloro." 

(18)  Sir  Juha  Ncwpovt, 


(19)  This  cliarge  of  two  pipes  of  port  for  tlio  Bacramcjilai 
wine  is  a  precious  specimen  of  the  sort  of  rates  levied  upon 
their  Catholic  fellow-parishioners  by  the  Irish  Protestants. 

"The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 
Doth  ask  a  drink  divine." 

(•20)  "Another  objection  to  a  metallic  ciirrt-ncy  was,  that  it 
produced  a  greater  number  of  highway  robberies." — DebaU 
in  the  Lords, 

(S31)  Mr.  Abercromby's  statement  of  the  enormous  tavern 
bills  of  the  Commissioners  of  Bankrupts. 

(92)  Confuoco — a  music-book  direction. 

(23)  This  reverend  gentleman  distinguiahed  himself  at  the 
Reading  election. 

(24)  "A  measure  of  wheat  for  a  penny,  anl  three  raoasures 
of  barley  for  a  penny."— /ieu.  vi. 

(25)  See  the  oration  of  this  reverend  gentleman,  where  he 
describes  the  connubial  joys  of  Paradise,  and  paints  the  ajigels 
hovering  round  "each  happy  fair." 

(2G)  When  Whiston  presented  to  Prince  Eugene  the  Essay  in 
which  he  attempted  to  connect  his  victories  over  the  Turks 
with  Revelation,  the  Prince  is  said  to  hare  replied,  that  "be 
was  not  aware  he  had  ever  had  the  honcr  of  being  known  to 
St.  John." 

(27)  Mr.  Dobbs  was  a  member  of  the  Irish  Parliament,  end, 
on  all  other  subjects  but  the  Millennium,  a  very  sensible 
person:  he  chose  Armagh  as  the  scene  of  his  Millennium, 
on  account  of  the  name  Armageddon,  mentioned  in  Reve- 
lation. 

(28)  The  editor  of  the  Morning  Herald,  so  nicknamed. 

(29)  Alluding  to  the  display  of  this  doctor's  name,  in  chalk, 
on  all  the  walls  round  the  melropolis, 

(30)  This  seraphic  doctor,  in  the  preface  to  his  last  work, 
{Vindicim  Ecdesia:  AnglicaiiT^)  is  pleased  to  anathematize  not 
only  all  Catholics,  but  all  advocates  of  Catholics :— "  They  have 
for  their  immediate  allies  (he  says)  every  faction  that  is  banded 
against  the  State,  every  demagogue,  every  irreligious  and  sedi- 
tious ournalist,  every  open  and  every  insidious  enemy  to 
Monarchy  and  to  Christianity." 

(31)  See  the  late  accounts  in  the  newspapers  of  the  appear- 
ance of  this  gentleman  at  one  of  the  Police-offices,  in  conse- 
quence of  an  alleged  assault  on  his  "  maid-of-all-work." 

(32)  A  crown  granted  as  a  reward  among  the  Romans  to 
persons  who  performed  any  extraordinary  exploits  upon  wall-i^ 
such  as  scaling  them,  battering  them,  &c.— No  doubt,  writing 
upon  them,  to  the  extent  Dr.  Eady  does,  would  equally  estab- 
lish a  claim  to  the  honor. 

(33)  So  described  by  a  Reverend  Historian  c  f  the  Church  :— 
"  A  Delia,  hat,  like  the  horizontal  section  t  f  a  pyramid,"— 
Gra.kt^b  History  oJ  the  Ertglish  Church. 


304 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


(34)  Archbishop  Magee  afleclionalely  calls  the  Church  Ea- 
labUdhment  of  Irel-ad  -the  litlle  Ziou." 

(35)  A  diatribulion  was  made  of  the  Emperor  Alexander's 
mUitar}'  wardrobe  by  his  successor. 

(36)  This  potentate  styles  himself  the  Monarcb  of  the  Golden 
FooU 

(37)  The  Lord  Cliancellor  Eldon. 

(38)  To  Buch  important  discussions  as  these  the  greater  part 
of  Dr.  Soutliey^a  Vindicits  Ecclesim  Angticana  is  devoted. 

(39)  Consiibstantiation— the  true  Reformed  belief;  at  least, 
the  belief  of  Luther,  and,  as  Mosheira  asserts,  of  Jlelancthou 
also. 

(AQ)  ^Mien  John  of  Kagusa  went  to  Constantinople,  (at  the 
time  this  dispute  between  -'ex''  and  "per"  was  going  on,)  he 
found  the  Turks,  we  are  told,  "  laughing  at  tlie  Christians  for 
being  divided  by  two  such  insigniScanI  particles." 

(41)  The  Arian  controversy.— Before  that  time,  says  Hooker, 
"in  order  to  be  a  aoimd  believing  Christian,  men  were  not 
curious  what  syllables  or  particles  of  speech  they  used. 

(4ii)  A  icreat  part  of  the  income  of  Joanna  Soutbcott  arose 
from  the  Svals  of  the  I^ord's  protection  which  she  sold  to  her 
foUowcrs. 

(43)  Mrs.  Anne  Leo,  tho  "  chosen  vessel"  of  the  Shakers,  and 
^  Mother  of  all  tho  children  of  regeneration." 

(^»  Toid  Ijine,  in  Manchester,  where  Mother  Leo  was  bom. 
la  her  "  Addrwia  to  Young  Helievers,"  she  says,  tlwit  "  it  is  a 
mal'.er  of  no  importance  with  them  from  whence  the  means  of 
their  deliveranc*;  come,  wliether  from  a  stable  in  Bethlehem, 
or  from  Tuad  Lane,  Manchester." 

(45)  Strong  indications  of  chnrauer  may  bo  sometimes  traced 
lu  the  rhymes  to  names.     MarveJl  thought  so,  when  ho  wrote 

"Sir  Edward  Sutton, 
The  foolish  Knight  who  rhymes  to  mutton." 

(4fl)  Tho  member,  during  a  huig  j>eriod,  for  Coventry. 

(47)  An  humble  imitation  of  one  of  our  modern  pools,  who, 
In  a  poem  against  War,  after  describing  tho  splendid  habill- 
ments  of  the  soldier,  thus  aposlrojihizea  him— ''thou  rainbow 
ruHlan  I" 


(48) 


''  lively  Tlmis  aits  besido  Ihco: 
Tako  tho  good  tlie  Gods  provide  thee." 


(40)  So  called  by  a  sort  of  Tuscan  dulciUcatlon  of  the  rA,  In 
(ho  word  "Chairman." 

(50)  Wo  oro  told  that  the  passport  of  this  grand  diplomatic 
rurtio,  (scut  by  the  Socretnry  for  Foreign  AlTuira  to  a  certain 
Boble  envoy,)  described  him  as  "on  his  majeBty*s  service." 

dnpibus  siiprpml 

Gmta  tcstudo  Jovin. 

(.'•I)  Mr.  Canning. 

(32)  WanderingB  in  South  America.  "  II  wnii  tlio  first  nnd 
lut  llm>i  (%njn    Mr.  Walyrlon)  I  u«*  v\vr  on  a  crocodllo'i 


(53)  Alluding  to  an  early  poem  of  Mr.  Coleridge's,  addressed 
to  an  Ass,  and  beginning,  "  I  hail  thee,  brother  I" 

(54)  A  certain  country  gentleman  having  said  in  the  Housi^ 
*•  that  we  must  return  at  last  to  the  food  of  our  ancestors,^ 
somebody  asked  Mr. T.  "what  food  the  gentleman  meant'." 
— "  Thistles,  I  suppose,"  ajiswered  Mr.  T. 

(55)  A  celebrated  political  tailor. 

(oG)  This  pains-taking  gentleman  has  been  at  the  trouble  of 
counting,  with  the  assistance  of  Cocker,  the  number  of  meta- 
phors in  Moore's  "  Life  of  Sheridan,"  and  has  found  them  to 
amount,  as  nearly  as  possible,  to  2235 — and  some  fractions. 

(57)  Author  of  the  late  Report  on  Foreign  Corn. 

(58)  The  Horn  Gate,  through  which  the  ancients  supposed 
all  true  dreams  (such  as  those  of  the  Polish  Plot,  &c.)  to 


(59)  A  celebrated  Judge,  so  named. 

(60)  This  lady  also  favors  us,  in  her  Memoirs,  with  the  ad- 
dress of  those  apothecaries,  who  have,  from  time  to  time,  gi\en 
her  pills  that  agreed  with  her;  always  desiring  that  the  pilli 
should  be  ordered  ^'-  comme  pour  die.'''' 

(Gl)  A  gentleman  who  distinguished  himself  by  his  evidence 
before  the  Irish  Committees. 

(62)  According  to  the  common  reading,  "'quodcunque  In. 
fundis,  acescit." 

(63)  Written  on  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  York, 

(64)  "You  fell,  said  they,  into  tho  hands  of  tho  Old  Man  of 
the  Sea,  nnd  are  the  first  who  ever  escaped  strangling  by  hli 
malicious  tricks." — Story  of  SinhaiK 

(65)  "I<ove  rul^s  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grovo, 

And  men  below  nnd  gods  above, 

For  Love  is  llea\en,  and  Heaven  is  Love." — ProTT, 

(CO)  "  J?rii« — a  naughty  woman." — Grose. 

(67)  "<VAo,«f  [beneath].— Swear! 

"//fim/rf.— lla,  ha!  sny'st  thou  so?  Art  thou  there,  True* 
penny  ?    C(mio  on." 

(G^)  His  Lordship's  demand  for  fresh  allldavits  was  incof^sant 

(G9)  Accented  as  In  Swift's  lino— 

"Not  so  a  nation's  revenues  are  juiid." 

(70)  Created  Lord  Fnrnborough, 

(71)  Among  the  pernnna  mentioned  as  likely  to  be  raised  to 
tho  Peerage,  are  the  mother  of  Vcsi-y  Fltzgei-ald,  &c. 

(72)  A  case  which  inten'rtlod  llic  jiiihlic  very  nntrb  at  (hi» 
perliKl.  A  Kcnlleman,  of  the  name  of  Hell,  hn^lng  left  hla 
umbrella  behind  him  In  the  House  of  Lords,  llio  (loorker>pi>rs 
(htnndlntr.  no  doubt,  on  the  prlvlloRrs  of  tluit  noble  body)  re- 
fusi'd  to  reHloro  iltobim;  and  the  above  BpiM-cb,  which  may 
bo  considered  lis  wprnilnnl  to  that  of  the  Learned  Earl  on  th« 
Catholic  Question,  arose  out  of  (ho  traiiHactloii. 

(73)  From  Mr.  CanniiiK's  Iraniitatlnn  of  JekyPs — 

"  I  wiy.  toy  Hoofl  (rllo«i«, 
Ai  yun'vn  no  umbrolloa,*' 


SATIRICAL  AND  IIUMOllOUS  POEMS. 


305 


(71)  A  small  balhing-pliico  on  the  coast  of  Dorsetshire,  long 
a  favjrite  siiinnuu*  resort  of  tho  ox-noblt'inan  in  question,  and, 
'.ill  this  season,  much  IVequcnted  also  by  gentlemen  of  the 
church. 

(V.-))  The  T.ord  Clmucellor  Eldon. 

^7^t>  Suggested  by  n  speech  from  tlie  Ulshop  of  Chester  on 
ttie  subject  of  the  New  Ilcfortniition  in  Irclnnd,  tn  which  his 
Lordahip  denounced  "  Woe!  Woe!  Woe!"  preMy  abundantly 
an  all  those  who  dared  to  interfere  with  its  progress. 

(77)  The  inextinguishable  nre  of  Pt.  Bridget,  at  Kildare. 

CrS)  Whiskey. 

(79)  "We  understand  that  several  applications  have  lately 
been  maJo  to  the  Protestiint  clergymen  of  this  town  by  fel- 
lows, inquiring, '  What  are  they  giving  a  head  for  converts  ?'  " 
—  JVexforJ  Post. 

<S0)  Of  me  rook  species — Corvus  fni^i/fg-us^\,e,  n  great  con- 
eumer  of  tu>rn. 

,(81)  Visinu  was  (as  Sir  W.  Jones  calls  him)  "a  pisciform 
gud,"— his  first  Avatar  being  in  the  shape  of  a  fish, 

(82)  One  of  the  shows  of  London. 

(93)  More  particularly  his  Grace's  celebrated  amendment  to 
the  Corn  Bill ;  for  which,  and  the  circumstances  connected 
with  it,  see  Annual  Register  for  a.  d.  1827. 

<8-l)  From  a  speech  of  Sir  Boyle  Roche's,  in  the  Irish  House 
( f  Commons. 

(8ri)  The  learning  his  Lordship  displayed,  on  the  subject  of 
the  butchertj  "filTh  quarter"  of  mutton,  will  not  speedily  be 
forgotten. 

f86)  The  nom  de  guerre  under  which  Colman  has  written 
some  of  his  best  farces. 

(87)  To  I.eigh  Hunt,  npon  his  publishing  the  "  Life  of 
Byron." 

(88)  At  the  commencement  of  this  year,  the  designs  of  Don 
Miguel  and  his  partisans  against  the  constitution  established 
by  his  brother  had  begun  more  openly  to  declare  them- 
selves. 

(30)  Don  Miguel  had  paid  a  visit  to  the  English  court,  at  the 
close  of  the  year  18C7. 

(90)  Dressed  with  a  pint  of  the  strongest  spirits— a  favorite 
dish  of  the  Great  Frederick  ofPrussia,  and  which  he  persevered 
in  eating  even  on  his  death-bed,  much  to  the  horror  of  his 
physician,  Zimmerman. 

(91)  This  quiet  case  of  murder,  witli  all  its  parliculara— the 
hiding  the  body  under  the  dinner-table,  &.C.,  &c. — is,  no 
doubt,  well  known  to  the  reader. 

(92)  Astolpho. 
<93)  Huskisson. 

<94)  Or  Lieutenant-Cleueral,  as  it  may  happen  to  be. 

(95)  The  classical  term  for  money. 

(96)  The  reader  may  change  this  name  for  anyone  of  the 
iisayllabic  publishe  a  of  London  that  occurs  to  him. 

39 


(97)  Rosa  Matilda,  who  was  for  many  years  the  writer  of  the 
political  articles  in  the  journal  alluded  to,  and  whose  spirit  stilJ 
seems  to  preside — "regnal  Rosa" — over  its  pages. 

(98)  JVoi  the  charming  \^  V,.  L.,  and  still  less,  Mrs.  V.  11-, 
whose  poetry  is  among  the  most  beautiful  of  the  present  day. 

(90)  "History  of  the  Cluba  of  London,"  announced  ob  by  "a 
Member  of  Brooks's." 

(100)  A  Dantesqtir  Ti\\\moi\  to  the  old  saying,  ■*  Nine  miles 
beyond  U— 11,  where  Peter  pitched  his  waistcoat." 

(101)  The  noble  Lord,  it  is  well  known,  cut  off  this  much- 
respected  appendage,  on  his  retirement  from  office  some 
months  since. 

(102)  "Shakes  his  ambrosial  curls,  and  gives  the  nod." 

Popk's  Jlomcr. 

(103)  Written  during  the  late  discussion  on  the  Test  and  Cor- 
poration Acts. 

(104)  During  the  discussion  of  the  CathoHc  question  in  (ho 
House  of  Commons  last  session. 

(105)  This  rhyme  is  more  for  the  ear  than  the  eye,  aa  the  car 
penter's  tool  is  spelt  auger. 

(lOS)  Fabius,  who  sent  droves  of  bullocks  against  the  enemy. 

(107)  Res  Fisci  est,  ubicumque  natat-^uvt.vAi,. 

(108)  Called  by  Virgil  botanically,  '■'■species  auri  frondcntisi." 

(109)  Tu  facis,  ut  silvas^  ut  amem  loca Ovin 

(110)  These  verses  were  suggested  by  the  result  of  the  Claro 
election,  in  the  year  1828,  wlien  the  Right  Honorable  W.  Ve&c-y 
Fitzgerald  was  rejected,  and  Mr.  O'Connell  returned. 

(111)  Some  expressions  of  this  purport,  in  a  published  htter 
of  one  of  these  gentlemen,  had  then  produced  a  good  deul  ot 
amusement. 

(112)  Meaning,  i  presume,  Coalition  Administraliuii:*. 

(113)  Written,  after  hearing  a  celebrated  speech  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  June  10,  1628.  when  the  motion  in  favor  of  Cathctlic 
Emancipation,  brought  forward  by  the  Marquis  of  Lans- 
downe,  was  rejected  by  the  House  of  Lords. 

(114)  A  reverend  prebendary  of  Hereford,  in  an  Essay  on  the 
Revenues  of  the  Church  of  England,  has  assigned  the  origin  of 
Tithes  to  "some  uni-ecorded  revelation  made  to  Adam." 

(115)  "  The  tenth  calf  is  due  to  the  person  of  common  right ; 
and  if  there  are  seven  be  shalt  have  one."— Rkes's  Cijclo 
paidia^  art.  "  Tithes  J^ 

(116)  Chaucer's  Plowman  complains  of  the  parish  rectors,  that 

"For  the  tithing  of  a  duck, 

Or  an  apple  ot  im  aye,  (egg,) 
They  make  him  Bwear  upon  a  boke  ; 
Thus  they  fouien  Cliriat's  fay." 

(117)  Among  the  specimens  laid  before  Parliament  of  the  sort 
of  Church  rates  levied  upon  Catholics  in  Ireland,  was  a  charge 
of  two  pipes  of  port  for  sacramental  wine. 

(118)  Ezekiel,  xxxiv.  10.— "Neither  shall  the  shepherds  feed 
themselves  any  more:  for  I  will  deliver  my  flock  from  theii 
mouth,  that  they  may  not  be  meat  for  them." 


506 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


(119)  Peritune  parcero  charta*. 

(120)  The  only  way.  Monsieur  Ude  assures  us,  to  get  rid  of 
Uie  oil  so  objccliouable  in  this  Gsh. 

(121)  A  liver  complaint.  The  process  by  which  the  livers  of 
gocse  are  eular^ed  for  Ibe  famous  Pates  de  foie  iToie, 

(1-22)  Tolhl*  practice  the  ancient  adag'e  alludes, "  Asinus  por- 
lans  mysteria." 

(1-23)  See  the  anecdote,  which  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough 
relates  in  her  Memoirs,  of  this  polite  hero  approprialing  to 
himself,  one  day,  at  dinner,  a  whole  dish  of  green  peas— the 
first  of  the  season— while  the  poor  Princess  Anne,  who  was 
then  in  a  longing  condition,  sat  by,  vainly  entreating,  with 
her  eyes,  for  a  share. 

(124)  The  same  prudent  propensity  characterizes  his  descend- 
ant, who  (ns  is  well  known)  would  not  even  go  to  the  expense 
of  a  diphthong  on  his  father's  monument,  but  had  the  in- 
«cription  spelled,  economically,  thus; — '■'•  Mors  janua.  riM." 

C125)  "  Let  us  form  Clubs." 

(126)  Commonly  called  "Paddy  Blake's  Echoes." 

(127)  Anti-Cr.lholic  associations,  under  the  title  of  Brunswick 
0Iub9,  were  at  this  time  becoming  numerous  both  in  England 
and  Ireland. 

(128)  Alluding  to  a  well-known  lyric  composition  of  the  late 
Marquis,  which,  witii  a  slight  alteration,  might  be  addressed 
either  to  a  flea  or  a  fly.    Eor  instance  :— 

"  Oh,  happy,  hnppy,  hnppy  fly. 
If  I  were  you,  or  you  were  I." 

Or, 

"Oh,  happy,  happy,  happy  flea. 
If  I  were  you,  or  you  were  vie  ; 
Dul  since,  ulos!  that  cannot  be, 
I  must  remain  Lord  Sivlisbury." 

(129)  One  of  the  operntions  in  cotton  mills  usually  performed 
ny  ohiMrer» 

(130)  "Tliat  dark  djgensed  ichor  which  coli>red  his  effusions." 
— Galt's  Lift  of  Byron. 

(131)  "That  gelatinous  chiirncter  of  their  effusions."— /&/</, 

( 132)  "  Tlie  poetical  embalmment,  or  rather,  amber  immortal- 
ization."—/fiiJ. 

(133)  "  Bitting  amidst  the  ftltrouds  and  raltlinga,  churning  an 
Inarticulate  melody."— /feiV/. 

(134)  "  He  woa  a  mystery  In  a  winding  ahcot,  crowned  with 
a  halo."— /WJ. 

(IX'i)  Ono  of  tho  questions  propounded  to  Uio  Puritans  In 
1^73  was— "  Whether  Iho  Hook  of  t^ervice  was  good  and 
Koilly,  every  tlltlo  grounded  on  tho  lluly  HcrifituroV"  On 
whlrh  nn  honest  Dlpscnlor  remarks— "Surely  they  hiul  a 
wiindi.Tful  oplniim  of  their  ."(—vice  Hook  that  there  was  not 
a  uiUt  nmlM  in  iL' 

nsC)  "They."  thi)  Ilifhnps,"  know  Ihtil  the  primitive  Church 
bvJ  DO  such  lliihopff.  If  ihc  fiiurtli  part  of  tho  bishopric  ro- 
malni'd  unto  thn  lllthop,  It  wuro  ■uniclonl."— On  ike  Com- 


(137)  "  Since  the  Prelates  were  made  Lords  and  Nobles,  tht 
plough  standeth,  there  is  no  work  done,  the  people  stwrve." 
Z,at.  Scrm. 

(1U?|  '"Of  whom  have  come  all  these  glorious  titles,  styles, 
and  pomps  into  the  Church.  But  1  would  that  I,  and  all  mj 
brethren,  the  Bishops,  would  leave  all  our  styles,  and  write 
the  styles  of  our  ollices,''  &:c. — Life  of  Cranmcr^  by  Utrtipe^ 
^Ippendix. 

(139)  Part  of  the  process  of  emhalmnient. 

(140)  The  Book  of  Sports  drawn  up  by  Bishop  Morcton  was 
first  put  forth  in  the  reign  of  James  L,  IfdS,  and  afterwards 
republished,  by  the  advice  of  Laud,  by  Charles  L,  l'>33,  with 
an  injunction  that  it  should  be  "made  public  by  order  from 
the  Bishops."  We  find  it  therein  declared,  that  "for  his  good 
people's  recreation,  his  Majesty's  pU-asure  was.  that  after  the 
end  of  divine  service  they  should  not  be  disturbed,  letted,  or 
discouraged  from  any  lawful  recreations,  svich  as  dancing 
either  of  men  or  women,  archery  fur  nuMi,  k-apiiii;.  vaultiiig 
or  any  such  harmless  recreations,  nor  having  of  May-ganifs 
Whitsun-ales,  or  Morris-dances,  or  setting  up  of  May-poles^ 
or  other  sports  therewith  used,"  &,c. 

(Ml)  See  "Ella  of  fiarveloch." — Garveloch  being  a  place 
where  there  was  a  large  herring  fishery,  but  where,  as  we 
are  told  by  the  author,  "the  people  lucrensed  much  fastor 
than  the  produce," 

(H'2)  Servants  in  livery, 

(143)  For  the  "gude  effects  nnti  utility  of  booing."  wif*  Uifl 
Man  of  the  H'orlil. 

(144)  Come,  Cloe,  and  givo  me  sweet  kisses, 

For  sweeter  sure  never  girl  gave ; 
But  why,  in  the  midrt  of  my  blisses. 
Do  you  ask  me  how  many  I'd  ha^eV 

(145)  For  whilst  1  love  thee  above  measure, 

To  numbers  I'll  ne'er  be  conlinetl. 

(I4C)      Count  tho  bees  that  on  Ilybla  are  playing. 
Count  tho  flowers  that  enamel  its  fields, 
Count  the  flocks,  &c. 

(1 17)      Co  number  the  stars  in  the  heaven. 

Count  how  many  sands  on  the  shore; 
When  so  many  kisses  you've  giveUi 
I  still  shall  be  craving  for  more. 

(148)      But  the  wretch  who  can  nuTuhrr  hii*  kisses, 
With  few  will  be  oviT  eiiutent. 

(140)  The  Duke  nf  W.-IIington.  wli.i  sl\l.-d  them  the  "  ArtI 
cles  of  Christianity.'* 

(ITiO)  An  Indenitigntic  scribbler  of  Antl-CnthoHc  pamphlets 

(151)  Usually  w  rltli-n  "  Cole." 

(I.'i2)  A  personage,  so  styling  herself,  wlut  attained  c<iih 
sUlernhle  notorh-ty  at  that  periiKl. 

(153)  In  n  work  on  Churrh  Ui-form,  published  Uy  his  l.unl- 
•hip  In  lt<.32. 

(154)  "  Assnynr,-vou8,  mos  enftins."— "II  n'jr  n  |uis  do  qiiol, 
muu  P«l|(u«ur.** 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


807 


f  155)  W'riltcu  at  that  inoinorublo  crisis  when  a  distinyuished 
Dukt^',  then  Primo  Minister,  acting  under  the  in»piriitiuns  ol' 
Sir  Claudius  Iluntor  and  other  City  worthies,  advised  his 
Majusty  lo  give  up  his  announced  intention  of  dinin'j  with 
the  Lord  Blajor. 

(150)  Among  other  reinaikablo  attributes  by  which  Sir 
Claudius  di»linguish(Ml  himself,  the  da/zling  whiteness  of  his 
favorite  steed  was  not  tlio  least  conspicnoi:?. 

(157)  In  the  Government  of  Perm. 

(158)  Tei-rilory  belonging  to  the  mines  of  Kolivano-Kosskres- 
eense. 

(159)  The  name  of  a  religious  sect  in  Russia.  "  II  existe 
eu  Russie  plusieurs  sectes;  la  plus  nombreuse  est  cellu  des 
Raskul-uiks,  ou  vrai-croyants." — Gamba,  Voyage  dans  la  Rus- 
tic Jiltridionale. 

(lOOl  'MJcavcn  first  taught  letbt-rs  for  some  wretch's  aid.'* 

PoPK. 

(161)  Written  on  the  passing  of  the  memorable  Bill,  in  the 
year  1833,  for  the  abolition  of  ten  Irisli  Bishoprics. 

(1G2)  Literally,  First  Dancers. 

(IG3)  «  And  what  does  Moses  say  ?"— One  of  the  ejaculutions 
with  which  this  eminent  prelate  enlivened  his  famous  apeech 
ou  the  Catholic  question. 

(l&l)  A  description  of  the  method  of  executing  this  step 
may  be  usefid  to  future  performers  in  the  same  line: — "Ce  pas 
est  compos6  de  deux  mouvemens  dilTerens,  savoir,  plier,  et 
sauter  sur  un  pied,  et  se  rejeter  sur  Cautre.'''' — Dictionnaire 
dc  Danse^  art.  Contrc-temps. 

(1G5)  "He  objected  to  the  maintenance  and  education  of  a 
clergy  bound  by  the  particular  vows  of  celibacy^  ichich,  as  it 
iccre-,  ffave  them  the  church  as  their  on!y  familyi  making  it  fill 
the  places  of  father  and  moUier  and  brother.''^ — Debate  on  the 
Grant  to  Maynooth  College,  The  Timcs^  April  19. 

<166)  "  It  had  always  appeared  to  him  that  between  the  Catholic 
and  Protestant  a  great  gulf  intervened,  which  rendered  it  im- 
possible," &c. 

(1C7)  "The  Baptist  might  acceptably  extend  the  offices  of 
religion  to  tlie  Presbyterian  end  the  Independent,  or  the 
member  of  the  Church  of  England  to  nny  of  the  other  three; 
buUhe  Catholic,"  &.c. 

(10?)  "Could  he  then,  holding  ns  he  did  a  spiritual  office 
in  the  Church  of  Scotland,  (cries  of  hear  and  laughter,)  with 
nny  consistency  give  his  consent  to  a  grant  of  money  ?"  &c. 

(169)  "I  am  a  wise  fellow,  and,  which  is  more,  an  officer." 
Muck  Adu  about  Xnthiug. 

(170)  "What,  he  asked,  was  the  use  of  the  Reformation? 
What  was  the  use  of  the  Articles  of  the  Church  of  England, 
ortif  tlie  Church  of  Scotland?"  &c. 

(171)  Echpses  and  comets  have  been  always  looked  to  as 
treat  changers  of  administration.  Thus  Miltun,  speaking  of 
the  former: — 

"  With  fear  of  change 
Perplexing  monarchs." 
And  in  Slalius  we  find, 

"  Mutant  qua?  sceptra  cometx." 

(173y  See,  for  some  of  these  Protocols,  the  Annual  Register, 
for  the  year  183^. 

n73)  The  Duke  of  Buckiasham. 


(I7i)  "  And  from  his  horrid  hair 

Shakes  pestilence  and  war." 

(17.'>)  A  new  creation  of  Peers  was  generally  expected  iit  tltia 
lime. 

(17C)  Sec  the  lives  of  these  two  poets  for  (he  circumstances 
under  which  they  left  Dublin  College. 

(177)  In  the  year  1799,  tho  Board  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
thought  proper,  as  a  mode  of  expressing  their  disapprobation 
of  Mr.  (irattau's  public  conduct,  to  order  his  portrait,  in  tho 
Cj'eat  Hall  of  the  University,  to  be  turned  upside  down,  and 
in  this  position  it  remained  for  some  time. 

(178)  Liafail,  or  the  Stone  of  Destiny,— for  which,  see  West^ 
minster  Abbey. 

# 

(179)  It  will  be  recollected  that  the  learned  gentleman  him 
self  boasted  one  night  in  the  House  of  Commons,  of  havint, 
sat  in  the  very  chair  which  this  allegorical  la-iy  had  oecu 
pied. 

(180)  Lucan's  description  of  thO  effects  of  the  tripod  on  tht 
appearance  and  voice  of  the  sitter,  shows  that  the  symptoms 
are,  at  least,  very  similar: 

Spumea  tunc  primum  rabies  vesana  per  ora 

Effluit 

tunc  mccstus  vastis  ululatus  in  anlris. 

(181)  So  called  from  the  proceedings  of  the  Synod  of  Dort. 

(182)  Witness  his  well-known  pun  on  the  name  of  his  adver 
sary,  Vigilanlius,  whom  he  calls  facetiously  Dormitantius. 

(IS3)  The  suspicion  attached  to  some  of  the  early  Fathers  of 
being  Arians  in  their  doctrine  would  appear  to  derive  some 
confirmation  from  this  passage. 

(184)  The  wig,  which  had  so  long  formed  an  essential  pari 
of  the  dress  of  an  English  bishop,  was  at  this  time  beginning 
to  be  dispensed  with. 

(185)  See  the  Bishop's  Letter  to  Clergy  of  his  Diocese. 

(18(j)  1  John,  T.  7.  A  text  which,  though  long  given  up  by 
all  the  rest  of  tlie  orthodox  world,  is  still  pertinaciously  ad 
hered  lo  by  this  Right  Reverend  scholar. 

(187)  It  was  a  saying  of  the  well-known  Sir  Boyle,  that  "a 
man  could  not  be  in  two  places  at  once,  uidess  he  was  n 
bird." 

(188)  The  !\rarqui3  of  Hertford's  Fete. — From  dread  of  cholera 
his  Lordship  had  ordered  tar-barrels  to  be  bujned  in  every 
direction. 

(189)  These  verses,  as  well  as  some  others  that  follow,  (p 
275.)  were  extorted  from  me  by  that,  lamentable  measure  of  tha 
Whig  ministry,  the  Irish  Coercion  Act. 

(190)  This  eminent  artist,  in  the  second  edition  of  the  work 
wherein  he  propounds  this  mode  of  purifying  his  eels,  pro- 
fesses liimself  much  concerned  at  the  charge  of  inhumanity 
brought  against  his  practice,  but  still  begs  leave  respectfully 
to  repeat  that  it  is  the  only  proper  mode  of  prepariti?  eels  for 
the  table. 

(191)  See  Edinbui-gh  Review,  No.  1 17. 

(192)  "Your  Lordship,"  says  Mr.  Overton,  in  the  Dedica- 
tion of  his  Poem  to  the  Bishop  of  Chester,  "has  kindly  ex 
pressed  your  persuasion  that  my  ^  Muse  will  always  be  a  .Muss 
of  sacred  song,  and  that  it  itiU  be  'xncd  as  DacitTs  icns.' '' 


(193)  SophocI' 
(194) 


album  mutur  in  alitem 

uperne :  nascunturque  heves 
Per  digitos.  humerosquc  plums?. 


808 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


(105)  "It  appears  that  when  a  youth  of  fifteen  goes  to  be 
matriculated  at  Oxford,  and  is  required  first  to  subscribe 
Thirty-nine  Articles  of  Religious  Belief,  this  only  means  that 
he  enjjai^s  himself  afterwards  to  understand  what  is  now 
above  bis  comprehension ;  that  he  expresses  no  assent  at  all 
to  wh.il  he  signs;  and  that  he  is  (or,  ou^ht  to  be)  at  full 
liberty,  when  he  has  studied  the  subject,  to  withdraw  his 
provisional  assent." — Edinburgh  Rci-iciTy  Xo.  120. 

(195)  Fourteen  aLrricultural  laborers  (one  of  whom  received 
8o  little  as  six  guineas  for  yearly  wa^es.  one  eight,  one  nine, 
another  ten  guineas,  and  the  best  paid  of  the  whole  not  more 
tha:»  18/.  annually)  were  all.  in  tlie  course  of  the  autumn  of 
le^^  served  with  demands  of  lithe  at  the  rate  uf  4J.  in  the 
\i.  sterling,  on  behalf  of  the  Rev.  F.  Lundy,  Rector  of  Lack- 
iuglou,  Arc,  &.c.—  The  Times,  August,  l&O. 

(197)  One  of  the  various  general  terras  under  which  obla- 
lioits,  tithes,  &c.,  are  comprised. 

(I9S)  I  have  already  in  a  preceding  page  referred  to  this 
squib,  as  being  one  of  those  wrun^  from  me  by  the  Irish 
Coercion  Act  of  my  friends,  the  Whigs. 

(199)  The  tot(U^ — so  pronounced  by  this  industrious  senator. 

(200)  Corporation  sole. 

(201)  The  materials  of  which  those  Nuremberg  Savaiis,  men- 
tioned by  Scriblerus,  constructed  their  artillcial  man. 

(303)  The  wooden  models  used  by  piiinlers  are,  it  is  well 
knovTD,  called  *^  lay  figures." 

(303)  The  claim  to  tlie  barony  of  Chandos  (if  I  i-ecollect 
rigbt^  advanced  by  the  lato  Sir  Egertou  Urydgi-s. 

(204)  '■^  This  we  call  pure  nihility,  or  mere  nothing.^^ —  JVatts's 

<305)  Sue  his  Letters  to  Friends,  lib.  ix.  epist.  lU,  311,  &c. 

(206)  Ingenttum  squillarum  cum  Sophia  SeptimiiP.  — Lib.  ix. 
•put.  10. 

(207)  Tithes  were  paid  to  the  Pytliinri  Apollo. 

(208)  Sue  Dr.  Wiseman's  learned  and  able  Utter  to  Mr. 
foyndcr. 


(209)  Joshua,  xxiv.  3. 


(210) 


■■Neccontiitit  ull 


Hoc  vidisse  caput."  Claudian. 

(211)  Captains  Mosse,  Rlou,  &c&c. 

(313>  This  an<l  the  folluwiuK  squib,  which  must  have  been 
written  about  the  year  IKl.'i-Jt},  have  been  by  some  overclght 
misplaced. 

(213>  Ovid  is  mintJiken  lu  imyin;;  that  It  was  'Mit  Paris" 
flH.'se  rapncJous  transaclions  took  plact — wo  should  read 
"al  Vienno." 

«2I1)        "  WbiMi  weak  women  go  antray, 

TI(U  stars  are  more  hi  fnull  than  they." 

(21't^  It  Is  Ihiii  the  noble  lord  pronounces  the  word  "  knowl- 
^go"— d(  rlvliiK  it,  na  far  ni  )iis  own  shore  Is  concerned,  from 
hti  Lbtln,  *«nullui." 

(YI6)  01c  to  DIvn  potPHs  CyprI, 

Vic  rrslres  llelenus  luclda  sidcra, 
Vonlornmquc  r*'Knl  pntrr. 


(217)  See  a  descripliou  of  the  ao-voi,  or  Bags  of  Eolus.  in  th' 
Odyssey,  lib.  10. 

(218)  Navis,  qua?  tibi  creditiun 

Debes  Virgilium. 

(219)  Auana;  diraidium  inciim. 

(220)  IIU  robur  et  ;es  triplex 

Circa  pectus  erat,  qui.  &.c. 

(221)  pra?cipitem  Africuni 

Decertantem  Aquilonibus. 

(322)  Kequicquara  bens  abscidit 

Prudens  oceano  dissociabili 
Terras,  si  tamen  impia; 
Non  langeuda  Rates  Iransiliuni  vada. 
This  last  litte,  we  may  suppose,  alludes  lo  some  distingiiisliod 
Rals  that  attended  the  voyager. 

(323)  Audax  omnia  perpeti 

Gens  ruit  per  vetitum  nefas. 

(224)  Audax  Japeti  genus 

Ignem  fraudemal'i  gentib-.is  intuliL 

(225)  Post 

.    ,    .    macies,  et  nova  febriuni 
Terris  incubit  cohors. 

(23G)  tarda  uecessitas 

Lethi  corripuit  gradum. 


(S?>7) 


Expertus  vacuum  Danlatus  a'.-ra 

Vcnnis  tion  hotnini  datis. 


Tliis  alludes  to  the  1200/.  worth  of  stationer)',  which  his 
Lordship  is  said  to  have  ordered,  when  on  the  point  of 
vacating  his  place. 

(328)  ,  Nil  mortalibus  arduum  est. 

(220)  Calum  tpsum  petimus  stuUiti:\. 

(330)  "To  lose  no  drop  of  the  iniinoital  ni;in." 

(331)  The  prestuit  llishop  of  Exeler. 

(233)  Ttie  name  of  the  heroine  of  the  performances  !it  the 
Nurtli  London  Hospital. 

(233)  The  technical  term  for  the  nit>v<-ineiita  of  the  magne- 
tizer's  hand. 

(234)  Oranes  fere  inlerniia  curporii*  partes  inver^o  orJine  situs. 
~^ct.  Erudit.  1090. 

(235)  "  And  nil  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box." 

Port's  Rnjtr  of  ihr  J.tick, 

(23G)  Orooty  or  Orote,  Latinized  inlo  (Irolius. 

(337)  For  the  particulars  nf  this  escape  of  (;rt>lius  frcun  the 
Cajitic  of  Louvenstrin,  by  nutans  of  a  box  (only  threj-  feit  and 
a  half  long,  It  is  said  >  in  which  books  used  to  be  occasionally 
Hent  to  him  and  foul  liiu-n  n-lunied,  see  any  of  tb«i  Uiogruphi* 
cnl  Dictionaries. 

(338)  This  is  not  quilo  according  to  the  facts  of  the  case  ;  hli 
wife  having  been  the  contriver  of  the  stratagem,  and  ren)nhied 
in  the  prison  herwlf  lo  give  him  lime  for  escape. 

(230)  PuUldu  Mors  ii'quo  pulsat  pode,  tc— llonAT. 

(340)  *•  A  neodlrss  Aloxnndrlne  ends  the  mmg 

That,  /t/.r  a   tcounilfd  xnoAr,  drags  its  slow   b-ni;lb 
along." 

(241)  "  Vnln  ore  Iho  spells,  the  Destroyer 

Trt-nd*  the  Domdnulel  fioor." 

Thninf-a,   ■  Vctrlc.ll  Itomaunv 


SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


309 


r2i2)  Tlie  (late  of  this  aquit  imisl  Imve  been,  I  think,  n,l>out 

('2A'.i)  "You  will  increase  the  oiiinity  with  whlcL  Ihey  arc  re- 
ffnrck'd  by  their  associates  in  borosy,  thus  tyin'^  tlieao  foxes 
by  the  tails,  that  Ihcir  faces  may  tt'iid  in  oppuaito  directiooB." 
— Bou's  Bu/Fy  read  at  Exeter  Ilnll,  July  14. 

(244)  "An  in^'enious  device  of  my  learned  friend." — Bob's 
Letter  to  Standard. 

(245)  Had  I  consulted  only  my  own  wishes,  I  should  not  have 
ullowed  this  hasty  attack  on  Dr.  Todd  to  have  made  its  ap- 
pearance in  this  OuIIeclion;  being  now  fully  convinced  that 
the  cbarso  brou'^ht  against  that  reverend  gentleman  of  intend- 
ing to  pass  off  as  genuine  his  famous  mock  Papal  Letter  was 
»ltoL,'flhcr  imfo'.mded.  Finding  it  to  be  the  wish,  however,  of 
my  revei-end  friend — as  f  am  now  glad  to  be  permitted  to  call 
hini — that  both  the  wrong  and  the  reparation,  the  Ode  and  the 
Palinode,  should  be  thus  placed  in  juxtaposition,  I  have  thought 
il  but  due  to  him  to  comply  witli  his  request. 

(246)  The  Casa  Santa,  supposed  to  have  been  carried  by  an- 
gels through  the  air  from  Galilee  to  Italy. 

(247)  Cui  nulla  merelrix  displicuit  prieter  Habylonicam. 

(24S)  Tlie  only  parallel  I  know  to  this  sort  of  oblivion  is  to  be 
found  in  a  line  of  the  late  Mr.  R.  P.  Knight. 

"The  pleasing  memory  of  tilings  forgot." 

(249)  "Che  dalle  reni  era  tomato  'I  volto, 

E  indietro  venir  li  convenia, 
Perche  '1  veder  dinanzi  era  lor  tolto." 

(250)  Referring  to  the  line  taken  byLoidLyudhurst,  on  the 
question  of  Municipal  Reform. 

(251)  These  verses  were  written  in  reference  to  the  Bill 
brought  in  at  this  time,  for  tlie  reform  of  Corporations,  and 
the  sweeping  amendments  proposed  by  Lord  Lyndhurst  and 
other  Tory  Peers,  in  order  to  obstruct  the  measure. 

(252)  A  term  formed  on  the  model  of  the  JIastodon,  &.c. 

(253)  The  zoological  term  for  a  tithe-eater. 

(254)  The  man  found  by  Scheuchzer,  and  supposed  by  him 
lo  have  witnessed  the  Deluge,  ("homo  diluvii  testis,")  but  who 
Lurned  out,  I  am  eorry  to  say,  to  be  merely  a  great  lizard. 

(255)  Particularly  the  fonnation  called  Transition  Trap. 

(256)  Mirari  se,  si  augur  augurem  aspiciens  slbi  teraperaret 
a  risu. 

(257)  So  spelled  in  those  ancient  versicles  which  John,  we 
undersland,  frequently  chants: — 

"Had  every  one  Puum, 
You  wouldn't  have  Tuum, 
But  I  should  have  Jleum, 
And  sing  Te  Deura." 

(258)  For  his  keeping  the  title  he  may  quote  classical  au- 
thority, as  Horace  expressly  says,  *'  Poteris  servai-e  Tuam."^ 
DcJirt.  Pact.  v.  3-29.— Chronicle. 

(259)  Verbatim,  as  said.  This  tribute  is  only  equalled  by  that 

of  Talleyrand  to  his  medical  friend,  Dr. :  "  II  se  connait  en 

tout  ;  et  mcmc  un  pen  en  medccine." 

(2G0)  Song  iu  the  "Padlock." 

(261)  For  an  account  of  the  coin  called  Talents  by  the  an- 
ticuta,  see  Budteus  de  Asse,  and  the  other  writers  de  Ro 
Nummnriil. 


(262)  Tho  Talontum  Magnum  and  the  Talentum  AUicum  a\y 
pear  to  ha\'e  been  the  same  coin. 

(263)  Fn  fait  d'amour,  trop  memo  n'cst  pas  assez — Barbie? 
de  Seville. 

(281)  C'rant  of  Ireland  to  IL-nry  IL  by  Pope  Adrian. 

(2fi.'>)  One  of  tho  most  intereyling  and  curious  of  all  the  ex 
hibitions  of  the  day. 

(266)  The  sign  of  the  Insurance  OlTlcein  Cheapside. 

(267)  Producing  a  bag  full  of  lords  and  gentlemen. 

(268)  *'''Tia  money  makes  the  mare  to  go." 

(2C9)  We  have  lodgings  apart,  for  our  posthumous  people. 
As  we  find  that,  if  left  with  the  live  ones,  they  kerp  ill. 

(270;  "Bottom:  Let  me  play  tho  lion;  I  will  roar  you  a^ 
'twere  any  nightingale." 

(271)  History  of  the  Irish  stage. 

(272)  The  Birmans  may  not  buy  the  sacred  marble  in  mass, 
but  must  purchase  figures  of  the  deity  already  made. — Symes. 

(273)  See  Congreve^'s  "  Love  for  Love," 

(274)  «  Beaux  Stratagem." 

(275)  The  writer  of  the  article  has  groped  about,  with  much 
success,  in  what  he  calls  "  the  dark  recesses  of  Dr.  Dens'a  dis- 
quisitions."— Quarterly  lievieio. 

(276)  "  Pray,  may  we  ask,  has  there  been  any  rebellious  move- 
ment of  Popery  in  Ireland,  since  the  planting  of  the  Ulster  col- 
onies, in  which  something  of  the  kind  was  not  visible  among 
the  Presbyterians  of  the  North  ?" — Ibid. 

(277)  "  Lord  Lorton,  for  instance,  who,  for  clearing  his  estat* 
of  a  village  of  Irish  Thuggists,"  &c.,  &c. — Quarterly  Review. 

(279)  "  Observe  how  murder  after  murder  is  committed  like 
minute-guns." — Ibid. 

(279)  "  Might  not  the  ajxhives  of  the  Propaganda  possiblj 
supply  the  key  ?" 

(2ri0)  Written  during  the  late  agitation  of  the  question  of 
Copyright. 

(281)  "For  a  certain  man  named  Demetrius,  a  silversmith, 
which  made  shrines  for  Diana,  brought  no  sn>all  gain  unto  th« 
craftsmen  ;  whom  be  called  together  with  the  workmen  of  like 
occupation,  and  said.  Sirs,  ye  know  that  by  this  craft  we  hav« 
our  wealth." — ,^cts,  xix. 

(282)  Tria  Virginia  ora  Diana;. 

(283)  The  "  sbrines"  are  supposed  to  have  been  small  chui 
ches,  or  chapels,  adjoining  to  the  great  temples : — "  a-diculEe,  in 
quibus  statuae  repouebantur." — Erasm. 

(284)  Some  parts  of  the  Provinciales  may  be  said  to  be  of  the 
highest  order  of  jenz  t/V^y^rit,  or  squibs. 

(285)  "This  stroll  in  the  metropolis  is  extremely  well  con- 
trived for  your  Lordship's  speech  ;  but  suppose,  my  deat 
Lord,  that  instead  of  going  E.  and  N.E.you  had  turned  about,' 
&:c.  &c. — Sydney  Smith's  J^asl  Letter  to  the  Bishop  cf  iMudon 

(286)  Quandoque  bonus  dorrailat  Homerus.— Horat. 

(287)  "  Sweltered  venom,  sleeping  got, 

Boil  thou  first  i'  the  charmed  pot." 

(288)  Exchequer  tithe  processes,  served  under  a  comraissiof 
of  rebellion. — Chronicle. 

(289)  The  subor  '*f  ia!o  officer  or  lieutenant  of  Captain  Bock. 


COREUPTIOI,  AID  INTOLEEANCE 


TWO    POEMS: 


ADDEE83ED     TO     AN     ENGLISHMAN     BT     AN     IRISHMAN. 


MOORE'S   PREFACE. 


The  piacticc  wliieh  has  been  lately  introduced 
into  literature,  of  writing  very  long  notes  upon  very 
indiflerent  verses,  appears  to  me  rather  a  happy  in- 
vention ;  as  it  supplies  us  with  a  mode  of  turning 
dull  poetry  to  account;  and  as  horses  too  heavy 
for  the  saddle  may  yet  serve  well  enough  to  draw 
lumber,  so  Poems  of  this  kind  make  excellent  beasts 
of  burden,  and  will  bear  notes,  thougli  they  may 
not  bear  reading.  Besides,  the  comments  in  such 
cases  are  so  little  under  the  necessity  of  paying  any 
Rervile  deference  to  the  te.xt,  that  they  m.iy  even 
adopt  that  Socratic  dogma,  '•  Quod  supra  nos  nihil 
ad  nos." 

In  the  first  of  the  two  following  Poems,  I  have 
ventured  to  speak  of  the  Revolution  of  1G88  in  lan- 
guage which  has  sometimes  been  employed  by 
Tory  writers,  and  which  is  therefore  neitlier  very 
new  nor  popular.  But  however  an  Englishman 
might  be  reproached  with  ingratitude,  for  depre- 
ci.-iting  the  merits  and  results  of  a  measure,  which 
he  is  taught  to  regard  as  the  source  of  his  liberties 
— however  ungrateful  it  might  appear  in  Alderman 
Birch  to  question  for  a  moment  the  purity  of  that 
glorious  era,  to  which  he  is  indebted  for  the  season- 
ing of  so  many  orations — yet  an  Irishman,  who  has 
none  of  these  obligationsto  acknowledge;  to  who.sc 
country  the  Revolution  brought  nothing  but  injury 
nnd  insult,  and  who  rccollccto  that  the  book  of 
Molyneux  was  burned,  by  order  of  William's  Whig 
I'arliimi-nt,  for  daring  to  extend  to  unfortunate 
Irel.inil  llio->e  principles  on  which  the  Revolution 
was  professedly  founded — an  Irishman  may  be  al- 
iowed  to  criticise  freely  t'le  measures  of  that  period, 
villiiut  axpoainj;  hinisa  f  eilhor  to  the  impiifntion 


of  ingratitude,  jr  to  the  suspicion  of  being  Uillu- 
enced  by  any  Popisli  remains  of  J:icobilism.  No 
nation,  it  is  true,  was  ever  blessed  with  a  more  gol- 
den opportunity  of  establishing  and  secm-iiig  its  lih- 
ertie.s  for  ever  than  the  conjuncture  of  Eighty-t"iglit 
presented  to  the  people  of  Great  Britain.  But  the 
disgraceful  reigns  of  Charles  and  James  had  weak- 
ened and  degraded  the  national  character.  The 
bold  notions  of  popular  right,  which  had  arisen  out 
of  the  .strugghis  between  Ch:irles  the  First  and  his 
Parliament,  were  gradually  supplanted  by  those 
slavish  doctrines  for  which  Lord  Ilawkesbury  eulo- 
gizes the  churchmen  of  that  period;  nnd  as  the 
Reformation  had  happened  too  soon  for  the  purity 
of  religion,  so  the  Revolution  came  too  late  for  the 
spirit  of  liberty.  Its  advantages,  accordingly,  were 
for  the  most  part  specious  and  transitory,  while  the 
evils  which  it  entailed  are  still  felt  and  still  iucreas- 
ing.  By  rendering  unnecessary  the  frccpient  exer- 
cisc  of  Prerogative, — that  unwieldy  power  which 
cannot  move  a  step  without  alarm, — it  diminished 
the  only  interference  of  the  Crown,  which  is  singly 
and  independently  exposed  before  the  people,  and 
whose  abuses  therefore  are  obvious  to  their  senses 
and  cajiaeities.  Like  the  myrtle  o\cr  a  celelnated 
statue  in  Minerva's  lemiilo  at  Atlifns,  it  skill'nily 
veiled  from  the  public  eye  the  only  obtrusive  fea. 
turo  of  royally.  At  the  same  time,  however,  that 
the  Revolution  abridge(l  this  unpopular  attribute,  it 
amply  C(Mnpen>ateil  by  the  substitution  of  a  new 
power,  as  nuK'h  more  potent  in  its  ell'eet  as  it  is 
more  secret  in  its  operations.  In  the  disposal  of  an 
immense  revenue  nnd  the  extensive  patronage  an- 
nexed to  it,  the  first  found.ilions  of  tliis  power  of 


COERUPTION,  A  POETIC  EPISTLE. 


311 


tlio  Crown  wore  kid;  tlie  innovntion  of  a  standing 
army  at  onee  increased  and  strengthened  it,  and  tlie 
few  slight  barriers  which  tlio  Act  of  Settlement 
opposed  to  its  progress  have  all  been  gradually  re- 
moved during  the  whiggish  reigns  that  succeeded; 
till  at  length  this  spirit  of  induenco  has  become  the 
vital  princijjle  of  the  state, — an  agency,  subtle  and 
unseen,  which  jicrvades  every  part  of  the  Constitu- 
tion, lurks  under  all  its  forms  and  regulates  all  its 
movements,  and,  like  the  invisible  sylph  or  grace 
which  presides  over  the  motions  of  beauty, 

"  Illam,  quicquid  agit,  quoquo  vestigia  fieclit, 
Componit  furtira  siibsequiturque." 

The  cause  of  Liberty  and  the  Revolution  are  so 
habitually  associated  in  the  minds  of  Englishmen, 
that  probably  in  objecting  to  the  latter  I  may  be 
thought  hostile  or  indifferent  to  the  former.  But 
assuredly  nothing  could  be  more  unjust  than  such 
a  suspicion.  The  very  object,  indeed,  which  my 
humble  animadversions  would  attain  is,  that  in  the 
crisis  to  which  I  think  England  is  now  hastening, 
and  between  which  and  foreign  subjugation  she 
may  soon  be  compelled  to  choose,  the  errors  and 
omissions  of  1688  should  be  remedied;  and,  as  it 
was  then  her  fate  to  e.xpcrience  a  Revolution  with- 


out Reform,  so  she  may  now  endeavor  to  accom- 
plish a  Reform  without  Revolution. 

In  .speaking  of  the  parties  which  have  so  long 
agitated  England,  it  will  bo  observed  that  1  lean  as 
little  to  the  Whig.s  as  to  their  adversaries.  Both 
factions  have  been  equally  cruel  to  Ireland,  and 
perhaps  equally  insincere  in  their  efforts  for  the 
liberties  of  England.  There  is  one  name,  indeed, 
connected  with  whiggism  of  which  I  can  never 
think  but  with  veneration  and  tenderness.  As 
justly,  however,  might  the  light  of  the  sun  be 
claimed  by  any  particular  nation,  as  the  sanction  of 
that  name  be  monopolized  by  any  party  whatsoever. 
Mr.  Eo.x  belonged  to  mankind,  and  they  have  lost 
in  him  their  .ablest  friend. 

With  respect  to  the  few  lines  upon  Intolerance, 
which  I  have  subjoined,  they  are  but  the  imperfect 
beginning  of  a  long  series  of  Essays,  with  which  I 
here  menace  my  readers,  upon  the  same  important 
subject.  I  shall  look  to  no  higlier  merit  in  the 
task,  than  that  of  giving  a  new  form  to  claims  and 
remonstrances,  which  have  often  been  much  more 
eloquently  urged,  and  which  would  long  ere  now 
have  produced  their  effect,  but  that  the  minds  of 
some  of  our  statesmen,  like  the  pupil  of  the  human 
eye,  contract  themselves  the  more,  the  stronger 
light  there  is  shed  upon  them. 


CORRUPTION. 


AN     EPISTLE. 


Boast  on,  my  friend — though  stripp'd  of  all  beside, 
Thy  struggling  nation  still  retains  her  pride  :' 
That  pride,  which  once  in  genuine  glory  woke 
When  Marlborough  fought,  and  brilliant  St.  John 

spoke ; 
Th.it  pride  which  still,  by  time  and  shame  unstung. 
Outlives  even  Whitelocke's  sword  and  Ilawkesb'ry's 

tongue! 
Boast  on,  my  friend,  while  in  this  humbled  isle" 
Where  Honor  mourns  and  Freedom  fe.ars  to  smile, 
Wliere  the  bright  light  of  England's  fame  is  known 
But  by  the  .shadow  o'er  our  fortunes  thrown  ; 
Where,  doom'd  ourselves  to  naught  but  -vrongs  and 

slights,' 
We  hear  you  boast  of  Britiiin's  glorious  rights, 
As  wretched  slaves,  that  under  hatches  lie. 
Heat  tiiOBe  on  dt;ck  oxtul  the  sun  and  skv  I 


Boast    on,    w-hile    wandering    through    my   native 

haunts, 
I  coldly  listen  to  thy  patriot  vaunts  ; 
And  feel,  though  close  our  wedded  countries  twine. 
More  sorrow  for  my  own  than  pride  from  thine. 

Yet  pause  a  moment — and  if  truths  severe 
Can  find  an  inlet  to  that  courtly  ear. 
Which  he.ars  no  news  but  Ward's  gazetted  lies, 
And  loves  no  politics  in  rhyme  but  Pye's, — 
If  aught  can  please  thee  but  the  good  old  saws 
Of  "  Church  and  State,"  and  "  William's  matchless 

laws," 
And  "  Acts  and  Rigiits  ot  glorious  Eighty-eight,"— 
Things,  which  though  now  a  century  out  of  date, 
Still  serve  to  ball.ist,  with  convenient  words, 
A  few  crank  arguments  for  speeching  lords« — * 


312 


MOOEE'S  AVOEKS. 


Turn,  wliile  I  tell  how  England's  IVoedom  found, 
Where  most  she  look'd  for  life,  her  deadliest  wound ; 
How  brave  she  struggled,  while  her  foe  was  seen, 
How  faint  since  Intiueuee  lent  that  foe  a  screen  ; 
How  strong  o'er  James  and  Popery  prevail'd, 
IIow  weakly  fell,  when  Whigs  and  gold  assaifd.' 

While  kings  were  poor,  and  all  those  schemes  un- 
known 
Which  drain  the  people,  to  enricli  the  throne  ; 
Ere  yet  a  yielding  Commons  Iiad  supplied 
Those  chains  of  gold  by  which  themselves  are  tied ; 
Then  proud  Prerogative,  untauglit  to  creep 
With  bribery's  silent  foot  on  Freedom's  sleep. 
Frankly  avow'd  his  bold  enslaving  plan. 
And  claim'd  a  riglit  from  God  to  trample  man  I 
But  Luther's  schism  had  too  much  roused  mankind 
For  Hampden's  truths  to  linger  long  behind  ; 
Nor  then,  when  king-like  popes  had  fallen  so  low, 
Could  pope-like  kings"  escape  the  levelling  blow. 
Tliat  ponderous  sceptre,  (in  whose  place  we  bow 
To  the  light  talisman  of  inducnce  nov.',) 
Too  gross,  too  visible  to  work  the  spell 
Which  modern  power  performs,  in  fragments  fell : 
In  fragments  lay,  till,  patch'd  and  painted  o'er 
With  flcur-de-ly»,  it  shone  and  scourged  once  more. 

'Twas  then,  my  friend,  thy  kneeling  nation  qualT'd 
Long,  long  and  deep,  the  eliurchman's  opiate  drauglit 
Of  passive,  prone  obedience — then  took  iliglit 
All  sense  of  man's  true  dignity  and  riglit ; 
And  Britons  slept  so  sluggish  in  their  chain. 
That  Freedom's  w.atch-voice  eall'd  almost  in  vain. 
Oh  England !  England  I  what  a  chance  was  tliine, 
Wlien  tlie  last  tyrant  of  that  ill-starr'd  line 
Fled  from  his  sullied  crown,  and  left  thee  free 
To  found  thy  own  eternal  liberty  I 
How  nobly  liigh,  in  th.at  propitious  hour, 
Might  patriot  hands  have  raised  the  triple  tower' 
Ofliritish  freedom,  on"a  rock  divine 
Which    neither  force   couki  storm    nor   treachery 

mine ! 
But,  no — the  luminous,  the  lofly  plan. 
Like  miglity  Babel,  seem'd  too  boM  for  man  ; 
The  curse  of  jarring  tongues  again  was  given 
To  thwart  n  work  which  raised  men  nearer  heaven. 
While    Tories    marr'd    what    Whigs    had    scarce 

begun, 
VVIiile  Wliigs  undid  what  Whigs  themselves  had 

done,* 
The  hour  was  li)-.t,  and  William,  willi  a  smile. 
Saw  Freedom  weeping  o'er  the  unlinish'd  jiile  ! 

Hcnrc  ull  the  IIIh  you  wilTer, — licncc  remain 
Sach  gnWuv^  fragnienls  of  that  feudal  chain," 


Wliose  links,  around  you  by  the  Norman  flung. 
Though  loosed  and  broke  so  often,  still  have  clung 
Hence  sly  Prerogati\e,  like  Jove  of  old. 
Has  turn'd  his  thunder  jnto  showers  of  gold, 
Whose  silent  courtship  wins  securer  joys,'" 
Taints  by  degrees,  and  ruins  without  noise. 
While  parliaments,  no  more  those  sacred  tilings 
Which  make  and  rule  the  destiny  of  kings. 
Like  loaded  dice  by  ministers  are  thrown. 
And  each  new  set  of  sharpers  cog  their  own. 
Hence  the  rich  oil,  th.at  from  the  Treasury  steals, 
Drips  smooth  o'er  all  the  Constitution's  wheels. 
Giving  the  old  machine  such  pliant  play," 
That  Court  and  Commons  jog  one  jollless  way. 
While  Wisdom  trembles  for  tlie  crazy  car. 
So  gilt,  so  rotten,  carrying  fools  so  far; 
And  the  duped  people,  hourly  doom'd  to  pay 
The  sums  that  bribe  their  liberties  away, — '' 
Like  a  young  eagle,  wlro  h.as  lent  his  plume 
To  fledge  tlie  sliaft  by  which  he  meets  his  doom. 
See  their  ov.-n  feathers  pluck'd,  to  wing  the  dart 
Which  rank  corruption  destines  for  their  heart! 
But  soft !  uietliinks  I  hear  thee  proudly  s.ay 
"What!  shall  I  listen  to  the  impious  laj', 
"That  dares,  with  Tory  license,  to  profane 
"The  bright  bequests  of  William's  glorious  reign' 
"Shall  the  groat  wisdom  of  our  patriot  sires, 
"  Whom    Hawkesbnry  quotes   and    savory    Birch 

admires, 
"  Be  .slander'd  thus?     Shall  hoiiosl  Steele  agree 
"With  virtuous  Rose  to  call  us  pure  and  free, 
"Yet  fail  to  prove  it?     Shall  our  patent  pair 
"  Of  wise  statc-pocts  waste  their  words  in  air, 
"  And  Pye  unheeded  breathe  his  prosperous  strain, 
"  And  Canning  take  the  people's  sense  i;i  vain  ?"  " 

The  people  I — ah,  tliat  Freedom's  form  should  stay 
Where  Freedom's  spirit  long  hath  pass'd  away! 
That  a  false  smile  should  play  ar<innd  the  dead, 
And  flush  the  features  when  the  soul  hath  lied  I" 
When  Rome  had  lost  her  virtue  with  her  rights, 
When  her  foul  tyrant  sat  on  Caprcie's  heights" 
Amid  his  rufli.an  spies,  and  doom'd  to  death 
Each  noble  name  they  bla,stcd  with  their  breath,— 
Even  then,  (in  mockery  of  that  golden  time, 
When  the  Republic  rose  ri'vcrcd,  sublime. 
And  her  jirond  sons,  difl'usod  from  zone  to  zone, 
(iave  kings  to  every  nation  but  their  own,) 
Even  then  the  senate  and  the  trilmnes  stood, 
Insulting  marks,  to  show  how  high  the  flood 
Of  Freedom  flow'd,  in  glory's  by-gone  day, 
And  Ikhv  it  cbli'd, — for  ever  cbb'd  aw.'iy  !'" 

Look  but  .■iroiind  — lliiiUL;h  yet  a  tyrant's  sword 
Nor  haiiiits  our  sloop  nor  glitters  o'w  our  board, 


CORRUPTION,  A  POETIC  EPISTLE. 


313 


Though  blood  be  better  drawn,  by  modern  quacks, 
Witli  Treasury  loeclies  than  with  sword  or  axe  ; 
Vet  say,  could  even  a  prostrate  tribune's  power. 
Or  a  nioclv  senate,  in  Rome's  servile  hour, 
Insult  so  much  the  claims,  the  rights  of  man, 
As  doth  that  fetter'd  mob,  that  free  divan, 
Of  noble  tools  and  honorable  knaves, 
Of  pension'd  patriots  and  privileged  slaves  ; — 
That  iiMrty-color'd  mass,  which  nauglit  can  warm 
But  rank  corruption's  boat — whose  quicken'd  swarm 
Spread  their  light  wings  in  Bribery's  golden  sky, 
Buzz  for  a  period,  lay  their  eggs,  and  die ; — 
That  greedy  vampire,  which  from  freedom's  tomb 
Comes  forth,  with  all  the  mimicry  of  bloom 
Upon  its  lifeless  cheek,  and  sucks  and  drains 
A  people's  blood  to  feed  its  putrid  veins ! 

Thou  start'st,  my  friend,  at  picture   drawn  so 

dark— 
'Is  their  no  light?"    thou  ask'st — "no  ling'ring 

spark 
"Of  ancient  fire  to  warm  us  I     Lives  there  none, 
"To  act  a  Marvell's  parti"" — alas!  not  one. 
To  place  and  power  all  public  spirit  tends. 
In  place  and  power  all  public  spirit  ends  ;'* 
Like  hardy  plants,  that  love  the  air  and  sky. 
When  out,  'twill  thrive — but  taken  in,  'twill  die ! 

Not  bolder  trutlis  of  sacred  Freedom  liung 
From  Sidney's  pen  or  burn'd  on  Fox's  tongue. 
Than  upstart  Whigs  produce  each  market  night, 
While    yet  their    conscience,    as   their   purse,   is 

light; 
While  debts  at  home  excite  their  care  for  those 
Which,  dire  to  tell,  their  much-loved  country  owes. 
And  loud  and  upright,  till  their  prize  be  known. 
They  thwart  the  King's  supplies  to  raise  their  own. 
But  bees,  on  flowers  alighting,  cease  their  hum — 
So,  settling  upon  places,  Whigs  grow  dumb. 
And,  though  most  base  is  he  wlio,  'neath  the  shade 
Of  Freedom's  ensign  plies  corruption's  trade. 
And  makes  the  sacred  flag  he  dares  to  show 
His  passport  to  the  market  of  her  foe, 
Vet,  yet,  I  own,  so  venerably  dear 
Are  Freedom's  grave  old  anthems  to  my  ear, 

40 


That  I  enjoy  them,  thougli  Ity  traitors  sung. 

And  reverence  Scripture  even  from  Satan's  tongue. 

Nay,  when  the  constitution  has  expired, 

I'll  have  such  men,  like  Irish  wakers,  hired 

To  chant  old  "  Habeas  Corpus"  by  its  side, 

And  ask,  in  purchased  ditties,  why  it  died  ? 

See  yon  smooth  lord,  whom  nature's  plastic  pains 
Would  seem  to've  fashion'd  for  those  Eastern  reigns 
Wlien  eunuclis  flourish'd,  and  such  nerveless  things 
As  men  rejected  were  the  chosen  of  Kings; — " 
Even  he,  forsooth,  (oh  fraud,  of  all  the  worst !) 
Dared  to  assume  tlie  patriot's  name  at  first — 
Thus  Pitt  began,  and  thus  begin  liis  apes  ; 
Thus  devils,  when  J?rs(  raised,  take  pleasing  sh.apes. 
But  oh,  poor  Ireland!  if  revenge  be  sweet 
For  centuries  of  wrong,  for  dark  deceit 
And  wilh'ring  insult — for  the  Union  thrown 
Into  thy  bitter  cup,''"  when  that  alone 
Of  slavery's  draught  was  wanting" — if  for  this 
Revenge  be  sweet,  thou  hast  that  demon's  bliss ; 
For,  sure,  'tis  more  than  hell's  revenge  to  see 
That  England  trusts  the  men  who've  ruin'd  thee  ; — 
That,  in  these  awful  d.ays,  when  every  hour 
Creates  some  new  or  blasts  some  ancient  power, 
Wlien  proud  Napoleon,  like  th'  enchanted  shield'' 
Whose  light  compell'd  each  wond'ring  foe  to  yield, 
With  baleful  lustre  blinds  the  brave  .and  free. 
And  dazzles  Europe  into  slavery, — 
Tli.at,  in  this  hour,  when  p.itriot  zeal  should  guide. 
When  Mind  should  rule,  and — Fox  should  not  h.ive 

died. 
All  tliat  devoted  England  can  oppose 
To  enemies  made  fiends  and  friends  made  foes. 
Is  the  rank  refuse,  the  despised  remains 
Of  that  unpitying  power,  whose  whips  and  chains 
Drove  Ireland  first  to  turn,  with  harlot  glance, 
Tow'rds  other  shores,  and  woo   th'  embrace  of 

France ; — 
Those  hack'd  and  tainted  tools,  so  foully  fit 
For  the  grand  artisan  of  mischief,  Pitt, 
So  useless  ever  but  in  vile  employ. 
So  weak  to  save,  so  vigorous  to  destroy — 
Sucli  are  the  men  that  guard  thy  threaten'd  shore 
Oh  England !  sinkinff  England !"  boast  no  more 


Sl-i 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


INTOLERANCE. 


A    SATIKE. 


"This  clamor,  which  pretends  to  be  raised  for  the  siifety  of  religion,  has  almost  worn  out  tho  very  apponrance  of  it,  aad 
tendered  ug  not  only  the  moat  divided  but  the  most  immoral  people  upon  the  face  of  the  earth." 

Addison,  Freeholder^  No.  37, 


Start  not,  my  frionci,  nor  think  the  muse  will  stnin 
Ilcr  classic  fingers  with  the  dust  profane 
Of  Bulls,  Decrees,  and  all  those  tluiiurxing  scrolls, 
Which  took  such  freedom  once  with  royal  souls,"* 
Wlieii  heaven  was  yet  the  pope's  exclusive  trade, 
And  kings  were  damn'd  as  fast  as   now  they're 

made. 
No,  no — let  Duigenan  search  the  papal  chair"' 
For  fragrant  treasures  long  forgotten  there; 
And,  ,is  the  witch  of  sunless  I-apland  thinks 
That  little  swarthy  gnomes  delight  in  stinks, 
Let  sallow  Pcrcival  snulTup  the  gale 
\VliicIi  wizard  Duigenan's  gather'd  sweets  exhale. 
Enough  for  me,  whose  heart  has  learn'd  to  scorn 
IJigots  .alike  in  Rome  or  England  horn. 
Who  loathe  the  venom,  whencosoe'er  it  springs, 
From  popes  or  lawyers,""  pastry-cooks  or  kings, — 
Enough  for  me  to  laugh  and  weep  by  turns, 
As  mirth  provokes,  or  indignation  burns, 
As  Canning  vapors,  or  as  France  succeeds, 
As  Ilawkesb'ry  prcses,  or  as  Ireland  bleeds ! 

And  thou,  my  friend,  if,  in  these  headlong  days, 
When  bigot  Zeal  her  drunken  antics  ]ilays 
So  near  a  precipice,  that  men  the  while 
Ijook  breathless  on  and  shudder  while  they  smile — 
If,  in  such  fearful  d.ays,  thou'lt  dare  to  look 
To  hapless  Ireland,  to  this  rankling  nook 
Which  Heaven  hath  freed  from  poisonous  things  in 

vain. 
While  Cinbrd's  tongue  and  JIusgravc'h   pen    re- 
main— 
If  tlioii  hast  yet  no  golden  blinkers  got 
To  sliado  Ihino  eyes  from  this  devoted  spot, 
WhoBC  wrongs,  though  blazon'd  o'erllu^  world  tlioy 

be, 
I'liuemon  alone  are  privileged  not  to  sec — 
Oil!  turn  awhile,  and,  though  the  sliamrock  wreallies 
My  homely  hur|>,  yet  slull  tlic  Hong  it  brcalhci 


Of  Ireland's  slavery,  and  of  Ireland's  woes. 
Live,  when  the  memory  of  her  tyrant  foes 
Shall  but  exist,  all  future  knaves  to  warn, 
Embalm'd  in  hate  and  canonized  by  scorn. 
When  Castlereagh,  in  sleep  still  more  profound 
Than  his  own  opiate  tongue  now  deals  around, 
Shall  wait  th'  impoacliment  of  that  awful  day 
\V'hicli  even  his  practised  hand  can't  bribe  away 

Yes,  my  dear  friend,  wort   tliou  but   near  me 

now. 
To  see  how  Spring  lights  up  on  Erin's  brow 
Smiles  that  shine  out,  unconquerably  fair, 
Even  through  the  blood-marks  left  by  Canulcn" 

there, — 
Couldst  thou  but  see  wliat  verdure  paints  the  sod, 
Which  none  but  tyrants  and  their  slaves  have  trod, 
And  didst  thou  know  the  spirit,  kind  and  brave, 
That  warms  the  soul  of  each  insulted  slave. 
Who,  tired  with  struggling,  sinks  beneath  his  lot. 
And  seems  by  all  but  watchful  Franco  forgot — '" 
Thy  heart  would  burn — yes,  even  thy  Pittite  heart 
Would  burn,  to  think  that  such  a  blooming  part 
Of  the  world's  garden,  rich  in  nature's  charm.s. 
And  fill'd  wilh  social  souls  and  vigorous  arms, 
Should  be  the  victim  of  that  canting  crew. 
So  smooth,  so  godly, — yet  so  devilish  too ; 
Who,  arm'd  at  once  wilh  prayer-books  and  with 

wliips,^" 
Blood  on  their  hands,  and  Scrlptiire  on  their  lips, 
Tyrants  by  creed,  and  tnrlurers  by  text. 
Make  this  life  hell,  in  honor  of  tho  next! 
Your      Rcilosdalcs,     Percival.s, — great,      glorious 

Heaven, 
If  I'm  presumplnous,  be  my  tongue  forgiven, 
When  here  1  swear,  by  my  soul's  hope  of  rest, 
I'd  rather  li.ive  been  born,  ere  m.in  was  bicss'd 
Wilh  the  pure  dawn  of  Revelal'on's  light. 
Yes, — rather  plunge  nie  back  ii  Paj^nit  nii^hl, 


INTOLERANCE,  A  SATIRE. 


315 


And  l;ike  my  chance  uilli  Socrates  for  bliss," 
.Than  bo  tlie  Christian  of':i  faith  lilio  this, 
VVhicIi  hnilds  on  heavenly  cant  its  earthly  sway. 
And  in  a  convert  mourns  to  lose  a  prey ; 
Which  grasping  human  hearts  with  double  hold, — 
Like  Danae's  lover  mixing  god  and  gold, — " 
Corrupts   both   state   and   ohureli,  and  makes  an 

oath 
The  knave  and  atheist's  passport  into  botli ; 
Which,  while  it  dooms  dissenting  souls  to  know 
Nor  bliss  above  nor  liberty  below, 
Adds  the  slave's  suffering  to  the  sinner's  fear. 
And,  lest  he  'scape  hereafter,  racks  him  here  !°^ 
But  no — far  other  faith,  far  milder  beams 
Of  heavenly  justice  warm  the  Cliristian's  dreams  ; 
His  creed  is  writ  on  Mercy's  page  above. 
By  the  pure  hands  of  all-atoning  Love; 


He  weeps  to  see  abused  Religion  twine 
Round  Tyranny's  coarse  brow  her  wreatli  divine ; 
And  he,  wliile  round  him  sects  and  nations  raise 
To  tlie  one  God  their  varying  notes  of  praise. 
Blesses  each  voice,  whate'er  its  tone  may  be, 
That  serves  to  swell  the  general  harmony." 

Such  was  the  spirit,  gently,  grandly  briglit. 
That  fiira,  oh  Fox !  thy  peaceful  soul  with  light; 
Wliile  free  and  spacious  as  that  ambient  air 
Which  folds  onr  planet  in  its  circling  care. 
The  miglity  sphere  of  thy  transparent  mind 
Einbraced  the  world,  and  breathed  for  all  mankind 
Last  of  the  great,  farewell ! — yet  not  the  last — 
Though  Britain's  sunshine  hour  with  thee  be  past, 
lerne  still  one  ray  of  glory  gives, 
And  feels  but  half  thy  loss  while  Grattan  lives. 


APPENDIX. 


To  the  foregoing  Poem,  as  first  published,  were 
subjoined,  in  the  shape  of  a  Note,  or  Appendix,  the 
following  remtu-ks  on  the  History  and  Music  of 
Ireland.  This  fragment  was  originally  intended  'to 
form  part  of  .■i  Preface  to  tho  Irish  Jlelodics ;  but 
afterwards,  for  some  reason  which  I  do  not  now 
recollect,  was  thrown  aside. 

*  =r  *  *  +  * 

Our  history,  for  many  centuries  past,  is  creditii- 
ble  neither  to  our  neighbors  nor  ourselves,  and 
ought  not  to  be  read  by  any  Irishman  who  wishes 
either  to  love  England  or  to  feel  proud  of  Ireland. 
The  loss  of  independence  very  early  deb.ased  our 
character ;  and  our  feuds  and  rebellions,  though 
frequent  and  ferocious,  but  seldom  displayed  that 
generous  spirit  of  enterprise  with  which  the  pride 
of  .an  independent  monarchy  so  long  dignilied  the 
struggles  of  Scotland.  It  is  true  this  island  has 
given  birth  to  heroes  who,  under  more  favorable 
circumstances,  might  have  left  in  the  hearts  of  their 
countrymen  recollections  as  dear  as  those  of  a 
Bruce  or  a  Wall.ace;  but  success  was  wanting  to 
consecrate  resistance,  their  cause  was  branded  with 
the  disheartening  name  of  treason,  and  tlieir  op- 
pressed country  was  such  a  blank  among  nations, 
that,  like  the  adventures  of  those  woods  which 
Rinaldo  wished  to  explore,  the  fame  of  their  actions 
was  lost  in  the  obscurity  of  the  place  where  they 
achieved  them. 


Errando  in  quelli  boschi 

Trovar  poti'in  stranc  avventure  c  molte, 
Ma  come  i  luoghi  i  fatti  ancor  son  foschi, 
Che  non  se  n'  ha  notizia  le  piii  vo!te.'!4 

'  Hence  is  it  that  the  annals  of  Ireland,  through 
a  lapse  of  six  hundred  years,  exhibit  not  one  of 
those  shining  n.ames,  not  one  of  tiiose  themes  of 
n.ational  pride,  from  which  poetry  borrows  hei 
noblest  ii"Lspiration ;  .and  tluat  history,  which  ought 
to  be  the  richest  garden  of  the  Muse,  yields  no 
growth  to  her  in  this  hapless  island  but  cypress  and 
weeds.  In  truth,  the  poet  who  would  embellish  his 
song  with  allusions  to  Irish  n.ames  and  events,  must 
be  contented  to  seek  them  in  those  early  periods 
when  our  character  was  yet  unalloyed  and  original, 
before  the  impolitic  craft  of  our  conquerors  had 
divided,  weakened,  and  disgraced  us.  Tlie  sole 
traits  of  heroism,  indeed,  which  he  can  venture  at 
this  day  to  commemorate,  eitlier  with  safety  to  him- 
self, or  honor  to  his  country,  are  to  be  looked  for  in 
those  ancient  times  when  tlie  native  monarchs  of 
Ireland  displayed  and  fostered  virtues  worthy  of  a 
better  iige;  when  our  Malachies  wore  around  their 
necks  collars  of  gold  which  they  had  won  in  single 
combat  from  the  invader,"'  (,nd  our  Eriens  deserved 
and  won  the  warm  affections  of  a  people  by  exhibit- 
ing all  the  most  estimable  qualities  of  a  king.  It 
may  be  said  that  the  magic  of  tradition  h.as  shed  a 
charm  over  this  remote  period,  to  which  it  is  in 


316 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


reality  but  little  entitled,  and  that  most  of  the  pic- 
tures, which  we  dwell  on  so  fondly,  of  days  when 
this  island  was  distinguished  amidst  the  gloom  of 
Europe,  by  the  sanctity  of  her  morals,  the  spirit  of 
her  knighthood,  and  the  polish  of  her  schools,  are 
little  more  than  the  inventions  of  national  partiality, 
— that  bright  but  spurious  offspring  which  vanity 
engenders  upon  ignorance,  and  with  which  the  first 
records  of  every  people  abound.  But  the  skeptic  is 
L^arcely  to  be  envied  who  would  pause  for  stronger 
proofs  than  we  already  possess  of  the  early  glories 
of  Ireland  ;  and  were  even  the  veracity  of  all  these 
proofs  surrendered,  yet  who  would  not  fly  to  such 
flattering  fictions  from  the  sad  degrading  truths 
which  the  history  of  later  times  presents  to  us  ? 

The  language  of  sorrow,  however,  is,  in  general, 
best  suited  to  our  Music,  and  with  themes  of  this 
nature  the  poet  may  be  amply  supplied.  There  is 
scarcely  a  page  of  our  annals  tliat  will  not  furnish 
him  a  subject,  and  while  the  national  Muse  of  other 
countries  adorns  her  temple  proudly  with  trophies 
of  the  past,  in  Ireland  her  melancholy  altar,  like 
the  shrine  of  Pity  at  Atliens,  is  to  be  known  only 
by  the  tears  that  arc  slied  upon  it;  '•  lacrymis  al- 
taria  sudant.'"  " 

There  is  a  well-known  story,  related  of  the 
Antiocliians  under  the  reign  of  Theodosius,  which 
is  not  only  lionorable  to  the  powers  of  music  in 
general,  but  which  applies  so  peculiarly  to  the 
mournful  melodies  of  Ireland,  tliat  I  cannot  resist  tlie 
temptation  of  introducing  it  here. — Tlie  piely  of 


Theodosius  would  have  been  admirable,  liad  it  not 
been  stained  with  intolerance;  but  under  his  reign 
was,  I  believe,  first  set  tlie  e.vample  of  a  disqualifying 
penal  code  enacted  by  Christians  against  Christians." 
Whether  his  interference  with  the  religion  of  the 
Antiochians  had  any  share  in  the  alienation  of  their 
loyalty  is  not  expressly  ascertained  by  historians 
but  severe  edicts,  heavy  taxation,  and  tlie  rapacity 
and  insolence  of  the  men  whom  lie  sent  to  govern 
them,  sufficiently  account  for  the  discontents  of  a 
warm  and  susceptible  people.  Reiienlance  soon 
followed  the  crimes  into  which  tlieir  impatience  liad 
hurried  them ;  but  the  vengeance  of  tlie  Emperor 
was  implacable,  and  puni.shments  of  the  most  dread- 
ful nature  hung  over  the  city  of  Aiitioch,  wliose 
devoted  inhabitants,  totally  resigned  to  despond- 
ence, wandered  through  the  streets  and  public  as- 
semblies, giving  utterance  to  tlieir  grief  in  dirges  of 
the  most  touching  lamentation.'"  At  length,  Flavi- 
anus,  their  bishop,  whom  they  had  sent  to  intercede 
with  Theodosius,  finding  all  his  entreaties  coldly 
rejected,  adopted  the  expedient  of  teaching  these 
songs  of  sorrow  wliicli  he  had  heard  from  the  lips 
of  his  unfortunate  countrymen  to  the  minstrels  who 
performed  for  the  Emperor  at  table.  The  heart  of 
Theodosius  could  not  resist  this  appeal ;  tears  fell 
fast  into  his  cup  while  he  listened,  and  the  Antio- 
chians were  forgiven. — Surely,  if  music  ever  spoke 
the  misfortunes  of  a  people,  or  could  ever  eoneiliato 
forgiveness  for  their  errors,  the  music  of  Ireland 
ought  to  possess  those  powers. 


CORKUPTION  AND  INTOLEEANCE. 


S17 


NOTE  S. 


<1)  An^^li  suns  uc  dUi  t  mnia  imptMise  mirantur;  ca^turaB 
llfttiones  despuctiii  iubeiit. — Bare/ ay,  (us  quoted  in  one  of 
Di-ydcirs  prefaces.) 

('-')  Eii^Ifind  began  very  early  to  feel  the  efTects  of  cruelty 
towards  her  dependencies.  "-Tlio  severity  of  her  government 
(bovs  Macpheison)  contributed  more  to  deprive  lier  of  llie  con- 
tiuentiil  ditmiuions  of  the  family  of  Plantagenet  than  the  arms 
of  France. — See  his  History,  vol.  i. 

(3)  "  Dy  the  total  reduction  of  the  kin'^ilom  of  Ireland  in 
1691,  (says  Burke.)  the  ruin  of  the  native  Irish,  and  in  a  great 
measure,  too,  of  the  first  races  of  the  Enajlish,  was  completely 
accomplished.  The  new  English  interest  was  settled  with  as 
Bulid  a  stability  as  any  thing  inhuman  affairs  can  look  for.  All 
the  penal  laM's  of  that  unparalleled  code  of  oppression,  which 
were  made  after  the  last  event,  were  manifestly  the  effects  of 
national  hatred  and  scorn  towards  a  conquered  people,  whom 
the  victors  delighted  to  trample  upon,  and  were  not  at  all 
afraid  to  provoke."  Yet  this  is  the  era  to  which  the  wise 
Common  Council  of  Dublin  refer  us  for  "invaluable  bless- 
ings," &LC, 

(4)  Tt  never  seems  to  occur  to  those  orators  and  addressers 
who  roimd  o.T  so  many  sentences  and  paragraphs  with  the 
liill  of  Rights,  the  Act  of  Settlement,  &c.,  that  most  of  the  pro- 
visions which  tliese  Acts  contained  for  the  preservation  of 
parliamentary  independence  have  been  long  hud  aside  as  ro- 
mantic and  troublesome,  I  never  meet,  I  confi^ss,  with  a 
politician  who  quotes  seriously  the  Dcchiration  of  Rights,  &.C., 
tn  prove  the  actual  existence  of  English  liberty,  that  I  do  not 
think  of  that  marquis  v/hom  Montesquieu  mentions,  (Liv.  xxi. 
chap.  2,)  who  set  about  looking  for  mines  in  the  Pyrenees, 
on  the  strength  of  authorities  which  he  had  read  in  some  an- 
cient authors.  The  poor  marquis  tniled  and  searched  in  vain. 
He  quoted  his  authorities  to  tlie  last,  but  found  no  mines  after 
all. 

(5)  The  chief,  perhaps  the  only  advantage  which  has  result- 
ed from  the  system  of  influence,  is  that  tranquil  course  of  tin- 
intf^rrupted  action  which  It  has  given  to  the  administration  of 
government.  If  kings  7nust  be  paramount  in  the  state,  (and 
their  ministers  for  the  time  being  always  think  so,)  the  country 
is  indebted  to  the  Revolution  fur  enabling  them  to  become  90 
quietly,  and  for  removing  skilfully  the  danger  of  those  shocks 
and  collisions  which  tho  alarming  efforts  of  prerogative  never 
failed  to  produce. 

Instead  of  vain  and  disturbing  efforts  to  establish  that  specu- 
lative balance  of  the  constitution,  which,  perhaps,  has  never 
existed  but  in  the  pages  of  Montesquieu  and  De  Lolme,  a 
preponderance  is  now  silently  yielded  to  one  of  the  three 
estates,  which  carries  the  other  two  ahnost  insensibly,  but  still 
elfectually,  aluug  with  it;  and  even  though  the  path  may  lead 
eventually  lo  destruction,  yet  its  specious  and  gilded  smooth- 
ness almost  atoues  for  the  danger;  and,  like  Milton's  bridge 
over  Chaos,  it  may  be  said  to  lead, 

"  Smooth,  easy,  inoffensive,  down  to ." 

(G)  The  drivx'lling  correspondence  between  James  I.  and  his 
"dog  Steenie,"  (the  Duke  of  Buckingham,)  which  we  find 
among  the  Hardwicke  Papers,  sufficiently  shows,  if  we  wanted 


any  such  illustration,  into  what  doling,  idiotic  brains  the  plan 
of  arbitrary  power  may  enter. 

(7)  Tacitus  has  expressed  his  opinion,  in  a  passage  very  fre- 
quently  quoted,  that  such  a  distribution  of  power  as  the  theory 
of  the  British  constitution  exhibits  is  merely  a  subject  of  bright 
speculation,  "  a  system  more  easily  praised  than  practis(.-d,  and 
which,  even  could  it  happen  to  exist,  would  certainly  not  prove 
permanent ;"  and,  in  truth,  a  review  of  England's  annals  would 
dispose  us  to  agree  with  the  great  historian's  remark.  For  we 
find  that  at  no  period  whatever  has  this  balance  of  the  three 
estates  existed  ;  that  the  nobles  predominated  till  the  policy  of 
Henry  VII.  and  his  successor  reduced  their  weight  by  breaking 
up  the  feudal  system  of  property  ;  that  the  power  of  the  Crown 
became  then  supreme  and  absolute,  till  the  bold  encroach- 
ments of  the  Commons  subverted  the  fabric  altogether ;  thai 
the  alternate  ascendency  of  prerogative  and  privilege  distracted 
the  period  which  followed  the  Restoration  ;  and  that,  lastly, 
the  Acts  of  ItiSfi,  by  laying  the  foundation  of  an  unbounded 
court-influence,  have  secured  a  preponderance  to  the  Throne, 
which  every  succeeding  year  increases.  So  that  the  vaunted 
British  constitution  has  never  perhaps  existed  but  in  mere 
theory. 

(8)  The  monarchs  of  Great  Britain  can  never  be  sufficiently 
grateful  for  that  accommodating  spirit  which  led  the  Revoln- 
tiouaiy  Whigs  to  give  away  the  crown,  without  imposing 
any  of  those  restraints  or  stipulations  which  other  men  might 
have  taken  advantage  of  so  favorable  a  moment  to  enforce,  and 
in  the  framing  of  which  they  had  so  good  a  model  to  follow  as 
the  limitations  proposed  by  the  Lords  Essex  and  Halifax,  in 
the  debate  upon  the  Exclusion  Bill.  They  not  only  con- 
descended, however,  to  accept  of  places,  but  took  care  thai 
these  dignities  should  be  no  impediment  to  their  "  voice  po- 
tential" in  affairs  of  legisbition  ;  and  although  an  Act  was  after 
many  years  suffered  to  pass,  which  by  one  of  its  articles  dis 
qualified  placemen  from  serving  as  members  of  the  House  o* 
Commons,  it  was  yet  not  allowed  to  interfere  with  the  influeuod 
of  the  reigning  monarch,  nor  with  that  of  his  successor  Anne. 
The  purifying  clause,  indeed,  was  not  to  take  effect  till  after 
the  decease  of  the  latter  sovereign,  and  she  very  considerately 
repealed  it  altogether.  So  that,  as  representation  has  con- 
tinued ever  since,  if  the  king  were  simple  enough  to  send  lo 
foreign  courts  ambassadors  who  were  most  of  them  in  the  pay 
of  those  courts,  he  would  be  just  as  honestly  and  faithfully 
represented  as  are  bis  people.  It  would  bo  endless  to  enumer- 
ate all  the  favors  which  were  conferred  upon  William  by  those 
"apostate  Whigs."  They  complimented  liim  with  tho  first 
suspension  of  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act  which  had  been  hazard- 
ed since  the  confirmation  of  that  privilege  ;  and  this  example 
of  our  Deliverer's  reign  has  not  been  lost  upon  any  of  his 
successors.  They  promoted  the  establishment  of  a  standing 
army,  and  circulated  in  its  defence  the  celebrated  "  Balancing 
Letter,"  in  which  it  is  insinuated  that  England,  even  then,  in 
her  boasted  hour  of  regeneration,  was  arrived  at  such  a  pitch 
of  faction  and  coiTuption,  that  nothing  could  keep  her  in  ordei 
but  a  Whig  ministry  aud  a  standing  army.  They  refuseti,  ae 
long  as  they  could,  to  shorten  the  duration  of  parliaments ;  and 
though,  in  the  Declaration  of  Rights,  the  necessity  of  such  p 
reform  was  acknowledged,  they  were  able,  by  arts  not  unknown 
to  modern  ministei'S,  to  brand  those  as  traitors  and  rupublicaiiir 
who  urged  it.    (See  a  pamphlet  published  in  169.1,  upon  lh» 


S18 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


King-8  ref  ising  to  si?n  Ihe  Trk-nnial  Bill,  called  "A  Discourse 
oetwoen  a  Yeoman  of  Kenl  and  a  Knight  of  a  Shire.'* — "  Here- 
upon,''sa>-9  the  Yeommi,  *•  the  gentleman  grew  angry,  and  said 
that  I  talked  like  a  base  commons-wealth  man.")  But  the 
grand  and  distinguishing  trait  of  their  measures  was  the 
po\ser  they  bestowed  on  ihe  Crown  of  almost  annihilating 
thu  freedom  of  elections,— of  turning  from  its  couj^e,  and  for 
ever  defiling  that  great  stream  of  Representation,  winch  had. 
^^e^  in  the  most  agitated  periods,  reSected  some  features  of 
the  people,  but  which,  from  thenceforth,  became  the  Pactolus, 
the  "  aurifer  amnis,"  of  the  court,  and  served  as  a  mirror  of  the 
national  will  and  popular  feeling  no  longer.  We  need  but 
constiit  l!ie  writings  of  that  time,  to  understand  the  astonish- 
ment then  excited  by  measures,  which  the  practice  of  a  century 
has  rendered  not  only  familiar  but  necessarj".  i>ee  a  pamphlet 
called  "The  Danger  of  mercenary  Parliament;),"  1C98;  State 
Tracts,  Will.  III.  vol.  ii.;  see  also  "?ome  Paradoxes  presented 
as  a  Sev.'  Year's  Gift."    (State  Perms,  vol.  iii.) 

(9)  The  last  great  wound  given  to  the  feudal  system  was  the 
Act  of  the  I'ith  of  Charles  II.,  which  abolished  the  tenure 
of  knight's  service  in  capitr,  and  which  Blackstone  compares, 
for  its  salntary  influence  upon  pmperly,  to  the  boasted  pro- 
visions of  Magna  Charta  itself.  Yet  even  in  this  Act  we  see 
the  cJTects  of  that  counleracling  spirit  which  has  contrived  to 
weaken  every  effort  of  the  English  nation  towards  liberty. 
The  exclusion  of  copyholders  from  their  share  of  elei-tive  riglila 
was  permitted  to  remain  as  a  brand  of  feudal  servitude,  and  as 
an  obstacle  to  the  rise  of  that  strong  counterbahmce  which  an 
equal  representation  of  property  would  oppose  to  tlio  weight 
of  the  Crown.  If  the  managL-ra  of  the  Revolution  had  been 
BJncere  in  their  wishes  for  rofonn,  they  woui.'l  not  or.ly  havo 
taken  this  fetter  off  the  rights  of  election,  but  would  Tiave  re- 
newed the  mode  adopted  in  Cromwell's  time,  of  increasing  the 
number  of  knights  of  tho  shire,  to  the  exclusion  of  thoso 
rotten  insignificant  boroughs,  which  have  tainted  the  "whole 
mass  of  the  constitution.  Lord  Clarendon  calls  thia  mejisure 
of  Cromwell's  "an  alteration  fit  to  bu  more  warrnntable  made, 
mid  in  a  bf'tter  time."  It  formed  part  of  Mr.  Pitt's  plan  In 
1733;  but  Pill's  plan  of  reform  was  a  kind  of  annotmccd 
dramatic  piece,  about  as  likely  to  be  over  acted  as  Mr.  Pheri- 
dan's  "  Foresters." 

(]Q)         loi-i)  cnim  tutum  Iter  ct  patens 

Converso  iu  protlum  Deo. 
Aurum  per  medios  ire  satellites,  &c.— IIouat. 

It  would  be  Q  task  not  unlnstnictive  to  trace  tho  history  of 
Prerogative  from  the  *lfltc  of  Its  strength  under  tho  Tudor 
princes,  when  Henry  VII.  and  his  successors  "taught  tho 
peoi>le,"  as  Xalhaidel  Bacon  says,  (/fi.*torie.  and  Politic.  Din- 
courff^  &;c.,  prirt  ii.  p.  Ill,)  '-to  dance  to  tho  tune  of  Allo- 
(finnce."  to  tho  period  of  the  Revolution,  when  tho  Throne, 
In  llM  atlncks  upon  lilierty,  liegan  to  cxclmiu^e  the  no{t*y  explo- 
sions of  Prerogative  for  the  Hilcnt  and  effectual  air-gun  of 
Influence.  In  following  lL<i  courso,  too,  nincn  that  memnrabln 
ftra,  we  shall  And  that,  while  the  niyn)  power  han  been  abridged 
In  branches  were  it  might  b(>  mad'*  cftnducive  to  the  Interests 
uf  Ihe  people,  It  has  been  left  In  full  and  unshackled  vigor 
ftgalnut  almost  evrry  point  where  the  hitegiify  of  the  conxtltu- 
lion  Is  vulnerable.  For  Instance,  (ho  power  of  chnrterhig 
borouith!<,  to  wlidse  rapricious  nbiine  In  Itm  hands  of  the 
Htimrts  we  are  Indeltied  for  miif<t  nf  Ihe  present  anomalies  of 
represi'ritntlnn,  nilcht.  If  suffen-il  tn  remnfn,  liuvi'  In  sornu 
dpifToo  nlonnd  fur  Hs  mlsrhlef,  by  restoriri:^  Ihe  old  unehiirlerefl 
homnttV.s  In  thoir  rlghtA,  mid  widnnlnt(  inon-  equally  tin*  basis 
of  thn  |pifi<dnlunr.  But,  by  tho  Act  of  Union  with  Fcotlnml, 
this  pirt-t  (if  Ihe  pnTognllvo  wns  removed,  lest  Freedom  should 
hnvi-  n  rhnnro  of  being  healed,  even  by  the  rujtt  of  Ihe  spear 
wblrn  had  fonnerly  wounded  lirr.  The  (lan.;tTfms  pftwer, 
however,  of  crenltnif  peers,  which  hns  been  so  uflun  exercised 
Ur  ll»»  fovrmmtrnl  ngnintt  th«f  conitltullun.  Is  itlll  loll  tn  fy«o 


and  unqualified  activity;  notwithstanding  the  example  of  thai 
celebrated  Bill  for  the  limilatiou  of  this  ever-budding  branch 
of  prerogative,  which  was  proposed  in  the  reign  of  (ieorge  I., 
luidcr  the  pec.diar  sanction  and  recommendation  of  the  Crown, 
but  which  the  Whigs  tiiought  right  to  reject,  with  all  that 
charncterislic  delicacy,  which,  in  general,  prevents  them,  when 
enjoying  the  sweets  of  office  themselves,  from  taking  any 
uucourtly  advantage  of  the  Throne.  It  will  be  recollected,  how 
ever,  that  the  creation  of  the  twelve  peere  by  the  Tories  in 
Anne's  reign  (a  measure  which  Swift,  like  a  true  party  man, 
defends)  gave  these  upright  AVhigs  all  possible  alarm  for  their 
liberties. 

With  regard  to  the  generous  fit  about  his  prerogative  which 
seized  so  unroyally  the  good  king  (leorge  I.,  historians  have 
hinted  that  the  paroxysm  originated  far  more  in  hatred  to  his 
son  than  in  love  for  llie  constitution.  (Coxe  says  Ihat  this  Bill 
was  projected  by  Sunderland.)  nns,  of  course,  however,  is  a 
calumny;  no  loyal  person,  acqiiainled  with  tho  annals  of  the 
three  Georges,  could  possibly  suspect  any  oiit  of  those  gracious 
monarchs  either  of  ill-will  to  his  heir,  or  imliffureaco  for  tho 
constitution. 

(U)  "They  drove  so  fast,  (s.ays  Welwood  of  the  ministers  of 
Charles  I.,)  that  it  was  no  wonder  thut  the  wheels  and  cliariot 
broke."  (Memoirs.,  p.  35.)— But  this  fatal  accident,  if  we  may 
judge  from  experience,  is  to  be  imputed  far  loss  to  the  folly 
and  impetuosity  of  Ihe  drivers,  than  to  tho  want  of  that  sup- 
pling oil  from  the  Treasurj'  which  has  been  found  so  necessary 
to  make  a  government  like  that  of  England  run  smoothly. 
Had  Charles  been  as  well  provided  with  this  article  as  his 
successors  have  been  since  the  happy  Itevolution,  his  Com- 
mons would  never  have  merited  from  him  the  harsh  eppolln- 
ticn  of  "seditious  vipers,"  but  would  have  been  (lis  they  now 
are,  and  I  trust  always  will  b';)  "dutiful  Commons"  "loyal 
Commons,"  &c.,  &c.,  and  would  havo  given  hint  ship-money, 
or  any  other  sort  of  money  h-.*  might  havo  fancied, 

(12)  Among  (hoso  ouxiliaries  which  the  Revolution  of  1088 
marshaBed  on  the  side  of  the  Throne,  the  bugbear  of  Pnpcry 
has  not  been  the  least  convenient  and  serviceable.  Thoso 
unskilful  tyrants,  Charles  and  .lames,  instead  of  profiting  by 
that  useful  subserviency  which  has  always  distinguished  ihe 
ministers  of  our  religious  establishment,  were  so  infatuated  as 
to  plan  the  ruin  of  this  best  bulwark  of  their  power,  and. 
moreover,  connected  their  designs  upon  the  Church  so  undi&- 
guisedly  with  their  attacks  upon  the  Conatitution,  that  they 
identified  in  the  minds  of  the  people  the  inlorestn  of  their 
religion  and  their  liberties.  During  llios;^  tinu^s,  lher<  fore, 
"No  Popery"  was  thn  watchword  of  freedom,  and  served  to 
keep  tho  piiblic  spirit  .iwake  against  the  inv.-isiona  of  bigotry 
and  prerogative.  The  Revolution,  however,  by  removing  this 
object  of  jeidoi'sy,  hns  produced  a  reliance  on  thu  orthodoxy 
of  the  Throne,  of  which  the  Throim  has  not  failed  lo  liiko 
advantage;  and  tin*  cry  of  "  No  Po[mt>"  lunirig  thus  Inst  its 
power  of  alarming  the  people  against  the  inroads  of  the  (.'rown. 
has  served  ever  s'.nce  th-j  very  different  purpose  of  strenj^then- 
ing  the  Crown,  against  tho  pretensions  and  Htnufirlcs  of  Ihe 
people.  The  danger  of  tho  Church  from  PiiplsU  and  Pre- 
tenders was  tho  chief  pretext  for  the  repeal  of  the  Triennial 
mil,  for  the  adoption  of  a  Htati.tini;  army,  for  the  ntunerouHHiis> 
pensions  of  Ihe  ll(d>eas  Corp.is  .'(ct,  :\nd,  In  tthort.  for  all  Ihoso 
spirited  hifraclions  of  (he  rnnHiitul!-in  l>v  which  the  n-knit  of 
the  hiKt  rentiirv  were  hj  eminently  dittiii;;ui<thed.  We  h.ivo 
(!een  very  lately,  too  how  Ihn  Throne  hi:s  been  emdded.  by  Ihe 
same  scan-crow  sorl  of  alarm,  to  select  \ln  rrlnt«(ers  from 
itmniig  men,  whose  pervlllly  fs  tlietr  only  chilir  to  elevation. 
mid  who  are  pledged  (if  luich  an  idiernuttve  rohfa  k*'lsui  to  lake 
part  with  the  scruples  of  i*\o  Kint;  agctnsi  Itu*  Haivntttn  v.**  ths 
empire. 

(IK)  t^omebody  hna  mid,  "^junnd  touf  len  po'es  fUTnb'nl 
nny^t,  CO  no  •••rail  pns  grunCt  docimb:;^/  bul  I  am  n-Nare  tht. 


CORRUPTION  AND  INTOLERANCK. 


319 


Ibis  is  not  fit  langunjje  to  bo  la-Id  at  a  time  when  our  birlli-doy 
odea  and  stale-papora  are  writtoii  by  sucli  jirt-Ily  poets  as  Mr. 
Pj'c  and  l\Ir.  Cannin;?.  All  I  wisli  is,  that  tlic  latter  gentloinan 
would  change  places  with  his  brother  Pyc,  by  which  moans  wo 
should  have  somewhat  less  prose  in  our  odes,  and  certainly 
less  poetry  in  our  politics. 

(It)  "It  is  a  scandal  (said  Sir  Charles  Pedley  in  William's 
reign)  lluit  a  government  so  sick  at  heart  as  ours  is  should 
look  80  well  in  the  face;''  and  Kdniund  Ilurke  has  said,  in 
the  present  leign,  "When  the  people  conceive  Ihat  laws  and 
'ribuiuds,  and  even  popular  assonibhcs,  are  perverted  from  tlie 
ends  of  their  institution,  tliey  Ihid  in  these  names  of  degen- 
erated establishments  only  new  motives  to  discontent.  Those 
bodies  wliich,  when  full  of  life  and  beauty,  lay  in  their  arms 
and  were  their  joy  and  comfort,  when  dead  and  putrid  become 
more  loathsome  from  remembrance  of  former  endearments." — 
Thoughts  on  the  present  Discontents^  1770.*  % 

05)  Tutor  haberi 

Principis,  Augusts  Caprenrum  in  rupe  sedentis 
Cura  grege  Chaldjeo. 

JrvESAL,  Sat.  X.  v.  92. 

The  senate  still  continued,  during  the  reign  of  Tiberius,  to 
manage  all  the  business  of  the  public ;  the  money  was  then  and 
long  after  coined  by  their  authority,  and  every  other  public 
nCr:iir  received  their  sanction. 

Wtj  are  told  by  Tacitus  of  a  certain  race  of  men,  who  made 
themselves  particularly  useful  to  the  Roman  emperors,  and 
were  therefore  called  '•  instrumenta  regni,"  or  "court  tools." 

From  this  it  appears,  that  my  Lords  IM ,  C — ;— ,  &c.,&-c,,ai'e 

by  no  means  things  of  modern  invention. 

(IC)  There  is  something  veiy  touching  in  what  Tacitue  tells 
u3  of  the  hopes  that  revived  in  a  few  patriot  bosoms,  when  the 
death  of  Aiigustus  was  ueai"  approaching,  and  the  fond  expec- 
tation with  which  they  already  began  "bona libertatisincassum 
disserere." 

According  to  Ferguson,  Ciesar's  interference  with  the  rights 
of  election  "made  the  subversion  of  the  republic  more  felt 
than  any  of  the  former  acts  of  his  power." — Rovian  Republic^ 
book  V.  chap  i. 

(i7)  Andrew  Marvell,  the  honest  opposer  of  the  court  du- 
ring the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  and  the  last  member  of 
parliament  who,  according  to  the  ancient  mode,  took  wages 
from  his  constituents.  The  Commons  haA*e,  since  them  much 
changed  their  pny-mastei-s.— See  the  State  Poems  for  some 
rude  but  spirited  effusions  of  .\ndrew  Marvell. 

(18)  The  following  artless  speech  of  Sir  Francis  Winning- 
ton,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  will  arauso  those  who 
are  fully  aware  of  the  perfection  we  have  since  attained  in 
that  system  of  government  whose  humble  beginnings  so  much 
astouished  the  worthy  barouet.  "I  did  observe  (says  he)  that 
all  those  who  had  pensions,  and  most  of  those  who  had  offices, 
voted  all  of  a  side,  as  they  were  directed  by  some  great  officer, 
exactly  as  if  their  business  in  this  House  had  been  to  preserve 
their  pensions  and  offices,  and  not  to  make  laws  for  the  good 
of  them  who  sent  them  here." — He  alludes  to  tviat  parliament 
which  was  called,  pnr  erccUevcc,  the  Pensionary  Parliament. 

(10)  According  to  Xenophon.  the  chief  circumstance  which 
recommended  these  creatures  to  the  service  of  Eastern  princes 
was  the  ignominious  station  they  held  in  society,  and  the 
probability  of  their  being,  upon  this  account,  more  devoted  to 
the  will  and  caprice  of  a  master,  from  whose  notice  alone  they 
derived  consideration,  and  in  whose  favor  they  might  seek 
refuge  from  the  general  contempt  of  mankind.  But  I  doubt 
Ti-helher  even  an  Eastern  prince  would  have  chosen  an  entire 
i.dm;nistiatioH  npon  this  principle. 


(20)  "And  in  the  cup  an  Union  Bhall  be  Ihrown." 

JlcmtcU 

(21)  Among  the  many  mcn«ure8,which,  since  the  nevoUition, 
have  contributed  to  increase  the  influence  of  the  throne,  and 
to  feed  up  this  "Aaron's  serpent"  of  the  constitution  to  ita 
present  health  and  respectable  magnitude,  there  have  been  few 
more  nutrilive  than  the  J-'colch  and  Irish  Unions.  Sir  John 
Packer  said,  in  a  debate  upon  the  Aft-mcr  queslion,  that  "he 
would  submit  it  to  the  House,  whether  men  who  had  basnly 
betrnyed  their  trust,  by  giving  up  their  independent  constitu- 
tion, were  lit  to  be  admitted  into  tho  Knglish  House  of  Com- 
mons." Cut  Sir  John  would  have  known,  if  he  had  not  been 
out  of  place  at  the  time,  that  the  pliancy  of  such  materials  was 
not  among  the  least  of  their  recommendations.  Indeed,  the 
promoters  of  the  Fcotch  Union  were  by  no  means  disappointed 
In  the  leading  object  of  their  measure,  for  Hie  triumphant  ma- 
jorities of  the  court-party  in  parliament  may  bo  dated  from 
the  admission  of  the  45  and  the  IG.  Once  or  twice,  upon  the 
alteration  of  tlieir  lav/  of  treason  and  the  imposition  of  the 
malt-tax,  (measures  which  were  in  direct  violation  of  the  Act 
of  Union,)  these  wortliy  North  Critons  arrayed  themselves  in 
opposition  to  the  court;  but  finding  this  effort  for  their  coun- 
tiy  unavailing,  they  prudently  determined  to  think  thence- 
forward of  themselves,  and  few  men  have  ever  kept  to  a 
laudable  resolution  mure  firmly.  The  etrect  of  Irish  repre- 
sentation on  the  liberties  of  England  will  be  no  less  perceptible 
and  permanent.  The  infusion  of  such  cheap  nnd  useful  in- 
gredients as  my  Lord  L.,  Mr.  D.  B.,  fcc,  &:c.,  into  the  legisla- 
ture, cannot  but  act  as  a  powerful  alterative  on  the  constitu- 
tion, and  clear  it  by  degrees  of  all  troublesome  humors  of 
honesty. 

(22)  The  magician's  shield  in  Ariosto: 

E  tollo  per  vertii  dello  splcndoro 

La  libertate  a  loro.  Cant.  2, 

(23)  Tlie  following  prophetic  remarks  occur  in  a  letter  written 
by  Sir  Robert  Talbot,  who  atlended  tho  Duke  of  Bedford  to 
Paris  in  17G2.  Talking  of  states  which  have  grown  powerful 
in  commerce,  he  says,  "According  to  the  nature  and  common 
course  of  things,  there  is  a  confederacy  against  them,  and  con- 
sequently in  the  same  proportion  as  they  increase  in  richea, 
they  approach  to  destruction.  The  address  of  our  K:ng 
William,  in  making  all  Europe  take  the  alarm  at  France,  haa 
brought  that  country  before  us  near  that  inevitable  period. 
We  must  necessarily  have  our  turn,  and  Great  Britain  will 
attain  it  as  soon  as  France  shall  have  a  declaimer  with  organs 
as  proper  for  that  political  purpose  as  were  those  of  our 

William  the  Third Without  doubt,  my  Lord, 

Great  Britain  must  lower  her  flight.  Em-ope  will  remiud  us  of 
the  balance  of  commerce,  as  she  has  reminded  France  of  the 
balance  of  power.  The  address  of  our  statesmen  will  immor- 
talize them  by  contriving  for  us  a  descent  which  shall  cot  be  a 
fall,  by  making  us  rather  resemble  Holland  than  Carthage  and 
Venice." — Letters  on  the  French  Jv'ation. 

(24)  The  king-deposing  doctrine,  notwithstanding  its  many 
mischievous  absurdities,  was  of  no  little  service  to  the  cause 
of  political  liberty,  by  inculcating  the  right  of  resistance  to 
tyrants,  and  asserting  the  will  of  the  people  to  be  the  only 
true  fountain  of  power.  Bellarmine,  the  most  violent  of  the 
advocates  for  papal  authority,  was  one  of  the  first  to  maintain 
(De  Pontiff,  lib.  i.  cap.  7)  "  that  kings  have  net  their  authority 
or  office  immediately  from  God  nor  his  law,  but  only  from  the 
law  of  nations  ;"  and  in  King  James's  '■■  Defence  of  the  Rights 
of  Kings  against  Cardinal  Perron,"  we  find  his  Majesty  express- 
ing strong  indignation  against  the  Cardinal  for  having  asserted 
"that  to  the  deposing  of  a  king  the  consent  of  the  people 
must  be  obtained" — "for  by  these  words  (says  James)  tlia 
pe(tple  areexa  led  above  the  king,  and  maile  tte  ju<Igoa  of  the 


S20 


MOORE'S  ^YOEKS. 


kind's  deposing,"  p.42J.— Even  in  Mariana*3  celebrated  book, 
where  the  nonsense  of  bigotry  does  not  interfere,  there  may 
be  found  many  liberal  and  enliijbteued  views  of  the  principles 
of  government,  of  the  restraints  which  should  be  imposed 
upon  royal  power,  of  the  subordination  of  the  Throne  to  the 
interests  of  the  people,  &c.  tc.  {De  Rrge  ct  Regis  I»stitutione. 
Eee  particularly  lib.  i.  cap.  6,  8,  and  9.)— It  is  rather  remarka- 
ble, too,  that  Entrland  should  be  indebted  to  another  Jesuit  for 
the  earliest  defence  of  that  principle  upon  which  the  Revolu- 
tion was  fnundpH.  nmnfilv,  the  right  of  the  people  to  chauge 
Vuv  auccfsmon.— (,^ee  uoleman'a  "Conferences,"  written  in 
support  of  the  title  of  the  Infanta  of  t?pain  against  that  of 
Jaine3  L)— When  EDglishmen,  therefore,  say  that  Popery  is  the 
religion  of  slavery,  they  should  not  only  rccoHect  that  their 
own  boasted  constitution  is  the  work  and  bequest  of  popish 
ancestors;  they  should  not  only  remember  the  laws  of  Ii^dward 
lU.,  ■'  under  whom  (says  Bolingbroke)  the  constitution  of  our 
parliaments,  and  the  whole  form  of  our  governmeut,  became 
reduced  into  better  form  ;'•  but  they  should  know  that  even 
the  errors  charged  on  Popery  have  leaned  to  the  cause  of 
'iberty,  and  that  Papists  were  the  Grst  promulgators  of  the 
doctrines  which  led  to  the  Revohilion.— In  general,  however, 
the  political  principles  of  the  lUmian  Catholics  have  been  de- 
ncribed  as  happened  to  suit  the  temporary  convenience  of 
their  oppressors,  and  have  been  represented  alternately  as 
slavish  or  refractor}',  according  as  a  pretext  for  tormenting 
them  was  wanting.  The  same  inconsistency  has  marked  every 
other  imputation  against  them.  They  are  charged  with  laxity 
in  the  observance  of  oalhs,  though  an  oath  has  been  found  suf- 
ficient to  shut  them  out  from  all  worldly  advantages.  If  they 
reject  certain  decisions  of  their  church,  they  are  said  to  bo 
skeptics  and  bad  Christiana;  if  they  admit  those  very  decisions, 
they  are  branded  as  bigots  and  bad  subjects.  We  are  told 
Ibnt  confidence  and  kindness  will  make  them  enemies  to  the 
government,  though  we  know  that  exclusion  and  injuries  have 
hardly  prevented  them  from  being  ila  friends.  In  short,  noth- 
ing can  better  illnslrato  the  misery  of  those  shifts  and  eva- 
siims  by  wluch  a  long  coin-so  of  cowardly  Injustice  must  bo 
supported,  than  the  whole  history  of  Great  Hritain'a  conduct 
towards  the  Cath<»lic  part  of  her  empire. 

(ir>)  The  **  Sella  Stcreoraria^  of  the  popes.— Tlio  Right  Ilon- 
orablo  and  learned  Doctor  will  find  an  engraving  of  this  chair 
in  Spanheim's  "Disquisilio  llistorica  de  Pup;\  Tii'min^,"  (p. 
118;)  and  I  recommend  it  ns  a  model  for  the  fashion  of  that 
Bcat  which  the  Doctor  ia  about  to  take  in  the  privy-council 
of  Ireland. 

(2<»)  When  Innocent  X.  was  entreated  to  decide  the  con- 
troversy between  tho  Jesuits  and  the  Jansenists,  ho  answered, 
that  'Mio  had  been  bred  a  lawyer,  and  had  therefore  nothing  to 
do  with  divinity."~It  were  to  bo  wishod  that  some  of  our 
English  pettifoggers  knew  their  own  (it  element  ae  well  as 
Popo  Innocent  X. 

(27t  Not  the  Camden  who  f peaks  thus  of  Ireland:— 
*^1'o  winil  up  all,  whether  wo  regard  the  fruitfulnosR  of  tho 
■oil,  tho  advantage  of  the  sea,  with  no  many  commodious 
havenf,  or  tho  nallvea  themselves,  who  are  warlike,  Ingenious, 
handsome,  and  well-complexloned,  sort-skinned  and  very 
nimble,  by  reason  of  thu  ptiantneiiB  of  their  muBcles,  this 
Inland  Is  in  many  respocti  rm  h:ippy,  that  Clrnldus  might  very 
well  say. '  Nature  had  rr-garded  wHh  more  favorable  oyes  than 
vrUtnnry  this  l^lngdom  of '/eiih>r.'" 

(28»  Tlio  pxomple  of  tolcrntlon,  which  Konnprirto  hrm  held 
forth,  will,  I  fenr,  produce  no  other  efToct  than  that  ol  deter- 
mining tho  ftrlliNh  guvernmimt  to  per«lst,  from  the  very  spirit 
of  opfMMltlon,  In  Ihiilr  own  old  system  of  IntohTnnco  nnd  In- 
Jusltrir ;  Just  lu  the  Hlutn>-se  blarkeii  Iheir  l*^eU)t "  becauoo,"  as 
U)«r  MT.  ^  tho  di^Tll  lios  white  ouet." 


(29)  One  of  the  unhappy  results  of  the  controversy  between 

Protestants  and  Catholics,  is  the  mutual  exposure  which  thO!» 
criminations  and  recriminations  have  produced.  In  vain  do 
the  Protestants  charge  the  Papists  with  closing  tho  door  of 
salvation  upon  others,  while  many  of  their  own  writings  and 
articles  breathe  the  same  uncharitable  spirit.  No  canon  of  Con- 
stance or  Lateran  ever  damned  heretics  more  elVectually  than 
the  eighth  of  the  Thirty-nine  .Vrticles  consigns  to  perdition 
every  single  member  of  the  Greek  church  ;  and  I  doubt  whether 
a  more  sweeping  clause  of  damnation  was  ever  proposed  in  the 
most  bigoted  council,  than  that  which  the  Calvinistic  theory  of 
predestination  in  the  seventeenth  of  these  articles  exhibits.  It 
is  true  that  no  liberal  Protestant  avows  such  exclusi\o  opin- 
ions; that  every  honest  clergyman  must  feel  a  pang  while  he 
S'lbscribes  to  them;  that  some  even  assert  the  Athannsian 
Creed  to  be  the  forgery  of  one  Vigilius  Tapsensis.  in  the  be- 
ginning of  the  sixth  century,  and  that  eminent  divines,  Mke 
Jortin,  have  not  hegitated  to  say,  "There  are  propositions  con- 
tained in  our  Liturgy  and  Articles  which  no  man  of  common 
sense  amongst  us  believes.'"  Cut  while  all  this  is  freely  con," 
ceded  to  Protestants;  while  nobody  doubts  their  sincerity, 
when^they  declare  that  their  ai'ticles  are  not  essentials  of  faith, 
but  a  collection  of  opinions  which  have  been  promulgated  by 
fallible  men,  and  from  many  of  which  they  feel  themselves 
justified  in  dissenting,— while  so  much  liberty  of  retractation 
is  allowed  to  Protestants  upon  their  own  declared  nncl  sub- 
scribed Articles  of  religion,  i»  it  not  strange  that  a  similar  in- 
dulgence should  be  so  obstinately  refused  to  the  Catholics,  upon 
tenuts  which  their  church  has  uniformly  resisted  nnd  con- 
demned, in  every  country  where  it  has  independently  flour- 
ished ?  Wheu  the  Catholics  say,  "  Tho  Decree  of  the  Council 
of  Lateran,  wliich  you  object  to  us,  has  no  claim  whatever 
upon  either  our  faith  or  our  reason;  it  did  not  even  profess  to 
contain  anyjJoctrinal  decision,  but  was  merely  a  judicial  pro- 
ceeding of  that  assembly  ;  and  it  would  bo  as  fair  for  us  to  im- 
pute a  tcij'c-hiUhtff  doctrine  to  the  Protestants,  because  their 
first  pope,  Henry  VIII.,  was  sanctioned  in  an  indulgence  of  that 
propensity,  as  for  you  to  conclude  that  we  have  inlu-rited  a 
king-deposing  taste  from  the  nets  of  the  Council  of  Lateran^  or 
tho  secular  pretensions  of  our  popes.  With  respect,  to(»,  to  the 
Decree  of  the  Council  of  Constance,  upon  tho  strenuth  of  which 
you  accuse  us  of  breaking  faith  with  heretics,  wo  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  pronounce  that  Decree  a  calumnious  forgery,  u  fonjery, 
too,  so  obvious  and  ill-fabricateil,  that  none  but  our  enemies 
have  ever  ventured  to  give  it  the  sliiihtest  credit  for  authen- 
ticity." When  the  Catholics  make  these  declarations,  (nnd 
they  are  almost  weary  with  making  tliem.')  when  they  show, 
too,  by  their  conduct,  that  these  dechiriitinns  are  sincere,  and 
that  their  faith  and  morals  are  no  nu)re  re.:ulateil  by  the  ab- 
surd decrees  of  old  comicils  and  popes,  than  their  science  Is 
intluenced  by  the  papal  anathema  against  that  Irishman  who 
(Irst  found  out  the  Antipodes,- is  it  not  strange  that  so  many 
Htill  wilfully  distrust  what  every  good  man  Is  so  much  inter- 
ested in  believing  V  That  so  many  should  prefer  Ihe  dark- 
lantern  of  the  Kith  century  to  the  sunshine  of  intellect  which 
has  since  overspread  the  worhlV  and  that  every  dabbler  in 
theolog)',  from  Mr.  Le  Mesurler  down  to  the  Chancellor  of  tho 
I-'xcheiiuer,  should  dare  to  oppose  tho  rubbish  of  Cimslanco 
nnd  Lateran  to  the  bright  nnd  triumphant  progress  of  Jiittlcu, 
generosity,  aiul  truth? 

(30)  In  n  singular  work,  written  by  one  rranclscus  Collins, 
"upon  the  Souls  of  the  Pagans."  the  author  discusses,  with 
much  coolnes>»  and  erudition,  all  the  probable  rhfim  e^  of  salva- 
thm  upim  which  a  heathen  phlloxuplur  might  calculate.  Con- 
signing to  perdition,  without  miuh  dlfllculty.  Plato,  Socrates, 
itc,  the  only  snce  at  whose  fide  he  sei-ms  to  hi'silate  1«  P/tliag 
urns.  In  ronsldernlWmnf  his  golden  thigh,  and  thn  many  mira- 
cles wlilch  he  peifunncd.  lint,  having  hahmcetl  a  little  hit 
claims,  nnd  finding  reason  to  nilherall  these  mlraclen  on  th« 
drvll.  he  at  length,  In  the  twenlynnii  chapter,  decides  upon 
1  damning  htiu  aUo.    (Or  .1nintatiu»  Foffannrum,  lib.  tv.  cap.  91 


CORRUPTION  AND  INTOLERANCE. 


321 


and  23.)— Tho  poet  Dante  compromises  tho  matter  with  tlie 
Pagnns,  and  gives  tbcm  a  neutral  territory  or  limbo  of  their 
own,  whore  their  employment,  it  must  be  owned,  is  not  very 
enviable—"  Scnza  speme  vivemo  in  dosio."— Cant,  iv.— Amont; 
the  numerous  errors  imputed  to  Origon,  ho  is  accuBcd  of 
having  denied  tho  eternity  of  future  pimjsbmcnt;  and,  If  ho 
never  advanced  a  more  irrational  doctrine,  wo  may  venture,  I 
tliink,  to  forgive  htm.  He  went  so  far,  however,  as  to  include 
tho  devil  himself  in  tho  general  hell-delivery  which  he  sup- 
posed would  one  day  or  other  take  place,  and  in  this  St. 
Augustine  thinks  him  rather  too  merciful — "  Miserecordior 
profecto  fuit  Origenea,  qui  et  ipsum  diabolum."  &c.  {Dc 
Civitat.  I)et\  lib.  xxi.cap.  17.) — According  to  St.  Jerome,  it  was 
Origen's  opinion  that  "  the  devil  himself,  after  a  certain  time, 
will  be  as  well  off  as  the  angel  Gabriel"— "Id  ipsum  foro 
Gabrielem  quod  diabohini."  (See  his  Epistle  to  Pammachiiis.) 
4tut  llalloix,  in  bis  Defence  of  Origen,  denies  strongly  that  his 
learned  father  had  any  such  misplaced  tenderness  for  the 
devil. 

(31)  Mr.  Fox,  in  his  Speech  on  the  Repeal  of  the  Test  .\ct, 
(1790,)  thus  condemns  the  intermixture  of  religion  with  the 
political  constitution  of  a  state : — "  What  purpose  (lie  asks)  can 
it  serve,  except  the  baleful  purpose  of  communicating  and 
receiving  comtaminalion  ?  Under  such  an  alliance,  corruption 
must  alight  upon  the  one,  and  slavery  overwhelm  the  other." 

Locke,  too,  says  of  tho  connection  between  church  and 
state,  "The  boundaries  on  both  sides  are  fixed  and  immove- 
able. He  jumbles  heaven  and  earth  together,  the  things  most 
remote  and  opposite,  who  mixes  these  two  societies,  which  are 
in  iheir  original,  end,  business,  and  in  every  thing,  perfectly 
distinct  and  infinitely  different  from  each  other.*' — First  Letter 
on  Toleration. 

The  corruptions  introduced  into  Christianity  may  be  dated 
from  the  period  of  its  establishment  under  Constantino,  nor 
could  all  the  splendor  which  it  then  acquired  atone  for  the 
peace  and  purity  which  it  lost. 

(32)  There  has  been,  after  all,  quite  as  much  intolerance 
among  Protestants  as  among  Papists.  According  to  the 
haclaieyed  quotation— 

niacos  intra  muros  peccatur  et  extra. 

Even  the  great  champion  of  the  Reformation,  Melanchthon, 
whom  Jortin  calls  "a  divine  of  much  mildness  and  good- 
nature^''^ thus  expresses  his  approbation  of  the  burning  of 
Servetus  ;  "Legi  (he  says  to  Bollinger)  quse  de  Serveti  blas- 
phemiis  respondistis,  et  pietatem  ac  judicia  vestra  probo. 
Judico  etiam  senatum  Geneyensera  recte  fecisse,  quod  homi- 
nem  pertinacem  et  non  omissurum  blasphemias  sustulit;  ac 
rairatus  sura  esse  qui  severitatcm  illara  improbent."  I  have 
groat  pleasure  in  contrasting  with  these  "  mild  and  good- 
natured"  sentiments  the  following  words  of  the  Papist  Bahize, 
in  addressing  liis  friend  Conringius;  "Interim  amemus,  mi 
Conringi,  et  tametsi  diversas  opiniones  tuemur  in  causa  reli- 
gionis,  moribus  tamen  diversi  non  siraus,  qui  eadem  literarum 
etudia  scctamur." — Herman.  Conring.  Epistot.  par.  secxind. 
p.  56. 

Hume  tells  us  that  the  Commons,  in  the  beginning  of 
Charles  the  Firet's  reign,  "  attacked  Montague,  one  of  the 
King's  chaplains,  on  account  of  a  moderate  book  which  he 
had  lately  composed,  and  which,  to  their  great  disgust,  saved 
virtuous  Catholics  as  well  as  other  Christians,  from  eternal 
torments." — In  the  same  manner  a  complaint  was  lodged 
before  the  Lords  of  the  Council  against  that  excellent  writer 
Hooker,  for  having,  in  a  Sermon  against  Popery,  attempted 
to  save  many  of  his  Popish  ancestora  for  ignorance. — To 
these  examples  of  Protestant  toleration  I  shall  beg  leave  to 
oppose  the  following  extract  from  a  letter  of  old  Roger 
Ascham,  Uhe  tutor  o(  Queen  Elizabeth,^  which  is  preserved 
among  tho  Harrington  Papers,  and  was  written  iu  1566,  to  the 
41 


Earl  of  Leiccste  ,  complaining  of  the  Archbishop  Young,  whc 
had  taken  away  his  prebend  in  tho  church  of  York  :  "■  Mas- 
ter Bourne  did  never  grieve  me  half  so  moche  iu  offering 
me  wrong,  as  Mr.  Dudley  and  the  Hyshopp  of  York  doe,  in 
taking  away  my  right.  No  bywhopp  in  Q.  Mary's  time  would 
have  80  dealt  with  me:  not  Mr.  Bourne  hymself,  when  Win- 
chester lived,  durst  have  so  dealt  with  me.  For  suche  good 
estimation  iu  those  dayes  even  the  learncdst  and  wysest  men, 
as  Gardener  and  Cardinal  Poole,  made  of  my  poore  service, 
that  although  they  knowe  perfectly  that  in  religion,  both  by 
open  wrytiugo  and  pryvie  talk*;,  I  was  conlrarye  unto  them; 
yea,  when  Sir  Francis  f'nglefleld  by  name  did  note  mc  spe- 
ciallye  at  the  councill-board,  Gardener  would  not  suffer  me  to 
be  called  thither,  nor  touched  ellswheare,  saiinge  suche  words 
of  me  in  a  lettre,  as,  though  lettres  cannot,  I  blushe  to  write 
them  to  your  lordshipp.  Winchester's  good-will  stoode  not 
in  speaking  faire  and  wishing  well,  but  he  did  in  deede  that 
for  me  whereby  my  wife  and  children  shall  live  the  better 
when  I  am  gone."  (See  Jv'ugm  Jlntiquoi-,  vol.  i.  pp.  98,  99.) 
—If  men  who  acted  thus  were  bigots,  what  shall  we  call  Mr. 
Percival  ? 

In  Sutcliffe's  "  Survey  of  Popery"  there  occurs  the  following 
assertion: — "Papists,  that  positively  hold  the  heretical  and 
false  doctrines  of  the  modern  church  of  Rome,  cannot  possi- 
bly bo  saved." — As  a  contrast  to  this  and  other  specimens  of 
Protestant  liberality,  which  it  would  be  much  more  easy  than 
pleasant  to  collect,  I  refer  my  reader  to  the  Declaration  of 
Le  Pere  Courayer; — doubting  not  that,  while  be  reads  the 
sentiments  of  this  pious  man  upon  toleration,  he  will  feel  in- 
clined to  exclaim  with  Belsham,  "  Blush,  ye  Protestant  bigots  I 
and  be  confounded  at  tho  comparison  of  your  own  wretched 
and  malignant  prejudices  with  the  generous  and  enlarged 
ideas,  the  noble  and  animated  language  of  this  Popish  priest." 
— Essays.,  xxvii.  p.  86. 

(33)  "  La  tol6rance  est  la  chose  du  monde  la  plua  propre  a 
ramener  le  siecle  d'or,  et  a  faire  nn  concert  et  une  harmonio 
de  plusieurs  voix  et  instruments  de  differents  tons  et  notes, 
aussi  ogrtable  pour  le  moins  que  I'uniformite  d'une  seulo 
voix."  Bajfle,  Commentaire  Pkilosophique,  &.C.,  part  ii.  chap, 
vi. — Both  Bayle  and  Locke  would  have  treated  the  subject  of 
Toleration  iu  a  manner  much  more  worthy  of  themselves  and 
of  the  cause,  if  they  had  written  in  an  age  less  distracted 
by  religious  prejudices. 

(3-1)  Ariosto,  canto  iv. 

(35)  See  Warner's  History  of  Ireland,  vol.  i.  book  ix. 

(36)  Statins,  Thebaid.  lib.  xii. 

(37)  "  A  sort  of  civil  excommimlcation,  (says  Gibbon,)  which 
separated  them  from  their  fellow-citizens  by  a  peculiar  brand 
of  infamy;  and  this  declaration  of  the  supreme  magistrate 
tended  to  justify,  or  at  least  to  excuse,  the  insults  of  a  fanatic 
popidace.  The  sectaries  were  gradually  disqualified  for  the 
possession  of  honorable  or  lucrative  emploj-ments,  and  Theo- 
dosius  was  satisfied  with  his  own  justice  when  he  decreed, 
that,  as  the  Eunomians  distinguished  the  nature  of  the  Son 
from  that  of  the  Father,  they  should  be  incapable  of  making 
their  wills,  or  of  receiving  any  advantage  from  testamentary 
donations." 

(38)  This  story  is  told  also  in  Sozoman.  lib.  vii.  cap.  23;  but 
unfortunately  Chrysostom  says  nothing  whatever  about  it,  and 
he  not  only  had  the  best  opportunities  of  information,  but 
was  too  fond  of  music,  as  appears  by  his  praises  of  psalmody, 
(Exposit.  in  Psalm  xli.,)  to  omit  such  a  flattering  illustration 
of  its  powers.  He  imputes  their  reconciliation  to  the  inter- 
ferpnce  of  the  Antiochian  solitaries,  while  Zozimus  attribute? 
ii,  to  »he  remonstrances  of  the  sophist  Libanius.- Gibbcn, 
think,  does  not  6ven  allude  to  this  story  of  tho  musicians. 


THE  SKEPTIC. 


A.     PHILOSOPHICAL     SAT^IRE. 


TREFACE. 


The  Skeptical  Philosophy  of  the  Ancients  has 
been  no  less  misrepresented  tlian  llie  Epicurean. 
Pyrrho  may  perhaps  have  carried  it  to  ratlier  an 
irrational  excess ; — but  we  must  not  believe,  witli 
Beattie,  all  the  absurdities  imputed  to  the  philoso- 
pher ;  and  it  appears  to  mo  that  the  doctrines  of  the 
school,  as  explained  by  Sextus  Empiricus,'  are  far 
more  suited  to  the  wants  and  infirmities  of  human 
reason,  as  well  as  more  conducive  to  the  mild  vir- 
tues of  humility  and  patience,  than  any  of  those 
systems  of  philosophy  which  preceded  the  introduc- 
tion of  Christianity.  The  Skeptics  m.ay  be  said  to 
have  held  a  middle  path  between  the  Dogm.atists 
and  Academicians ;  the  former  of  whom  boasted 
that  they  had  attained  the  truth,  while  the  latter 
denied  that  any  attainable  truth  existed.  The 
Skeptics,  however,  without  either  asserting  or  de- 
nying its  existence,  professed  to  be  modestly  and 
anxiously  in  search  of  it ;  or,  as  St.  Augustine  ex- 
presses it,  in  his  liberal  tract  against  the  Manichteans, 
"nemo  nostrum  dicat  jam  so  invcnisse  veritatem  ; 
sic  cam  quocramus  quasi  ab  utrisque  nesciatur."' 
From  this  habit  of  impartial  investigation,  and  the 
necessity  which  it  impo.sed  upon  them,  of  studying 
not  only  every  system  of  philosophy,  but  every  art 
and  science  which  professed  to  lay  its  basis  in 
truth,  they  necessarily  took  a  wider  range  of  eru- 
dition, and  were  far  more  travelled  in  the  regions 
of  philosophy  than  those  whom  conviction  or  big- 
otry had  domesticated  in  any  particular  system.  It 
required  all  the  learning  of  dogmatism  to  overthrow 
the  dogmatism  of  learning ;  and  tho  Skeptics  may 
be  HJiid  to  resemble,  in  this  respect,  that  ancient 
incendiary  who  stole  from  the  altar  the  fire  with 
which  ho  destroyed  llic  tcuiple.     Tiiia  advantage 


over  all  the  other  sects  is  allowed  to  them  even  by 
Lipsius,  whose  treatise  on  the  miracles  of  the  Virgo 
Hallensis  will  sufficiently  save  him  from  all  suspi- 
cion of  skepticism.  "  Lahore,  ingenio,  metnoria,"  he 
says,  "  supra  omnea  pene  philosophos  fuissc. — Quid 
nonne  omnia  aliorum  secta  tenere  debucrunt  ct  in- 
quircrc,  si  potcrunt  refellcre?  res  dicit.  Nonno 
orationcs  varias,  raras,  subfiles  inveniri  ad  tain 
receptas,  claras,  certas  (ut  videbatur)  sententias 
overtendasi"  &c.  &c.' — Mamiduct.  ad  Philosoph. 
Stoic.  Dissert.  4. 

Between  tlie  skepticism  of  the  ancients  and  the 
moderns  the  great  dilVerenee  is,  that  the  former 
doubted  for  the  purpose  of  investigating,  as  may 
be  exemplified  by  the  third  book  of  Aristotle's 
Metaphysics,  while  the  latter  investigate  for  tho 
purpose  of  doubting,  as  may  be  seen  through  most 
of  the  philosophical  works  of  Hume.'  Indeed,  tho 
Pyrrhonism  of  latter  days  is  not  only  more  subtle 
than  that  of  antiquity,  but,  it  must  be  confessed, 
more  dangerous  in  its  tendency.  Tlie  happiness 
of  a  Christian  depends  so  essentially  >ipon  his  be- 
lief, that  it  is  but  natural  he  should  feel  alarm  at 
the  progress  of  doubt,  lest  it  should  steal  by  degrees 
into  that  region  from  which  lie  is  most  interested 
in  excluding  it,  and  poison  at  last  the  very  spring 
of  his  consolation  and  hope.  Still,  however,  the 
abuses  of  doubting  ought  not  to  deter  a  philosophi- 
cal mind  from  indulging  mildly  and  rationally  in  its 
use  ;  and  there  is  nothing,  surely,  more  consistent 
witli  tho  meek  spirit  of  Christianity,  than  that  hum- 
blo  skepticism  which  professes  not  to  extend  its 
distrust  beyond  tho  circle  of  human  pursuits,  and 
the  pretensions  of  human  knowledge.  A  followet 
of  this  school  may  be  .'iinung  the  readiest  to  admit 


THE  SKEPTIC,  A  SATIKE 


323 


the  claims  of  a  superintending  Iiilelligence  upon 
liis  failli  :ind  adoration :  it  is  only  to  the  wisdom 
of  this  weak  world  that  ho  refuses,  or  at  least  de- 
lays, his  assent ; — it  is  only  in  passing  through  the 
shadow  of  earth  that  his  mind  undergoes  the  eclipse 
of  skepticism.  No  follower  of  Pyrrho  has  ever 
spoken  more  strongly  against  the  dogmatists  than 
St.  Paul  himself,  in  the  First  Epistle  to  the  Corin- 
tliians  ;  and  there  are  passages  in  Ecclesiastes  and 
otlier  parts  of  Scripture,  whicli  justify  our  utmost 
diffidence  in  all  that  human  reason  originates. 
Even  the  Skeptics  of  antiquity  refrained  carefully 
from  the  mysteries  of  theology,  and,  in  entering  tlie 


temples  of  religion,  laid  aside  their  philosophy  at 
the  porch.  In  short,  it  appears  to  me,  that  this 
rational  and  well-regulated  skepticism  is  the  only 
daughter  of  the  Schools  that  can  safely  be  selected 
as  a  handmaid  for  Piety.  He  who  distrusts  the 
light  of  reason,  will  be  tlie  first  to  follow  a  more 
luminous  guide ;  and  if,  with  an  ardent  love  for 
truth,  lie  has  sought  her  in  vain  througli  the  ways 
of  this  life,  ho  will  but  turn  with  the  more  hope  to 
that  better  world,  wliere  all  is  simple,  true,  and 
everlasting :  for,  there  is  no  paralla.\  at  the  zenith  ; 
— it  is  only  near  our  troubled  horizon  that  objects 
deceive  us  into  vague  and  erroneous  calculations 


THE    SKEPTIC, 


As  the  gay  tint,  that  decks  the  vernal  rose,' 

Not  in  tlie  flower,  but  in  our  vision  glows; 

As  the  ripe  flavor  of  Falernian  tides 

Not  in  the  wine,  but  in  our  taste  resides; 

So  when,  with  heartfelt  tribute,  we  declare 

That  JIarco's  honest,  and  that  Susan's  fair, 

'Tis  in  our  minds,  and  not  in  Susan's  eyes 

Or  Marco's  life,  the  worth  or  beauty  lies : 

For  she,  in  flat-nosed  China,  would  appear 

As  plain  a  thing  as  Lady  Anne  is  here ; 

And  one  light  joke  at  rich  Loretto's  dome 

Would  rank  good  Marco  with  the  damn'd  at  Rome. 

There's  no  deformity  so  vile,  so  base. 
That  'tis  not  somewhere  thought  a  charm,  a  grace ; 
No  foul  reproach,  that  may  not  steal  a  beam 
From  other  suns,  to  bleach  it  to  esteem." 
Ask,  who  is  wise? — you'll  find  the  self-same  man 
A  sage  in  France,  a  madman  in  Japan ; 
And  here  some  head  beneath  a  mitre  swells. 
Which  there  had  tingled  to  a  cap  and  bells : 
Nay,  there  may  yet  some  monstrous  region  be. 
Unknown  to  Cook,  and  from  Napoleon  free. 
Where  Castlereagh  would  for  a  patriot  pass. 
And  mouthing  Mulgrave  scarce  be  deem'd  an  ass ! 

"  List  not  to  reason,  (Epicurus  cries,) 
"  But  trust  the  senses,  there  conviction  lies :'' — ' 
Alas !  they  judge  not  by  a  purer  light. 
Nor  keeji  their  fountains  more  untinged  and  bright : 
Habit  so  mars  them,  that  the  Russian  swain 
Will  sigli  for  train-oil,  wb.ile  he  sips  champagne 
And  health  so  rules  them,  that  a  fever's  heat 
Would  make  even  Sheridan  think  water  sweet. 


Just  as  the  mind  the  erring  sense'  believes. 
The  erring  mind,  in  turn,  the  sense  deceives ; 
And  cold  disgust  can  find  but  wrinkles  there. 
Where  passion  fancies  all  that's  smooth  and  fair. 
p  *  *  *  *^  -vvho  sees,  upon  his  pillow  laid, 
A  face  for  which  ten  thousand  pounds  were  paid. 
Can  tell,  how  quick  before  a  jury  flies 
The  spell  that  mock'd  the  warm  seducer's  eyes. 

Self  is  the  medium  through  which  Judgment's 
ray 
Can  seldom  pass  without  being  turn'd  astray. 
The  smith  of  Ephesus"  thought  Dian's  shrine. 
By  which  his  craft  most  throve,  the  most  divine ; 
And  ev'n  the  true  faith  seems  not  half  so  true. 
When  link'd  with  oii£  good  living  as  with  two. 
Had  Wolcot  first  been  pension'd  by  the  throne, 
ICings  would  have  sufTer'd  by  his  praise  alone  ; 
And  Paine  perhaps,  for  sometliing  snug  per  ann.. 
Had  laugh'd,  like  Wellesley,  at  all  Rights  of  Man. 

But  'tis  not  only  individual  minds, — 
Whole  nations,  too,  the  same  delusion  blinds. 
Thus  England,  hot  from  Denmark's  smoking  meads, 
Turns  up  her  eyes  at  Gallia's  guilty  deeds; 
Thus,  self-pleased  still,  the  same  dishonoring  chain 
She  bin*  in  Ireland,  she  would  break  in  Spain  ; 
While  pra.sed  at  distance,  but  at  home  forbid. 
Rebels  in  Cork  are  patriots  at  Madrid. 

If  Grotius  be  thy  guide,  shut,  shut  the  book, — 
In  force  alone  for  Laws  of  Nations  look. 
Let  shipless  Danes  and  whining  Yankees  dwell 
On  naval  rights,  with  Grotius  and  Vattel, 


324 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


While  Cobbett's  pirate  code  alone  appears 
Sound  moral  sense  to  England  and  Algiers. 

Woe  to  the  Skeptic,  in  these  party  days, 
Who  wafts  to  neither  shrine  his  puiFs  of  praise  I 
For  him  no  pension  pours  its  annual  fruits, 
No  fertile  sinecure  spontaneous  shoots : 
Not  his  the  meed  that  crown'd  Don  Ilookliam's 

rhyme. 
Nor  sees  he  e'er,  in  dreams  of  future  time. 
Those  shadony  forms  of  sleek  reversions  rise. 
So  dear  to  Scotchmen's  second-sighted  eyes. 
Vet  who,  that  looks  to  History's  damning  leaf, 
Wliere  Whig  and  Tory,  thief  opposed  to  tliief, 
On  either  side  in  lofty  shame  are  seen,'" 
While  Freedom's  form  liangs  crucified  between — 
Who,  Burdett,  who  sucli  rival  rogues  can  see, 
But  Hies  from  both  to  Honesty  and  thee? 

If,  weary  of  the  world's  bewild'ring  maze," 
Hopeless  of  finding,  through  its  weedy  ways, 
One  flower  of  trutli,  the  busy  crowd  we  shun, 
And  to  the  shades  of  tranquil  learning  run. 
How  many  a  doubt  pursues  I"  how  oft  we  sigh, 
When  histories  charm,  to  think  that  histories  lie  ! 
That  all  are  grave  romances,  at  the  best. 
And  Musgrave's"  but  more  clumsy  than  the  rest. 
By  Tory  Hume's  seductive  page  beguiled, 
We  fancy  Charles  was  just  and  Strafibrd  mild  ;" 
And  Fox  himself,  with  party  pencil,  draws 
Monmouth  a  hero,  "  for  the  good  old  cause !"  " 
Then,  rights  arc  wrongs,  and. victories  are  defeats, 
As  French  or  Englisli  pride  the  tale  repeats; 
And,  when  they  tell  Corunna's  story  o'er, 
They'll  disagree  in  .-ill,  but  honoring  Mooro : 
Nay,  future  pens,  to  flatter  future  courts, 
May  cite  periiaps  the  Park-guns'  gay  reports. 
To  prove  tliat  England  triumph'd  on  the  morn 
Wliich  found  !ier  Junot's  jest  and  Europe'.4  scorn. 

In  Science,  too — how  many  a  system,  raised 
Like  Neva's  icy  domc^*,  awhile  hath  blazed 
With  liglits  of  fancy  and  with  forms  of  pride. 
Then,  melting,  mingled  with  the  oblivious  tide ! 
JVoio  Earth  usurps  the  centre  of  the  sky, 
Nmo  Newton  puts  the  paltry  planet  by  ; 
Now  whims  revive  bencatli  Descartes's"  pen, 
Which  71010,  assalt'd  by  Locke's,  expire  ayain. 


And  when,  perhaps,  in  pride  of  chemic  powers. 
We  think  the  keys  of  Nature's  kingdom  ours. 
Some  Davy's  magic  touch  the  dream  unsettles. 
And  turns  at  once  our  alkalis  to  metals. 
Or,  should  we  roam,  in  metaphysic  maze, 
Tlirough  fair-built  theories  of  former  days, 
Some  Drummond"  from  the  north,  more  ably  skill'd, 
Like  other  Gotlis,  to  ruin  than  to  build, 
Tramples  triumphant  through  our  fanes  o'erthrown, 
Nor  leaves  one  grace,  one  glory  of  his  own. 

Oh  Learning,  whatsoe'er  thy  pomp  and  boast, 

Ufiletter'd  minds  have  tauglit   and   charm'd  men® 

most 
The  rude,  unread  Columbus  was  our  guide 
To  worlds,  whieli  learn'd  Lactantius  had  denied ; 
And  one  wild  Shakspearc,  following  Nature's  lights, 
Is  worth  whole  planets,  fiU'd  witli  Stagyrites. 

See  gi'ave  Theology,  v.-hen  once  she  strays 
From  Revelation's  path,  what  tricks  she  plays ; 
Wliat  various  heav'ns, — all  fit  for  bards  to  sing, — 
Have  churclunen  dreamM,  from  Papi:!s"  down  tn 

King!" 
While  hell  itself,  in  India  naught  but  smoke,"' 
In  Spain's  a  furnace,  and  in  France — a  joke. 

Hail,  modest  Ignorance,  thou  goal  and  prize, 
Tliou  hist,  best  knowledge  of  the  siujply  wise! 
Hail,  humble  Doubt,  when  error's  waves  are  past, 
How  sweet  to  reach  thy  sheltcr'd  port"'  at  last. 
And,  there,  by  changing  skies  nor  lured  nor  awed, 
Smile  at  the  battling  winds  that  roar  abroad. 
There  gentle  Charity,  who  knows  how  frail 
The  bark  of  Virtue,  even  in  summer's  gale. 
Sits  by  the  nightly  lire,  whose  beacon  glows 
For  all  who  wander,  whether  friends  or  foes. 
There    Faith    retires,    and    keeps   Iut    white    sail 

furl'd. 
Till  call'd  to  spread  it  for  a  better  world  ; 
While  Patience,  watcliing  on  the  weedy  shore, 
And  nnitely  wailing  till  the  storm  be  o'er. 
Oft  turns  to  Hope,  who  still  directs  her  eye 
To  some  blue  spot,  just  breaking  in  the  sky! 

Such  are  the  mild,  the  bless'd  associnles  given 
To  him  who  doubts, — and  trusts  in  nauglil  \v\ 
Heaven! 


THE  SKEPTIC,  A  SATIEE. 


325 


NOTES. 


(1)  Pyrrli.  Ilj'poth.— The  readei  ra:iy  fljui  a  tolenibly  clear 
abstract  of  this  work  of  i?extu9  Empiricus  in  Ln  V6ritti  dos 
Sciences,  by  Merseime,  liv.  i,  chap,  ii.,  &.c. 

(2)  Lib.  contra  Epist.  Manichrei  quani  vucant  Fundamcnli, 
Dp.  Paris,  torn.  vi. 

(3)  See  Martin.  Schoockius  do  Scepticismo,  who  endeavors, 
--weakly,  I  think, — to  refute  this  opinion  of  Lipsius. 

(4)  Neither  Ilame,  however,  nor  Berkeley,  are  to  be  judged 
by  the  misrepresentations  of  Bcaltie,  whose  book,  however 
amiably  inlended,  puts  forth  a  most  uDphilosophical  appeal 
lo  popular  feelings  and  prejudices,  and  ia  a  coniinucd  petitio 
principii  throughout. 

(5)  "Tlie  particular  bulk,  number,  figure,  and  motion  of  the 
parts  of  fire  or  snow  are  really  in  them,  whether  any  one  per- 
ceive them  or  not,  and  therefore  they  may  be  called  real 
qualities,  because  they  really  exist  in  those  bodies;  but  light, 
heat,  whiteness,  or  coldness,  are  no  more  really  in  them  than 
sickness  or  pain  is  in  manna.  Take  away  the  sensation  of 
them ;  let  not  the  eye  see  light  or  colors,  nor  the  ears  hear 
sounds;  let  the  palate  not  taste,  nor  the  nose  smell,  and  all 
colors,  tastes,  odors,  and  sounds,  as  they  are  such  particular 
ideas,  vanish  and  cease." — Lockc^  book  ii.,  chap.  8. 

Bishop  Berkeley,  it  is  well  known,  extended  this  doctrine 
even  to  primary  qualities,  and  supposed  that  matter  itself 
has  but  an  ideal  existence.  But,  how  are  we  to  apply  his 
theory  to  that  period  which  preceded  the  formation  of  man, 
when  our  system  of  sensible  things  was  produced,  and  the 
sun  shone,  and  the  waters  flowed,  without  any  sentient  being 
to  witness  them?  The  spectator,  whom  Whiston  supplies, 
will  scarcely  solve  the  difticulty :  "To  speak  my  mind  freely," 
Bays  he,  "I  believe  that  the  Messias  was  there  actually  pres- 
ent."— See  fVhiston,  of  the  .Mosaic  Creation, 

(fi)  Boetius  employs  this  argument  of  the  Skeptics  among 
his  consolatory  reflections  upon  the  emptiness  of  fame.  '■'  Quid 
quod  diversarum  gentium  mores  inter  se  atque  instituta  dis- 
cordant, lit  quod  apwd  alios  laude,  apud  alios  supplicio  dignum 
judicetur." — Lib.  ii.  prosa  7.  Many  amusing  instances  of  di- 
versity, in  the  tastes,  manners,  and  morals  of  different  nations, 
may  be  found  throughout  the  works  of  that  amusing  Skeptic, 
Lo  Mothe  le  Vayer. — See  his  Opuscule  Sceptique,  his  Treatise 
"  De  la  Secle  Sceptique,"  and,  above  all,  those  Dialogues,  not 
to  be  foimd  in  his  works,  which  he  published  under  the  name 
of  Horatius  Tubero.— The  chief  objection  to  these  writings 
of  Le  Vayer,  (and  it  is  a  blemish  which  may  bo  felt  also  in 
the  Esprit  des  Loix,)  is  the  suspicious  obscurity  of  the  sources 
from  whence  he  frequently  draws  his  instances,  and  the  in- 
discriminate use  made  by  him  of  the  lowest  populace  of  the 
library,— those  lying  travellers  and  wonder-mongers,  of  whom 
Shaftesbury,  in  his  Advice  to  an  Author,  complains,  as  having 
tended  in  his  own  time  to  the  diffusion  of  a  veiy  shallow  and 
vicious  sort  of  skepticism.— Vol.  i.  p.  352.  The  Pyrrhonism 
of  Lo  Vayer,  however,  is  of  the  most  innocent  and  playful 
kind  ;  and  Villemandy,  the  author  of  Scepticisraus  Debellatus, 
exempts  him  specially  in  the  declaration  of  war  which  he 
denoimces  against  the  other  armed  neutrals  of  the  sect,  in 
consideration  of  the  orthodox  limits  within  which  he  confines 
his  incred'ilitv. 


(7)  This  was  the  creed  also  of  those  modern  Epicureans, 
whom  Ninon  do  PEnclos  collected  around  her  in  the  Rue  deo 
Tournelles,  and  whose  object  seems  to  have  been  to  decry  the 
faculty  of  reason,  as  tending  only  to  embarrass  our  wholesome 
use  of  pleasures,  without  enabling  us,  in  any  degree,  to  avoid 
their  abuse.  Madame  des  llouUeres,  the  fair  pupil  of  Des 
Barreaux  in  the  arts  of  poetry  and  gallantry,  has  devoted  most 
of  her  verses  to  this  laudable  purpose,  and  is  even  such  a 
determined  foe  to  reason,  that,  in  one  of  her  pastorals,  she  con- 
gratulates her  sheep  on  the  want  of  it.  St.  Evremont  speaks 
thus  upon  the  subject : — 

"  Un  melange  incertain  d'esprit  ct  de  matiere 
Nous  fait  vivre  avec  trop  ou  trop  pen  de  lumiere. 

Nature,  6Ieve-nons  a  la  clartfe  des  anges, 
Ou  nous  abaisse  au  sens  des  simples  aniraaux." 
^Vhich  may  be  thus  paraphrased: — 

Had  man  been  made,  at  nature's  birth, 

Of  only  (lame  or  only  earth, 

Flad  he  been  form'd  a  perfect  whole 

Of  pm'ely  that-,  or  grossly  this^ 
Then  sense  would  ne'er  have  clouded  soul. 

Nor  soul  restrain'd  the  sense's  bliss. 
Oh  happy,  had  his  light  been  strong, 

Or  had  he  never  shared  a  light, 
VV'hich  shines  enough  to  show  he's  wrong. 
But  not  enough  to  lead  him  right. 

(8)  See,  among  the  fragments  of  Petronius,  those  verses  be- 
ginning '^  Fallunt  nos  oculi,"  &c.  The  most  skeptical  of  tlu 
ancient  poets  was  Euripides.    See  Laert.  in  Pyrrh. 

Socrates  and  Plato  were  the  grand  sources  of  ancient  skepti- 
cism. According  to  Cicero,  (de  Orator.  lib.  iii..)  they  supplied 
Arcesilas  with  the  doctrines  of  the  Middle  Academy;  and  how 
closely  these  resembled  the  tenets  of  the  Skeptics,  may  be  seen 
even  in  Sextus  Empiricus,  (lib.  i.  cap.  33,)  who,  with  all  his 
distinctions,  can  scarcely  prove  any  difference.  It  appears 
strange  that  Epicurus  should  have  been  a  dogmatist ;  and  his 
natural  temper  would  most  probably  have  led  him  to  the 
repose  of  skepticism,  had  not  the  Stoics,  by  their  violent  op- 
position to  his  doctrines,  compelled  him  to  be  as  obstinate  as 
themselves.  Plutarch,  indeed,  in  reporting  some  of  his  opin- 
ions, represents  him  as  having  delivered  them  with  consider- 
able hesitation. — ZJe  Placit.  Philosoph.  lib.  ii.  cap.  13.  See  also 
the  21st  and  2-2d  chapters.  But  that  the  leading  characteristics 
of  the  sect  were  self-sufficiency  and  dogmatism,  appears  from 
what  Cicero  says  of  Velleius,  De  J^Tatur.  Deor, — "  Turn  Velleius, 
fidenter  sane,  ut  solent  isti,  nihil  tam  verens  quam  ne  dnbila.-e 
aliqua  de  re  videretur." 

(9)  Acts,  chap.  xix.  "  For  a  certain  man  named  Demetrius, 
a  silversmith,  which  made  silver  shrines  for  Diana,  brought  no 
small  gain  unto  the  craftsmen." 

(10)  "  Those  two  thieves,"  says  Ralph,  "  between  whom  the 
nation  is  crucified," —  Use  and  Abuse  of  Parliaments. 

(11)  Tlie  agitation  of  the  ship  is  one  of  the  chief  difficulties 
which  impede  the  discovery  of  the  longitude  ut  sea  ;  and 
the  tumult  and  hurry  of  life  ore  equally  unfavorable  to  that 
calm  Ie\'el  of  mind  which  is  necessary  to  an  inquirer  after 
truth. 


326 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Id  the  mean  time,  our  modest  Skeptic,  in  the  absence  of 
truth,  contents  himself  wilh  probabilities,  resembling  in  this 
respect  those  suitors  of  Penelope,  who,  on  finding  that  they 
could  not  possess  the  mistress  herself,  very  wisely  resolved  tc 
put  up  with  her  maids. 

(12)  See  a  curious  work,  entitled  "  Keflections  upon  Learn- 
ing," written  on  the  plan  of  Agrippa's '-De  Vanitate  Scieutia- 
nim,"  but  much  more  honestly  and  skilfully  executed. 

(13)  This  historian  of  the  Irish  rebellions  has  outrun  even  his 
predecessor  in  the  same  task.  Sir  John  Temple,  for  whose 
rhtiracter  with  respect  to  veracity  the  reader  may  consult 
Carte's  "Collection  of  Ormond's  Original  Papers,"  p.  207.  See 
also  Dr.  Nalsou's  account  of  him,  in  the  introduction  to  the 
second  volume  of  his  ••  Historic.  Collect." 

(14)  He  defends  Strafford's  conduct  as  "  innocent  ami  even 
laudable,"  In  the  same  spirit,  speaking  of  the  arbitrary  sen- 
tences of  the  Star  Chamber,  he  says, — '-This  severity  of  the 
Star  Chamber,  which  was  generally  ascribed  to  Laud's  pas- 
Bion:ite  disposition,  was  perhaps,  in  itself,  somewhat  blame- 
able." 

(15)  That  flexibility  of  temper  and  opinion,  which  the  habits 
of  sk(!pticisra  are  so  calculated  to  produce,  are  thus  pleaded 
for  by  Mr.  Fox,  in  the  vei-y  sketch  of  Monmouth  to  which  I 
allude;  and  this  part  of  the  picture  the  historian  may  be 
thought  to  have  drawn  from  himself.  "  One  of  the  most 
conspicuous  features  in  his  character  seems  to  have  been  a 
remarkable,  and,  as  some  think,  a  culpable  degree  of  flexi- 
bility. Tliat  such  a  disposition  is  preferable  to  its  opposite 
extreme,  will  be  admitted  by  all,  who  think  that  modesty,  even 
i»  excess,  is  more  nearly  allied  to  wisdom  than  conceit  and 
self-sufllciency.  lie  who  has  attentively  considered  the  politi- 
cal, or  indeed  the  general  concerns  of  life,  may  possibly  go  still 
further,  and  may  rank  a  willingness  to  be  convinced,  or,  in 
some  cases,  even  without  conviction,  to  concede  our  own  opin- 
ion to  that  of  utluT  men,  among  the  principal  ingredients  in 
the  composition  of  practical  wisdom." — It  is  right  to  observe, 
however,  that  the  Skeptic's  readiness  of  concession  arises 
rather  from  uncertainty  than  conviction,  more  from  a  suspi- 
cion that  hia  own  opinion  may  be  wrong,  than  from  any  per- 
suasion that  Die  opinion  of  his  adverearj    b  right.    "  It  may  be 


so,"  was  the  courteous  and  skeptical  formula  wilh  which  th« 
Dutch  were  accustomed  to  reply  to  the  statements  of  ambassa 
dors.    See  LioytTs  State  Worthies^  art.  Sir  Thomas  \Vyat. 

(16)  Descartes,  who  is  considered  as  the  parent  of  modem 
skepticism,  says,  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  whole  range  of 
philosophy  which  does  not  admit  of  two  opposite  opinions, 
and  which  is  not  involved  in  doubt  and  uncertainty.  'Hn 
Philosophia  nihil  adhuc  reperiri,  de  quo  non  in  utraraque 
partem  disputatur,  hoc  est,  quod  non  sit  incertum  et  dubium. ' 
Gassendi  is  likewise  to  be  added  to  the  list  of  modern 
Skeptics,  and  WedderkopfT,  in  his  Dissertation  "  De  Scepli- 
cismo  profano  et  sacro,"  (Argentorat.  lUGO,)  has  denounced 
Erasmus  idso  as  a  follower  of  Pyrrho,  for  his  opinions  upon 
the  Trinity,  and  some  other  subjects.  To  these  if  we  add  the 
names  of  Cayle,  RIallebranche,  Dryden,  Locke,  &c..  &.c.,  I  thiuK 
there  is  no  one  who  need  be  ashamed  of  doubling  in  such 
company. 

(17)  See  this  gentleman's  Academic  Questions. 

(18)  Papios  lived  about  the  time  of  the  apostles,  and  is  sup- 
posed to  have  given  birth  to  the  heresy  of  the  Chilliasta'. 
whoso  heaven  was  by  no  means  of  a  spiritual  nature,  but 
rather  an  anticipation  of  the  Prophet  of  Hera's  elysium.  Seo 
Eusohius,  Hist.  Ecclesiast.  lib.  iii.  cap.  33,  and  Hioionym.  do 
Scriptor.  Ecclesiast. — From  all  I  can  And  in  these  authors 
concerning  Papias,  it  seems  hardly  fair  to  impute  to  him  those 
gross  imaginations  in  which  the  believers  of  the  sensual 
millennium  indulged. 

(10)  King,  in  bis  Morsels  of  Criticism,  vol.  i.,  supposes  tho 
sun  to  be  tho  receptacle  of  blessed  spirits. 

(20)  Tlio  Indians  call  hell ''  tho  House  of  Smoke."  See  Picarl 
upon  the  Keligion  of  the  Uanians.  Tho  reader  who  is  curious 
about  infernal  matters,  may  bo  edified  by  consulting  Uusca  do 
Inferno,  particularly  lib.  ii.  cap.  7,  R,  where  he  will  Hud  the  pre- 
cise sort  of  lire  ascertained  in  which  wicked  spirits  are  to  be 
burned  hereafter. 

(21)  "  Clu'-re  Sceptique,  douce  pulure  do  moM  fmie,et  Tunique 
port  de  salut  h  uno  esprit  qui  nimo  le  reprs!"— /.a  Matko^le 

Vaycr, 


T¥OPEINY  POST-BAG. 


BY  THOMAS  BROWN,  THE  YOUNGER. 


ElapsaQ  manibus  cecid^ie  tabellx.       Ovid. 


STEPHEN  WOOLRICHE,  ESQ. 


My  DEAR  VVoOLr.ICIIE, 

It  is  now  about  seven  years  since  I  promised 
(and  I  grieve  to  think  it  is  almost  as  long  since  wo 
met)  to  dedicate  to  you  tlie  very  first  Book,  of 
whatever  size  or  kind,  I  should  publish.  Who 
zould  have  thought  that  so  many  years  would 
elapse,  without  my  giving  the  least  signs  of  life 
upon  the  subject  of  this  important  promise  ?  Who 
could  have  imagined  that  a  volume  of  doggerel, 
after  all,  would  be  the  first  offering  that  Gratitude 
would  lay  upon  the  shrine  of  Friendship  ? 

If  you  continue,  however,  to  be  as  much  inter- 
ested about  me  and  my  pursuits  as  formerly,  you 
will  be  happy  to  hear  that  doggerel  is  not  my  only 


occupation ;  but  that  I  am  preparing  to  tlirow  my 
name  to  the  Swans  of  the  Temple  of  Immortality,' 
leaving  it,  of  course,  to  the  said  Sw-ans  to  deter- 
mine, whether  they  ever  will  t.ike  the  trouble  of 
picking  it  from  the  stream. 

In  the  mean  time,  my  dear  Woolriche,  like  an 
ortliodox  Lutheran,  you  must  judge  of  me  rather 
by  my  faith  than  my  works  ;  and  however  trifling 
tlie  tribute  which  I  here  offer,  never  doubt  the 
fidelity  with  which  I  am,  and  always  shall  be. 

Your  sincere  and 

attached  Friend, 

THE  AUTHOR. 

March  4,  1813. 


PREFACE. 


The  Bag,  from  which  the  tt)llowing  Letters  are 
selected,  was  dropped  by  a  Twopenny  Postman 
about  two  months  since,  and  picked  up  by  an 
emissary  of  the  Society  for  the  Suppression  of 
Vice,  who,  supposing  it  miglit  materially  assist  the 
private  researches  of  that  Institution,  immediately 
took  it  to  his  employers,  and  was  rewarded  hand- 
somely for  his  trouble.  Such  a  treasury  of  secrets 
was  worth  a  whole  host  of  informers;    and  ac- 


cordingly, like  the  Cupids  of  the  poet  (if  I  m.ay 
use  so  profane  a  simile)  who  "  fell  at  odds  about 
the  sweet-bag  of  a  bee,'"  those  venerable  Sup- 
pressors almost  fought  with  each  other  for  the 
honor  and  delight  of  first  rans.acking  the  Post- 
Bag.  Unluckily,  however,  it  turned  out,  upon 
examination,  that  the  discoveries  of  profligacy 
which  it  enabled  them  to  make,  lay  chiefly  in  those 
upper   regions   of  society,  which  their   well-brc'd 


328 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


regulations  forbid  them  to  molest  or  meddle  with. 
In  consequence,  they  g.^ed  but  very  few  victims  by 
their  prize,  and,  after  Ij'ing  for  a  week  or  two  under 
Mr.  Hatchard's  counter,  the  Bag,  \nth  its  violated 
contents,  was  sold  for  a  trifle  to  a  friend  of  mine. 

It  happened  that  I  had  been  just  then  seized 
with  an  ambition  (having  never  tried  the  strength 
of  my  wing  but  in  a  Newspaper)  to  publish  some- 
thing or  other  in  the  shape  of  a  Book;  and  it 
oecured  to  me  that,  the  present  being  such  a  letter- 
writing  era,  a  few  of  these  Twopenny-Post 
Epistles,  turned  into  easy  verse,  would  be  as  light 
and  popular  a  task  as  I  could  possibly  select  for  a 
commencement.  I  did  not,  however,  tliink  it 
prudent  to  give  too  m.any  Letters  .it  first,  and,  .ac- 
cordingly, have  been  obliged  (in  order  to  eke  out  a 
sufficient  number  of  pages)  to  reprint  some  of 
those  trifles  which  liad  already  appeared  in  the 
public  journ.ils.  As  in  the  battles  of  ancient 
times,  the  shades  of  the  departed  were  sometimes 
seen  among  the  combatants,  so  I  thought  I  might 
manage  to  remedy  the  thinness  of  my  ranks  by 
conjuring  up  a  few  dead  and  forgotten  ephemerons 
to  fill  them. 


Such  are  the  motives  and  accidents  that  led  to 
the  present  publication;  and  as  this  is  the  first 
time  my  Muse  has  ever  ventured  out  of  the  go- 
cart  of  a  Newspaper,  though  I  feel  all  a  parent's 
delight  at  seeing  little  Miss  go  alone,  1  am  also  not 
without  a  parent's  anxiety,  lest  an  unlucky  fall 
should  be  the  consequence  of  the  experiment ;  and 
I  need  not  point  out  liow  many  living  instances 
might  be  found,  of  Muses  th.at  have  suftered  very 
severely  in  their  heads,  from  taking  rather  too  early 
and  rashly  to  their  feet.  Besides,  a  Book  is  so 
very  different  a  thing  from  a  Newspaper ! — in  the 
former,  your  doggerel,  witliout  either  company  or 
shelter,  must  st.and  shivering  in  the  middle  of  a 
bleak  page  by  itself;  wliereas,  in  the  latter,  it  is 
comfortably  kicked  by  advertisements,  and  has 
sometimes  even  a  speech  of  Mr.  Steplien's,  or 
sometliing  equally  warm,  for  a  chauffe-pii — so  that, 
in  general,  the  very  reverse  of  "  laudatur  ct  alget" 
is  its  destiny. 

Ambition,  however,  must  run  some  risks,  and  I 
shall  be  very  well  s.itisfied  if  the  reception  of  these 
few  Letters  should  have  tlie  effect  of  sending  me 
to  the  Post-Bair  for  more. 


PREFACE 

TO    THE    FOURTEENTH    EUITION 

BY    A    KKIEXD    OK   THE   AUTUOn. 


I.K  tlie  absence  of  Mr;  Brown,  who  is  at  present 

on  a  tour  through ,  I  feel  myself  called  upon, 

as  his  friend,  to  notice  certain  misconceptions  .and 
misrepresentations,  to  which  tliis  iitlie  volume  of 
Trifles  lias  given  rise. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  not  true  that  Mr.  Brown 
has  had  any  accomplices  in  the  work.  A  note,  in- 
deed, which  has  hitherto  accompanied  bis  Preface, 
ni.iy  very  naturally  have  been  the  origin  of  such  a 
siipposilion  ;  but  tliat  note,  which  was  merely  the 
coquetry  of  an  author,  I  have,  in  the  present  edition, 
taken  upon  myself  to  remove,  and  Mr.  Brown  must 
therefore  bo  considered  (like  the  mother  of  that 
onlquc  production,  the  Centaur')  na  nionc  rcspon- 
iible  for  llin  whole  contents  of  llio  volume. 

In  the  next  place  it  has  licen  said,  that  in  con- 
noqnence  of  this  graceU'ss  lillle  book,  a  eerlain 
diHtinj;uislicd   Personage   prevailed    ujion   imother 


distinguished  Personage  to  withdraw  from  the 
author  that  notice  and  kindness  with  which  he  had 
so  long  and  so  liberally  honored  him.  In  this 
story  there  is  not  one  syllable  of  truth.  For  the 
niagnaniniily  of  the  former  of  these  persons  I 
would,  indeed,  in  no  case  answer  too  rashly ;  but 
of  the  conduct  of  the  latter  towards  my  friend,  I 
have  n  proud  gratification  in  declaring,  th.it  it  has 
never  ceased  to  be  sucli  as  he  must  remember  with 
indelible  gratiludo; — a  gratitude  the  more  cheer- 
fully and  warmly  paid,  IVoni  its  not  being  a  debt 
incurred  solely  on  his  own  nccounl,  but  for  kind- 
ness shared  with  those  nearest  and  dearest  to 
him. 

To  the  charge  of  being  an  Irishman,  poor  Mr. 
Brown  ])li'ads  guilty  ;  and  I  believe  it  must  also  be 
acknowlcilged  (hat  he  eoines  of  a  Koinan  Ciilholie 
family  ;  an  avowal  wliivh  I  am  aware  is  dccisivo  of 


TWOPENNY  POST-BAG. 


329 


nis  utter  reprobation,  in  the  eyes  of  tliose  exclusive 
patentees  of  Cliristianity,  so  wortliy  to  liave  lieon 
the  followers  of  a  certain  enlirrhtened  Bisliop, 
Donatus,'  who  lield  "  that  God  is  in  Africa  and  not 
elseiL'hej-e."  But  from  all  this  it  does  not  neces- 
sarily follow  that  Mr.  Brown  is  a  Papist;  and, 
indeed,  I  have  the  strongest  reasons  for  suspecting 
that  they,  who  say  so,  are  somewhat  mistaken. 
Not  that  I  presume  to  have  ascertained  his  opinions 
upon  such  subjects.  All  I  profess  to  know  of  his 
orthodoxy  is,  that  he  has  a  Protestant  wife  and 
two  or  tlirec  little  Protestant  children,  and  that  he 
has  been  seen  at  cliurch  every  Sunday,  for  a  whole 
year  together,  listening  to  the  sermons  of  his  truly 
reverend  and  amiable  friend.  Dr.  ,  and  be- 
having there  as  well  and  as  orderly  as  most  people. 
There  are  yet  a  few  other  mistakes  and  false- 
hoods about  Mr.  Brown,  to  which  I  had  intended, 
with  all  becoming  gravity,  to  advert ;  but  I  begin 
to  think  the  task  is  quite  as  useless  as  it  is  tire- 
some.    Misrepresentations  and  calumnies  of  this 


sort  are,  like  the  arguments  and  statements  of  Dr. 
Duigenan, — not  at  all  the  less  vivacious  or  less 
serviceable  to  tlieir  fabricators,  for  having  been 
refuted  and  disproved  a  thousand  times  over. 
They  are  brought  forward  again,  as  good  as  new, 
whenever  malice  or  stupidity  may  bo  in  want  of 
them ;  and  are  quite  as  useful  as  the  old  broken 
lantern,  in  Fielding's  Amelia,  which  the  watchman 
always  keeps  ready  by  him,  to  produce,  in  proof  of 
riotous  conduct,  against  his  victims.  I  shall  there- 
fore give  up  the  fruitless  toil  of  vindication,  and 
would  even  di-aw  my  pen  over  what  I  have  already 
written,  had  I  not  promised  to  furnish  my  publisher 
with  a  Preface,  and  know  not  how  else  I  could  con- 
trive to  eke  it  out. 

I  have  added  two  or  three  more  trifles  to  this 
edition,  which  I  found  in  the  Morning  Chronicle, 
and  knew  to  be  from  the  pen  of  my  friend.  The 
rest  of  the  volume  remains'  in  its  original  state. 

^prU  20,  1814. 


INTERCEPTED    LETTERS,    ETC, 


LETTER  I. 

FBOM    THE    PKINCESS    CHjVELOTTE   OF    WALES    TO   THE 
LADV    BAHBABA   ASHLEY." 

My  dear  Lady  Bab,  you'll  be  shock'd,  I'm  afraid. 
When  you  hear  the  sad  rumpus  your  Ponies  have 

made  ; 
Since  the  time  of  horse-consuls,  (now  long  out  of 

date,) 
No  nags  ever  made  sueh  a  stir  in  the  state. 
Lord  Eldon  tirst  heard — and  as  instantly  pr.iy'd  he 
To  "  God  and  his  King" — that  a  Popish  young  Lady 
(For  though  you've  bright  eyes  and  twelve  thousand 

a  ye.ar. 
It  is  still  but  too  true  you're  a  Papist,  my  dear) 
Had  insidiously  sent,  by  a  tall  Irish  groom, 
Two  priestr-ridden  Ponies,  just  landed  from  Rome, 
And  so  full,  little  rogues,  of  pontifical  tricks. 
That  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  was  scarce  safe  from 

their  kicks. 

Off  at  once  to  Papa,  in  a  flurry  he  flies — 
For  Papa  always  does  what  these  statesmen  advise, 
On  condition  that  they'll  be,  in  turn,  so  polite 
,  As  in  no  case  whate'or  to  advise  him  (oo  r'ghi — 
42 


"  Pretty  doings  are  here,  Sir,  (he  angrily  cnes. 
While  by  dint  of  dark  eyebrows  he  strives  to  look 

wise) — 
"  'Tis  a  scheme  of  the  Romanists,  so  help  me  God! 
"  To  ride  over  your  most  Royal  Highness  rough- 
shod— 
"  E.\cuse,   Sir,   my   tears — they're   from   loyalty's 

source — 
"  Bad  enough  'twas  for  Troy  to  be  sack'd  by  a  Horse, 
"But  for  us  to  be  ruin'd  by  Ponies  still  worse  !" 
Quick  a  Council  is  call'd — the  whole  Cabinet  sits — • 
The  Archbishops  declare,  frighten'd  out  of  their 

wits, 
That  if  once  Popish  Ponies  should  eat  at  ray  manger, 
From  that  awful  moment  the  Church  is  in  danger ! 
As,  give  them  but  stabling,  and  shortly  no  stalls 
Will  suit  their  proud  stomachs  but  those  at  St. 
Paul's. 

The  Doctor,'  and  he,  the  devout  man  of  Leather 
Vansittart,  now  laying  their  Saint-heads  together, 
Declare  that  these  skittish  young  o-bominations 
Are  clearly  foretold  in  Chap.  vi.  Revelations — 
Nay,  they  verily  think  they  could  point  out  the  one 
Which  the  Doctor's  friend  Death  was  to  canter  upon. 


830 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Lord  Ilarrowb)-,  hoping  that  no  one  imputes 
To  the  Court  any  fancy  to  persecute  brutes, 
Protests,  on  the  word  of  himself  and  his  cronies, 
That  had  tliese  said  creatures  been  Asses,  not  Ponies, 
The  Court  would  have  started  no  sort  of  objection. 
As  Asses  were,  there,  always  sure  of  protection. 

••  If  the  Princess  will  keep  thcui,  (says  Lord  Caslle- 
reagh,) 
"  To  make  them  quite  harmless,  the  only  true  way 
"  Is  (as  certain  Chief  Justices  do  with  their  wives) 
"To  flog  them  within  half  an  inch  of  their  lives. 
'If  they've  any  bad  Irish  blood  lurking  about, 
"This  (he  knew  by  experience)  would  soon  draw 

it  out." 
Should  this  be  thought  cruel,  his  lordship  proposes 
"  The  new  Veto  snaffle'  to  bind  down  their  noses — 
"A  pretty  contrivance,  made  out  of  old  chains, 
"  VVhicli   appears  to  indulge,  while  it  doubly  re- 
strains ; 
"  Which,  however  high-mettled,  their  gamesome- 

ness  checks, 
"  (Adds  his  Lordship  humanely,)  or  else  breaks  their 
necks!" 

This  proposal  received  pretty  general  applause 
Prom  the  statesmen  around — and  the  neck-breaking 

clause 
Had  a  vigor  about  it,  which  soon  reconciled 
Even  Eldon  himself  to  a  measure  so  mild. 
So  the  snaffles,  my  dear,  were  agreed  to,  ncm.  con., 
And  my  Lord  Castlercagh,  having  so  often  shone 
In  the  feUering  line,  is  to  buckle  them  on. 

I  shall  drive  to  your  door  in  these  Velos  some  day, 
But,  at  present,  adieu! — I  must  hurry  away 
To  go  see  my  Mamma,  as  I'm  sulTer'd  to  meet  her 
For  just  half  an  hour  by  the  Queen's  best  repeater. 

Charlotte. 


LETTER  II. 

raoM  COLONLL  u'maho.v  to  oooi.d  krancls  lixkik,  khq. 

Dear  Sir,  I've  juot  had  time  to  look 
Into  your  very  learned  Book," 
Wherein — as  plain  an  man  can  speak, 
Whose  English  is  half  modern  Greeks 
You  prove  that  we  can  ne'er  intrench 
Our  happy  isles  against  the  French, 
Till  Royalty  In  England's  made 
A  much  more  indopendont  trade  ; — 


In  short,  until  the  House  of  Guelph 
Lays  Lords  and  Commons  on  the  shelf, 

And  boldly  sets  up  for  itself. 

All,  that  can  well  be  understood 
In  this  said  Book,  is  vastly  good  ; 
And,  as  to  wh.it's  incomprehensible, 
I  dare  be  sworn  'tis  full  as  sensible. 

But,  to  your  work's  immortal  credit. 
The  Prince,  good  Sir,  the  Prince  has  read  it, 
(The  only  Book,  himself  remarks. 
Which  he  has  read  since  Mrs.  Clarke's.) 
Last  levee-morn  he  look'd  it  througli. 
During  tliat  awful  hour  or  two 
Of  grave  tonsorial  preparation, 
Wliich,  to  a  fond,  admiring  nation. 
Sends  forth,  announced  by  trump  and  drum, 
The  best  wigg'd  Prince  in  Christendom. 

He  thinks  with  you,  th'  imagination 
Oi partnership  in  legislation 
Could  only  enter  in  the  noddles 
Of  dull  and  ledger-keeping  twaddles. 
Whose  heads  on  firms  arc  running  so, 
They  ev'n  must  have  a  King  and  Co., 
And  hence,  most  eloquently  .show  forth 
On  checks  and  balances,  and  so  forth. 
But  now,  he  trusts,  we're  coming  near  a 
Far  more  royal,  loyal  era ; 
When  England's  monarch  need  but  say, 
'■  Whip  me  those  scoundrels,  Castlercagh  !" 
Or,  "  Hang  mc  up  those  Papists,  Eldon," 
And  'twill  be  done — ay,  faith,  and  well  done. 

With  view  to  whicli,  I've  his  command 
To  beg.  Sir,  from  your  travell'd  hand, 
(Round  which  the  foreign  graces  swarm,)" 
A  Plan  of  radical  Reform  ; 
Compiled  and  clioseu  as  best  you  cm. 
In  Turkey  or  at  Isp.ahan, 
And  quite  upturning,  branch  and  root, 
Lords,  Commons,  and  Burdctt  to  boot. 

But,  pray,  whate'er  you  may  impart,  wnto 
Somewhat  more  brief  than  I\Iajor  Cartwrighl 
Else,  though  the  Prince  be  long  in  rigging, 
'Twould  take,  at  least,  a  fortnight's  wigging,— 
Two  wigs  to  every  paragraph — 
Before  ho  well  could  get  througli  half 

You'll  send  it  also  speedily — 
As,  truth  to  say,  'twixt  you  and  ino, 
His  Highness,  heated  Dy  your  work, 
Already  thinks  hiraseit  Grand  Turk ! 


INTERCEPTED  LETTERS. 


331 


And  you'd  liave  laugh'd,  had  you  seen  how 
He  scared  tlie  Cliaiicelloi' just  now, 
When  (on  his  Lordship's  entering  pufF'd)  lie 
Slapp'd  his  bacl;  and  cali'd  him  "  IMufti !" 

The  tailor.s  too  liave  got  commanda, 
To  put  directly  into  hands 
All  sorts  of  Dnlimans  and  Pouches, 
With  Sashes,  Turbans,  and  Paboutchos, 
(While  Yarmouth's  sketching  out  a  plan 
Of  new  Moustaches  d  rOtlomane,) 
\nd  all  things  fitting  and  expedient 
Co  turkify  our  gracious  Regent ! 

You,  tliercfore,  have  no  time  to  waste — 
So,  send  your  System. — 

Yours,  in  haste. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Before  I  send  this  scrawl  away, 

I  seize  a  moment,  just  to  say. 

There's  some  p.nrts  of  the  Turkish  system 

So  vulgar,  'twere  as  well  you  miss'd  'em. 

For  instance — in  Seraglio  matters — 

Your  Turk,  whom  girlish  fondness  flatters, 

Would  fill  his  Haram  (tasteless  fool !) 

With  tittering,  red-cheek'd  things  from  school. 

But  here,  (as  in  that  foiry  land. 

Where  Love  and  Age  went  hand  in  hand  ;'- 

Where  lips,  till  sLxty,  shed  no  honey, 

And  Grandams  were  worth  .any  money.) 

Our  Sult.an  h.as  much  riper  notions — 

So,  let  your  list  of  sAe-promotions 

Include  those  only,  plump  and  sage. 

Who've  reach'd  the  regulation-age ; 

Th.at  is,  (as  near  as  one  can  fix 

From  Peerage  dates,)  full  fifty-six. 

This  rule's  {or  fav'riles — nothing  more — 
For,  as  to  wives,  a  Grand  Signer, 
Though  not  decidedly  without  them. 
Need  never  care  one  curse  about  them. 


LETTER  III. 

rEOM    GEOROE    PRINCE    REGENT    TO    THE    E.VRL    OF 
T.UIMOUTB." 

We  miss'd  you  last  night  at  the  "  hoary  old  sinner's," 
Who  gave  us,  as  usu.al,  the  cream  of  good  dinners ; 
His  soups  scientific — his  fishes  quite  prime — 
His  p&trs  superb — and  his  cutlets  sublime ! 


In  short,  'twas  the  snug  sort  of  dinner  to  stir  a 

Stomachic  orgasm  in  my  Lord  EUenborough, 

Who  set  to,  to  be  sure,  with  miraculous  force, 

And  exclaim'd,  between  mouthfuls,  "  a  Ile-Couk  of 
course ! — 

"  While  you  live — (what's  there  under  that  cover  ? 
pray,  look) — 

"  While  you  live — (I'll  just  taste  it)  ne'er  keep  a 
She-Cook, 

"'Tis  a  sound  Salic  Law — (a  small  bit  of  that 
toast) — 

"  Which  ordains  that  a  female  shall  ne'er  rule  the 
roast ; 

"  For  Cookery's  a  secret — (this  turtle's  uncom- 
mon)— 

"Like  Masonry,  never  found  out  by  a  woman!" 

The  dinner,  you  know,  was  in  gay  celebration 
Of  7ny  brilliant  triumph  and  Hunt's  condemnation ; 
A  compliment,  too,  to  his  Lordship  the  Judge 
For  his  Speech  to  the  Jury — and  zounds !    who 

would  grudge 
Turtle  soup,  though  it  came  to  live  guineas  a  bowl, 
To  reward  such  a  ]oy.al  and  complaisant  soul? 
We  were  all  in  higli  gig — Roman  Punch  and  Tokay 
Travell'd  round,  till  our  heads  travell'd  just  the 

same  w.ay ; 
And  we  cared  not  for  Juries  or  Libels — no — damme ! 

nor 
Ev'n  for  the  threats  of  last  Sunday's  Examiner! 

5'Iore  good  things  were  eaten  than  said — but 
Tom  Tyrrwhit 
In  quoting  Joe  Miller,  you  know,  h.as  some  merit; 
And,  he.aring  the  sturdy  Justiciary  Chief 
Say — sated  with  turtle — "I'll  now  try  the  beef" — 
Tommy  whisper'd  him  (giringhis  Lordship  a  sly  hit) 
"  I  fear  'twill  be  hung-ieef,  my  Lord,  if  tou  try  it !" 

And  Camden  w.as  there,  who,  that  morning,  had 
gone 
To  fit  his  new  Slarquis's  coronet  on  ; 
And   the   dish   set   before  him— oh   dish  well-de- 
vised ! — 
Was,  what  old  Mother  Glasse  calls, "  a  calf's  head 

surprised !"' 
The  brains  were  near  Sherry,  and  once  had  been  fine, 
But,  of  late,  they  had  lain  s'O  long  soaking  in  wine, 
That,  though  we,  from  courtesy,  .still  chose  to  call 
These  brains  very  fine,  they  were  no  brains  at  all. 

When  tig!  dinner  was  over,  we  drank  every  one 
In  a  bumper,  "  the  venial  delights  of  Crim.  Con. ;" 
At  which  Headfort  with  warm  reminiscences  gloated, 
And  EUenborough  chuckled  to  hear  liimself  quoted. 


332 


MOORE'S  AVOEKS. 


Our  next  round  of  toasts  was  a  fancy  quite  new, 
For  we  drank — and  you'll  own  'twas  benevolent 

too — 
To  those  well-meaning  husbands,  cits,  parsons,  or 

peers. 
Whom  we've,  any  time,  honor'd  by  courting  their 

dears : 
Tliis  museum  of  wittols  was  comical  rather; 
Old  Headfort  gave  llussey,  and  I  gave  your  father. 

In   short,  not  a  soul  till  this  morning   would 

budge — 
We  were  all  fun  and  frolic, — and  even  the  Judge 
Laid  aside,  for  the  time,  liis  juridical  fashion, 
And  through  the  whole  night  wasn't  once   in  a 

passion  I 

I  write  this  in  bed,  while  my  whiskers  are  airing. 
And  Mac"  has  a  sly  dose  of  jalap  preparing 
For  poor  Tommy  Tyrrwhit  at  breakfast  to  quaff — 
As  I  feel  I  want  something  to  give  me  a  laugh, 
And  there's  nothing  so  good  as  old  Tommy,  kept 

close 
To  his  Cornwall  accounts,  after  taking  a  dose. 


LETTER  IV. 

FEOM  THE  RIGHT  BOS.  PATttlCK  DL'IGENAN  TO  THE  EIGUT 
HOX.  SItt  JOUX  NICUOI.I. 

Dublin.'^ 

Last  week,  dear  Nicholl,  making  merry 
At  dinner  with  our  Secretary, 
When  all  were  drunk,  or  pretty  near, 
(The  time  for  doing  business  here,) 
Says  he  to  me,  "  Sweet  Bully  Bottom  ! 
"  These  Pajtist  dogs — hiccup — 'od  rot  'cm  ! — 
"  Deserve  to  be  bespatter'd — liiccup — 
"  With  all  the  dirt  ev'n  you  can  pick  up. 
"  But,  a.-*  the  Prince  (here's  to  him — fill — 
"  Hip,  hip,  Inirra  I) — is  trying  still 
"  To  humbug  them  with  kind  professions, 
"  And,  as  you  deal  in  strong  fXi)ressions — 
"'  Rogux' — 'traitor' — hiccup — and  all  that — 
"  You  must  be  muzzled.  Doctor  Pat! — 
"  You  must  indeed — hiccup — that's  flat." 

Yes — "  muzzled"  was  the  word.  Sir  John — 
ThcBC  fool.-t  have  clapp'd  a  muzzle  on 
The  boldest  mouth  that  e'er  run  o'er 
With  slaver  of  the  times  of  yore  I — "' 
Was  it  for  this  that  back  I  went     ^ 
Ad  far  as  Ijilcran  and  Trent, 
To  prove  that  they,  who  damn'd  us  then, 
Ousfht  now,  in  I  urn,  lt»  damn'd  agnin  ? — 


The  silent  victim  still  to  sit 

Of  Grattan's  fire  and  Canning's  wit. 

To  hear  ev'n  noisy  IMatthew  gabble  on. 

Nor  mention  once  the  W — e  of  Babylon ! 

Oh !  'tis  too  much — who  now  will  be 

Tlie  Nightman  of  No-Popery  ? 

Wbat  Courtier,  Saint,  or  even  Bishop, 

Such  learned  filth  will  ever  fish  up? 

If  there  among  our  ranks  be  one 

To  take  my  place,  'tis  thou.  Sir  John  : 

Thou,  who,  like  me,  are  dubb'd  Right  Hon. 

Like  me,  too,  art  a  Lawyer  Civil 

That  wishes  Papists  at  the  devil. 

To  whom  then  but  to  thee,  my  friend. 
Should  Patrick"  his  Port-folio  send  ? 
Take  it — 'tis  thine — his  learn'd  Port-folio, 
With  all  its  theologic  olio 
Of  Bulls,  half  Irish  and  half  Roman — 
Of  Doctrines,  now  believed  by  no  man — 
Of  Councils,  held  for  men's  salvation. 
Yet  always  ending  in  damnation — 
(Which  shows  that,  since  the  world's  creatior., 
Y'our  Priests,  whate'er  their  gentle  shamming, 
Have  always  had  a  tasto  for  damning.) 
And  many  more  such  pious  scraps. 
To  prove  (what  we've  long  proved,  perhaps,) 
Th.at,  mad  as  Christians  used  to  bo 
About  the  Thirteenth  Century, 
There  still  are  Christians  to  be  Iiad 
In  this,  the  Nineteenth,  just  as  mad  I 

Farewell — I  send  with  this,  dear  Nicholl, 
A  rod  or  two  I've  had  in  pickle 
Wherewith  to  trim  old  Grattan's  jacket. — 
The  rest  shall  go  by  Monday's  ]):ickot. 

P.  D. 

Amotif)  the  J-.'nchsurcs  in  the  forfffoiny  Letter  icua  Iht 
following  "  Unanswerable  Argument  against  thi 
Papists." 

*  *  *  * 

Wic'itE  told  the  ancient  Roman  nation 
Made  use  of  spittle  in  lustration;" 
(Vide  Laclantium  ap.  GalKrum — " 
J.  e.  you  need  not  read  but  see  'em  ;) 
Now,  Irish  Papists,  fact  surprising, 
Slake  use  of  spillle  in  baptizing; 
Which  proves  them  all,  O'Finns,  O'Fagans, 
Connors,  and  Tooles,  all  dowmiglit  Pagans. 
This  fact's  enough  ; — let  no  one  tell  us 
To  free  siicli  sad,  salimus  I'ellow.s. — 
No,  no — the  man,  baptized  with  spittle, 
Hnth  no  truth  in  him — not  n  tittle! 


INTERCEPTED  LETTERS. 


333 


LETTER  V. 


FROM  THE  COUNTESS  DOWAGEtt  OF  CORK  TO  LADV 


My  donr  Lady !  I've  been  just  sending  out 

About  five  hundred  cards  for  a  snug  little  Rout — 
(By  the  by,  you've  seen  Rokeby  ? — this  moment 

got  mine — 
The  Mail-Coach  Edition^" — prodigiously  fine:) 
But  I  can't  conceive  how,  in  this  very  cold  weather, 
I'm  ever  to  bring  my  five  hundred  together ; 
As,  unless  the  thermometer's  near  boiling  heat. 
One  can  never  get  half  of  one's  hundreds  to  meet. 
(Apropos — you'd  have  laugh'd  to  see  Townsend 

last  night. 
Escort  to  their  cliairs,  witli  his  staff,  so  polite. 
The  "three  maiden  Miseries,"  all  in  a  fright; 
Poor  Townsend,  lilce  Mercury,  filling  two  posts. 
Supervisor  of  thieves,  and  chief-usher  of  ghosts  .') 


-,  can't  you  hit  on  some 


But,  my  dear  L.ady  - 

notion. 
At  least  for  one  night  to  set  London  in  motion? — 
As  to  having  the  Regent,  that  show  is  gone  by — 
Besides,  I've  remark'd  that  (between  you  and  I) 
The  Marchesa  and  he,  inconvenient  in  more  ways. 
Have  taken  much  lately  to  whispering  in  doorways ; 
Which — consid'i'ing,  you  know,  dear,  the  size  of  the 

two — 
Makes   a  block   that   one's   company   cannot   get 

through  ; 
And  a  house  such  as  mine  is,  with  doorways  so 

small. 
Has  no  room  for  such  cumbersome  love-work  at 

all.— 
(Apropos,  though,  of  love-work — you've  heard  it,  I 

hope. 
That  Napoleon's  old  moflier's  to  marry  the  Pope, — 
What  a  comical  pair !) — but,  to  stick  to  my  Rout, 
'Twill  be  hard  if  some  novelty  can't  be  struck  out. 
Is  there  no  Algerine,  no  Kamchatkan  arrived? 
No  Plenipo  P.acha,  three-tail'd  and  ten-wived  ? 
No  Russian,  whose  dissonant  consonant  name 
Almost  rattles  to  fragments  the  trumpet  of  fame? 

I  remember  the  time,  throe  or  four  winters  back. 
When — provided  their  wigs   were   but   decently 

black — 
A  few  P.atriot  monsters,  from  Spain,  were  a  sight 
Tliat  would  people  one's  house  for  one,  night  after 

night. 
But  —  wliether    the    Ministers    paio'd    them    too 

much — 
(And  you  know  how  they  spoil  whatsoever  they 

touch) 


Or,  whether  Lord  George  (the  young  man  .about 

town) 
Has,  by  dint  of  bad  poetry,  written  them  down. 
One  has  certainly  lost  one's  peninsular  rage  ; 
And  the  only  stray  Patriot  seen  for  an  age 
Has  been  at  such  places  (think,  how  the  fit  cools !) 
As  old  Mrs.  Vaughan's  or  Lord  Liverpool's. 

But,  in  sliort,  my  dear,  names  like  Wintztschit- 

stopschinzoudhotr 
Are   the    only  things   now  make   an   ev'ning   go 

smooth  off: 
So,  get  me  a  Russian — till  death  I'm  your  debtor — 
If  he  brings  the  whole  Alphabet,  so  much  the  better. 
And — Lord !  if  he  would  but,  in  character,  sup 
Off  his  fish-oil  and  candles,  he'd  quite  set  me  up  ! 

All  reioir,  my  sweet  girl — I  must  leave  you  in 
haste — 
Little  Gunter  has  brought  me  the  Liqueurs  to  taste. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

By  the  by,  have  you  found  any  friend  that  can  con. 

strue 
That  Latin  account,  t'other  day,  of  a  Monster?" 
If  we  can't  get  a  Russian,  and  that  thing  in  Latin 
Be  not  too  improper,  I  think  I'll  bring  that  in. 


LETTER  VI. 

FROM  ABDALLAU,"^  IS  LONDON,  TO  MOHASSAN,  IN   ISPAUAH 

Whilst  thou,  Mohassan,  (happy  thou  !) 

Dost  daily  bend  thy  loyal  brow 

Before  our  King — our  Asia's  treasure ! 

Nutmeg  of  Comfort ;  Rose  of  Pleasure ! — 

And  bear'st  r.^  many  kicks  and  bruises 

As  the  said  Rose  and  Nutmeg  chooses ; 

Tliy  head  still  near  the  bowstring's  borders. 

And  but  left  on  till  further  orders — 

Through  London  streets  with  turban  fair, 

And  caftan,  floating  to  the  air, 

I  saunter  on,  the  admiration 

Of  this  short-coated  population — 

This  sew'd  up  race — this  button'd  nation— 

Who,  while  they  boast  their  laws  so  free, 

Leave  not  one  limb  at  liberty, 

But  live,  with  all  their  lordly  speeches, 

The  slaves  of  buttons  and  tight  breeches. 

Yet,  though  they  thus  their  knee-pans  fetter 
(They're  Christians,  and  they  know  no  better)" 


334 


MOOKE'S  WORKS. 


In  some  things  they're  a  thinking  nation  ; 

And,  on  Religious  Toleration, 

I  own  I  like  their  notions  quite. 

They  are  so  Persian  and  so  right ! 

You  know  our  Sunnites,"' — hateful  dogs! 

Whom  every  pious  Sliiite  ilog3 

Or  longs  to  flog" — 'tis  true,  they  pray 

To  God,  but  in  an  ill-bred  way ; 

Witli  neither  arras,  nor  legs,  nor  faces 

Stuck  in  their  right,  canonic  places.^" 

•Tis  true,  they  worsliip  All's  name — "' 

Their  Heav'n  and  ours  are  just  the  same — 

(A  Persian's  Heav'n  is  easily  made, 

■'Tis  but  black  eyes  and  lemonade.) 

Yet,  though  "we've  tried  for  centuries  back — 

We  can't  persuade  this  stubborn  pack. 

By  bastinadoes,  screws,  or  nippers. 

To  wear  th'  establish'd  pea-green  slippers.-* 

Then,  only  think,  the  libertines ! 

They  wash  their  toes — they  comb  their  chins,"" 

With  many  more  such  deadly  sins ; 

And  what's  the  worst,  (though  last  I  rank  it.) 

Believe  the  Chapter  of  the  Blanket ! 

Yet,  spite  of  tenets  so  flagitious, 
(Which  must,  at  bottom,  be  seditious ; 
Since  no  man  living  would  refuse 
Green  slippers,  but  from  treasonous  views ; 
Nor  wash  his  toes,  but  with  intent 
To  overturn  the  government,) — 
Such  is  our  mild  and  tolerant  way, 
We  only  curse  them  twice  a  day, 
(According  to  a  Form  that's  set,) 
And,  far  from  torturing,  only  let 
All  orthodox  believers  beat  'em, 
And  twitch  their  beards,  where'er  they  meet  'em. 

As  to  the  rest,  they're  free  to  do 
Whate'er  their  fancy  prompts  them  to. 
Provided  they  make  nothing  of  it 
Tow'rds  rank  or  honor,  power  or  profit; 
Which  things,  we  nat'rally  expect, 
Belongs  to  us,  the  Establish'd  sect, 
Who  disbelieve  (the  Lord  be  tlianked !) 
Th'  aforesaid  Chapter  of  the  Blanket. 
The  same  mild  views  of  Toleration 
Inspire,  I  find,  this  button'd  nation, 
Whoso  Papists  (full  as  given  to  rogue, 
And  only  Sunnites  with  a  brogue) 
Fare  just  ns  well,  with  all  their  fuss, 
As  rascal  Sunnites  do  with  us. 

The  lender  Gazcl  I  enclose 
is  fur  my  Idvc,  my  Syrian  Rose — 
Tnko  it  when  night  begins  to  fnll, 
And  tlirow  it  o'er  her  mother's  w.ill 


GAZEL. 

Rememberest  thou  the  hour  we  pass'd, — 
That  hour  the  happiest  and  the  last? 
Oh !  not  so  sweet  the  Siha  thorn 
To  summer  bees,  at  break  of  morn. 
Not  half  so  sweet,  through  dale  and  delL 
To  Camels'  ears  the  tinkling  bell. 
As  is  the  soothing  memory 
Of  that  one  precious  hour  to  me. 

How  can  we  live,  so  far  apart? 
Oh !  why  not  rather,  heart  to  heart. 

United  live  and  die — 
Like  those  sweet  birds,  that  fly  together. 
With  feather  always  touching  feather, 

Ijnk'd  bv  a  hook  and  eve  ! '° 


LETTER  Vir. 

FBOM    MESSRS.    L.ICICINGTO.V  AXD    CO.   TO 
ESQ." 


Per    Post,   Sir,  we    send    your    MS. — look'd    it 

through — 
Very  sorry — but  can't  undertake — 'twouldn't  do. 
Clever   work.    Sir! — would   get    vp   prodigiously 

well- 
Its  only  defect  is — it  never  would  sell. 
And  though  Statesmen   may   glory   in   being  un- 

boughl. 
In  an  Author  'tis  not  so  desirable  thought. 


re.'id — 
Though  the  gold  of  Good-sense  and  Wit's  smnll- 

change  are  fled. 
Yet  the  paper  we  Publishers  p.iss,  in  their  stead. 
Rises  higher  each  day,  and  ('tis  frightful  to  think  it) 
Not  even  such  n.inies  as  Fitzgerald's  can  sink  it  ! 

However,  Sir — if  you're  for  trying  again. 
And   nt   somewhat   that's  vendible — wo   arc  your 
nu-n. 

Since   tlii'   Chevalier   Carr"  took    to   marrying 

lately 
The  Trade  is  in  want  of  a  Trarcller  greatly — 
No  Jul),  Sir,  more  easy — your  Country  once  plann'd, 
A  inonlh  aboard  ship  and  a  forlniglit  on  land 
Puts  your  Quarto  of  Travels,  Sir,  clean  out  of 

linnd. 


INTERCEPTED  LETTERS. 


p.m 


An   East-India  p.imphlct'a  a  thing  that  would 

tell— 
And  a  lick  at  tho  I'aiiisfs  is  sure  to  sell  well. 
Or — supposing  you've  nothing  original  in  you — 
Write  Parodies,  Sir,  and  such  fame  it  will  win  you, 
You'll  get  to  the  Blue-stocking  Routs  of  Albinia!" 
(Mind — not  to  her  dinners — a  second-hand  Muse 
Mustn't  think  of  aspiring  to  mess  witli  the  Blues.) 
Or — in  case  nothing  else  in  this  world  you  can 

do— 
The  deuce  is  in't,  Sir,  if  you  cannot  reviem ! 

Should  you  feel  any  touch  of  poetical  glow, 
We've  a  Scheme  to  suggest — Jlr.  Scott,  you  must 

know, 
(Who,  we're  sorry  to  say  if,  now  works  for  the 

Row,y' 
Having  quitted  the  Borders,  to  seek  new  renown. 
Is  coming,  by  long  Quarto  stages,  to  Town ; 
And  beginning  with  Rokeby  (the  job's  sure  to  pay) 
Means  to  do  all  the  Gentlemen's  Seats  on  the  way. 
Now,  the  Scheme  is  (though  none  of  our  hackneys 

can  beat  him) 
To  start  a  fresh  Poet  tlirough  Highgate  to  meet  him; 
Who,  by  means  of  quick  proofs — no  revises — long 

coaches — 
M.iy  do  a  few  'V^illas,  before  Scott  approaches. 
Indeed,  if  our  Pegasus  be  not  curst  shabby. 
He'll  roach,  without  found'ring,  .it  least  Woburn- 

Abbey. 
Such,  Sir,  is  cur  plan — if  you're  up  to  the  freak, 
'Tis  a  match !  and  we'll  put  you  in  training  next 

week. 
At  present,  no  more — in  reply  to  this  Letter,  a 
Line  w-ill  oblige  very  much 

Yours,  et  cetera. 

Temple  of  the  Muses. 


LETTER  VIII. 


FROM    COLONEL   THOMAS    TO 


SKIFFINQTON,   ESQ. 


Come  to  our  FiJte,"  .and  bring  with  thee 
Thy  newest,  best  embroidery. 
Come  to  our  Fete,  and  show  .ag.ain 
Thiit  pe.a-green  co.at,  thou  pink  of  men, 
Which  eharm'd  all  eyes,  that  last  survey'd  it; 
When  Brummell's  self  inquired  "  who  made  it  '"- 
When  Cits  came  wond'ring  from  the  East, 
And  thouglit  thee  Poet  Pye  at  least ! 

Oh  !  come,  (if  h.aply  'tis  tliy  week 
For  looking  pale,)  wth  paly  cheek  ; 


Though  more  we  love  thy  roseate  d.ay8, 
When  the  rich  rouge-pot  pours  its  blaze 
Full  o'er  thy  face,  and,  amply  spread. 
Tips  even  thy  whisker-tops  with  red — 
Like  tho  last  tints  of  dying  Day 
That  o'er  some  darkling  groves  del.iy. 

Bring  thy  best  lace,  thou  g.ay  Philander, 
(That  lace,  like  Harry  Alexander, 
Too  precious  to  be  washed,) — thy  rings, 
Tliy  seals — in  short,  thy  prettiest  things ! 
Put  all  thy  wardrobe's  glories  on, 
And  yield  in  frogs  and  fringe,  to  none 
But  the  great  Regent's  self  alone  ; 
Who — by  particular  desire — 
For  that  night  only,  means  to  hii-e 
A  dress  from  Romeo  Coates,  Esquire."' 
Hail,  first  of  Actors !"  best  of  Regents  ! 
Born  for  each  otlier's  fond  allegiance ! 
Both  gay  Lotharios — both  good  dresser.s — 
Of  serious  Farce  both  learn'd  Professors — 
Both  cii'cled  round,  for  use  or  show, 
With  cock's  combs,  wheresoe'er  they  go  ! " 

Thou  know'st  the  time,  thou  man  of  lore 
It  takes  to  ch.alk  a  ball-room  floor — 
Thou  know'st  the  time,  too,  well-a^diiy  ! 
It  takes  to  dance  that  ch.alk  away."" 
Tlie  Ball-room  opens — far  and  nigh 
Comets  and  suns  bene.ath  us  lie  ; 
O'er  snow-white  moons  and  stars  we  walk, 
And  the  floor  seems  one  sky  of  ch.alk  ! 
But  soon  slmll  fade  that  bright  deceit, 
When  many  a  m:iid,  with  busy  feet 
Th.at  sparkle  in  the  lustre's  ray, 
O'er  the  white  path  shall  bound  and  play 
Like  Nymphs  along  the  Milky  Way : — 
With  every  step  a  star  h.ath  fled. 
And  suns  grow  dim  beneath  their  tread  I 
So  passeth  life — (thus  Scott  would  write. 
And  spinsters  read  him  with  delight,) — 
Hours  are  not  feet,  yet  hours  trip  on. 
Time  is  not  chalk,  yet  time's  soon  gone!" 

But,  hang  this  long  digressive  flight ! — 
I  meant  to  say,  thou'lt  see,  th.at  night, 
What  falsehood  rankles  in  their  hearts, 
Who  say  the  Prince  neglects  the  arts — 
Neglects  the  arts  ? — no,  Strahlberg,"  nc  ; 
Thy  Cupids  answer  ''  'tis  not  so  ;" 
And  every  floor,  that  night,  shall  tell 
How  quick  thou  daubest,  and  how  well. 
Shine  as  thou  m.ay'st  in  French  vermilion, 
Thou'rt  best,  bene.ath  a  French  cotillion : 
And  still  com'st  off,  whafe'er  thy  faults, 
With_^y!7!g-  col(yrs  in  a  Waltz. 


336 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Nor  need'st  thou  mourn  the  transient  date 
To  thy  best  works  assign'd  by  fate. 
While  some  cbef-d'oeuvres  live  to  weary  one, 
Thine  boast  a  short  life  and  a  merry  one; 
Their  hour  of  glory  past  and  gone 
With  "  Molly  put  the  kettle  on !"" 

But,  bless  my  soul !  I've  scarce  a  leaf 
Of  paper  left — so  must  be  brief. 

This  festive  Fete,  in  fact,  will  be 
The  former  Fete's/ac-simi7e;'^ 
The  same  long  Masquerade  of  Rooms, 
All  triek'd  up  in  such  odd  costumes, 
(These,  Porter,"  are  thy  glorious  works  I) 
You'd  swear  Egyptians,  Jloors,  and  Turks 
Bearing  Good-Taste  some  deadly  malice, 
Had  elubb'd  to  raise  a  Pic-Nic  Palace; 
And  each  to  make  the  olio  pleasant 
Had  sent  a  State-Room  as  a  present. 
The  same  fauteuih  and  girandoles — 
The  same  gold  Asses,"  pretty  souls! 
That,  in  this  rich  and  classic  dome. 
Appear  so  perfectly  at  home. 
The  same  briglit  river  'mong  tlio  dishes, 
But  not — ah !  not  the  same  dear  fishes — 
Lale  hours  and  claret  kill'd  the  old  ones — 
So  'stead  of  silver  and  of  gold  ones, 
(It  being  rather  hard  to  raise 
Fish  of  that  sjKcie  now-a-days,) 
Some  sprats  have  been  by  Yarmouth's  wish, 
Promoted  into  Silver  Fish, 
And  Gudgeons  (so  Vansittart  told 
The  Regent)  are  as  good  as  Gold ! 

So,  prithee,  come — our  Ffite  will  be 
But  half  a  Fete  if  wanting  thee. 


APPENDIX. 

LETfER  IV.     Page  332. 

Amo.ng  tlie  papcr.s  enclosed  in  Dr.  Duigcnan's 
I>etter,  was  found  nn  Heroic  Epistle  in  Latin  verse, 
from  Pope  Joan  to  her  I^ovcr,  of  which,  as  it  is 
rather  a  curious  document,  I  shall  venture  to  give 
Honic  account.  This  female  Pontiff  was  a  n.'itivc  of 
England,  (or,  according  to  ollicrs,  of  Germany,) 
who,  at  an  early  ngc,  disguised  herself  in  male  nU 
lirc,  and  followed  her  lover,  a  young  ccclcsiaHlic, 
lo  Athens,  where  she  studied  wiUi  Bueh  cIToct,  that 


upon  her  arrival  at  Rome  she  was  thought  wortliv 

of  being  raised  to  the  Pontificate.  This  Epistle  is 
addressed  to  her  Lover  (whom  she  had  elevated  to 
the  dignity  of  Cardinal)  soon  after  the  fatal  ac- 
couchement, by  which  her  Fallibility  was  betrayed. 
She  begins  by  reminding  him  tenderly  of  the 
time,  when  they  were  together  at  Athens — wlien 
as  she  says, 

"  by  Ilissus'  stream 

"  We  whisp'ring  walk'd  along,  and  learn'd  to  speak 

"  The  tenderest  feelings  in  the  purest  Greek ; — 

"  Ah,  then  how  little  did  we  think  or  hope, 

"  Dearest  of  men,  that  I  sliould  e'er  be  Pope ! " 

"That  I,  the  humble  Joan,  whose  housewife  art 

'■  Seem'd  just  enough  to  keep  tliy  house  and  lieart 

"  (And  tliose,  alas,  at  sixes  and  at  sevens,) 

'•  Should  soon  keep  all  the  keys  of  all  the  heavens !"' 

Still  less  (she  continues  to  say)  could  they  have 
foreseen,  that  such  a  catastrophe  as  had  happened 
in  Council  would  befall  them — that  she 

"  Should  thus  surprise  the  Conclave's  grave  de- 
corum, 
"  And  let  a  liltle  Pope  po;>  out  before  'em — 
"  Pope  Innocent !  alas,  the  only  one 
"That  name  could  e'er  bo  justly  fix'd  upon." 

She  (hen  very  patllelically  laments  the  downt'all 
of  her  greatness,  and  enumerates  the  various 
tre.isurcs  to  which  she  is  doomed  to  bid  farewell 
for  ever : — 

"  But  oh,  more  dear,  more  precious  ten  times  over— 
"Farewell  my  Lord,  my  Cardinal,  my  Lover! 
"  I  made  thee  Cardinal — tliou  mad'st  me — all  ! 
'■  Thou  mad'st  the  Papa  of  the  world  !\Iamma  !" 

1  have  not  tune  at  present  lo  translate  any  more 
of  this  Epistle ;  but  I  presume  the  argument  which 
t)ie  Right  Hon.  Doctor  and  his  friends  mean  to  de- 
duce from  it,  is  (in  their  usual  convincing  strain) 
that  Romanists  must  be  unworthy  of  Emancipation 
now,  because  they  had  a  Petticoat  Pope  in  the 
Ninth  C-cntnry.  Nothing  can  bo  more  logically 
clear,  and  1  find  that  Horace  had  exactly  the  same 
views  upon  the  subject. 

Ilomanua  (chcu  poBlcrl  ucgabitli!) 

F.inancipatus  KaMlNX 
Purl  vallum  t 


INTEECEPTED  LETTERS. 


337 


LETTER  VII.     Page  334. 

The  Manuscript  found  enclosed  in  the  Book- 
seller's Letter,  turns  out  to  be  a,  Melo-Drama,  in 
two  Acts,  entitled  "  The  Book," "  of  which  the 
Theatres,  of  course,  liad  had  the  refusal,  before  it 
was  presented  to  Blessrs.  Lackington  and  Co.  This 
rejected  Drama,  however,  possesses  considerable 
merit,  and  I  sliall  take  the  liberty  of  laying  a  sketch 
of  it  before  my  Readers. 

The  first  Act  opens  in  a  very  awful  manner — 
Time,  three  o'clock  in  the  morning — Scene,  the 
Bourbon  Chamber"  in  Carlton  House — Enter  the 
Prince  Regent  solus — After  a  few  broken  sen- 
tences, he  tluis  exclaims  : — 

Away — Away — 
Thou  haunt'st  my  fiincy  so,  thou  devilish  Book, 
I  meet  thee — trace  thee,  wheresoe'er  I  look. 
I  see  thy  damned  ink  in  Eldon's  brows — 
I  see  thy  foolscap  on  my  Hertford's  Spouse — 
Vansittart's  head  recalls  thy  leathern  case. 
And  all  thy  black-leaves  stare  from  Radnor's  fiice ! 
While  turning  here,  (laying  his  hand  on  his  heart,) 

I  find,  ah  wretched  elf, 
Thy  List  of  dire  Errata  in  myself. 

(  Walks  the  stage  in  considerable  agitation.) 
Oh  Roman  Punch !  oh  potent  Curagoa ! 
Oh  Mareschino  !  Mareschino  oh ! 
Delicious  drams  !  why  have  you  not  the  art 
To  kill  this  gnawing  Book-worm  in  my  heart  ? 

He  is  here  interrupted  in  his  soliloquy  by  per- 
ceiving on  the  ground  some  scribbled  fragments  of 
paper,  which  he  instantly  collects,  and  "by  the 
light  of  two  magnificent  candelabras"  discovers  the 
following  unconnected  words,  "  Wife  neglected'^ — 
"  the  Book" — "  Wrong  Pleasures"' — "  the  Queen" — 
"  Mr.  Lambert" — '■"  the  Regent." 

Ha  I    treason   in   my   house ! — Curst   words,  that 

wither 
My  princely  soul,   (shaking  the  papers  violently,) 

what  Demon  brought  you  hither  ? 
"My  Wife;"— "the  Book"  too!— stay— a  nearer 

look — 
(holding  the  fragments  closer  to  the  Candelabras) 
Alas  !  too  plain,  B,  double  O,  K,  Book — 
Death  and  destruction ! 

He  here  rings  all  the  bells,  and  a  whole  legion 
of  valets  enter.  A  scene  of  cursing  and  swearing 
(very  much  in  the  German  style)  ensues,  in  the 
course  of  which  messengers  are  dispatched  in  dif- 
ferent directions,  for  the  Lord  Chancellor,  the  Duke 
43 


of  Cumberland,  &c.,  &.c.  The  intei mediate  time 
is  filled  up  Ly  another  Soliloquy,  .at  the  conclusion 
of  which  the  aforesaid  Personages  rush  on  .alarmed  ; 
tho  Duke  with  his  stays  only  half-laced,  and  the 
Chancellor  with  liis  wig  thrown  hastily  over  an  old 
red  night-cap  "  to  maintain  the  becoming  .splendor 
of  his  office."  "  The  Regent  produces  tho  appall- 
ing  fragments,  upon  which  the  Chancellor  breaka 
out  into  exclamations  of  loyalty  and  tenderness, 
and  relates  the  following  portentous  dream : 

'Tis  scarcely  two  hours  since 
I  had  a  fearful  dream  of  thee,  my  Prince ! — 
Methought  I  heard  thee,  'midst  a  courtly  crowd, 
S.ay  from  thy  throne  of  gold,  in  mandate  loud, 
"Worship  my  whiskers!" — (uveps)  not  a  knee  was 

there 
But  bent  and  worshipp'd  the  Illustriour,  J'al^, 
Which  curl'd  in  contcious  majesty !  (pu'Jf  o^u  iiu 

handkerchief) — while  cries 
Of  "  Whiskers,  whiskt  rs !"  shook  the  echoing  tkiest-- 
Just  in  that  glorious  hour,  methought,  there  cim- 
With  looks  of  injured  pride,  a  Princely  Dame, 
And  a  young  maiden,  clinging  by  her  side. 
As  if  she  fear'd  some  tyrant  would  divide 
Two  hearts  that  nature  and  affection  tied  ! 
The  Matron  came — within  her  right  hand  glow'd 
A  radiant  torch ;  wliile  from  her  left  a  load 
Of  Papers  hung — (wipes  his  eyes)  collected  in  hd 

veil — 
The  venal  evidence,  the  slanderous  tale. 
The  wounding  hint,  the  current  lies  that  pass 
From  Post  to  Courier,  forra'd  the  motley  mass ; 
Which,  with  disdain,  before  the  Throne  she  throws, 
And  lights  the  Pile  beneath  thy  princely  nose. 

(  Weeps.) 
Heav'ns,  how  it  blazed  ! — I'd  ask  no  livelier  fire 
(With  animation)  To  roast  a  Papist  by,  my  gra- 
cious Sire ! — 
But,  ah !  the  Evidence — (weeps  again)  I  mourn'd 

to  see — 
Cast,  as  it  burn'd,  a  deadly  light  on  thee : 
And  Tales  .and  Hints  their  random  sparkle  flung. 
And  hiss'd  and  crackled,  like  an  old  maid's  tongue; 
While  Post  and  Courier,  faithful  to  their  fiime. 
Made  up  in  stink  for  what  they  lack'd  in  flame. 
When,  lo,  ye  Gods !  the  fire  ascending  brisker, 
Now  singes  one,  now  lights  the  other  whisker. 
Ah !  where  was  then  the  Sylphid,  that  unfurls 
Her  fairy  st.andard  in  defence  of  curls  ? 
Throne,  Whiskers,  Wig,  soon  vanish'd  into  smoke, 
The  watchman  cried  "Past  One,"  and — I  .awoke. 

Here  his  Lordship  weeps  more  profusely  than 
ever,  .ind  the  Regent  (who  has  been  very  mnob 


338 


MOOHE'S  WOKKS. 


agitated  during  the  recital  of  the  Dream)  by  a 
movement  as  characteristic  as  that  of  Charles  XII. 
when  he  was  shot,  claps  his  hands  to  his  whiskers 
to  feel  if  all  be  really  safe.  A  Privy  Council  is 
held — all  the  Servants,  &c.,  are  examined,  and  it 
appears  that  a  Tailor,  w-ho  had  come  to  measure 
the  Regent  for  a  dress,  (which  takes  three  whole 
pages  of  the  best  superfine  clinquant  in  describing,) 
^was  the  only  person  who  had  been  in  tlie  Bourbon 
Chamber  during  the  day.  It  is,  accordingly,  deter- 
mined to  seize  the  Tailor,  and  the  Council  breaks 
up  with  a  unanimous  resolution  to  be  vigorous. 

The  commencement  of  tlie  Second  Act  turns 
cliiefly  upon  the  Trial  and  Imprisonment  of  two 
Brothers '" — but  as  this  forms  the  under  p!ot  of 
the  Drama,  I  shall  content  myself  with  extractmg 
from  it  the  following  speech,  which  is  addressed 
to  the  two  Brothers,  as  they  "  e.xeunt  severally"  to 
Prison  : — 

Go  to  your  prisons — though  the  air  of  Spring 

No  mountain  coolness  to  your  cheeks  shall  bring; 

Though  Summer  flowers  shall  pass  unseen  away, 

And  all  your  portion  of  the  glorious  day 

May  be  some  solitary  beam  that  falls, 

At  morn  or  eve,  upon  your  dreary  wails — 

Some  beam  that  enters,  trembling  as  if  awed, 

To  tell  how  gay  the  young  world  laughs  abroad ! 

Yet  go — for  thoughts  as  blessed  as  the  air 

Of  Spring  or  Summer  flowers  await  you  there ; 

Thoughts,  such  as  He,  wlio  feasts  liis  courtly  crew 

In  rich  conservatories,  never  knew ; 

Pure  self-esteem — the  smiles  that  liglit  within — 

The  Zeal,  whose  circling  charities  begin 

Willi  the  few  loved  ones  Heaven  li.is  placed  it  near, 

.■\nd  spre;id,  till  all  Mankind  are  in  its  sphere ; 

The  Pride,  that  suffers  without  vaunt  or  plea. 

And  tlie  fresh  Spirit,  that  can  warble  free, 

Through  prison-b.ars,  its  hymn  to  Liberty! 

The  Scene  next  changes  to  a  Tailor's  Workshop, 
and  a  fancifully-arranged  group  of  these  Artists  is 
discovered  upon  the  Shopboard — Their  task  evi- 
dently of  a  royal  nature,  from  the  profusion  of  gold- 
lace,  frogs  &c.,  that  lie  about — They  all  rise  and 
come  forward,  while  one  of  them  sings  the  following 
Stanzao,  to  the  tune  of  "  Derry  Down." 

My  brave  brother  Tailors,  come,  Htniigliten  your 

knees, 
For  a  moment,  like  gentlemen,  stand  up  at  case, 
While  I  sing  of  our  Prince,   Cand  n   (ig  for  his 

r.iilcrH,) 
The  Shnpboanl's  delight!  .Miecenas  of  Tailors! 
IVrry  down,  down,  down  dcrry  down. 


Some  monarchs  take  roundabout  ways  into  note. 
While  His  short  cut  to  fame  is — the  cut  of  his 

coat ; 
Philip's  Son  thought  the  World  was  too  small  for 

his  Soul, 
But  our  Regent's  finds  room  in  a  laced  button-hole. 

Derry  down,  itc. 

Look  through  all  Europe's  Kings — those,  at  least, 

who  go  loose — 
Not  a  King  of  them  all's  such  a  friend  to  the  Goose, 
So,  God  keep  him  increasing  in  size  and  renown. 
Still  the  fattest  and  best  fitted  Prince  .about  town ! 

Derry  down,  &c. 

During  the  "  Derry  down"  of  this  last  verse,  a 
messenger  from  the  Secretary  of  State's  Office 
rushes  on,  and  the  singer  (who,  luckily  for  the 
effect  of  the  scene,  is  the  very  Tailor  suspected  of 
the  mysterious  fragments)  is  interrupted  in  ths 
midst  of  his  laudatory  exertions,  and  hurried  away, 
to  the  no  small  surprise  and  consternation  of  his 
comrades.  The  Plot  now  hastens  rapidly  in  it^ 
development — the  management  of  the  Tailor's  ex 
amination  is  highly  skilful,  and  the  al.irm,  which  lu 
is  made  to  betray,  is  natural  without  being  ludicrous 
The  explanation,  too,  which  he  finally  gives  is  not 
more  simple  than  s.atisfactory.  It  appears  that  the 
said  fragments  formed  part  of  a  self-c.xeulpator) 
note,  which  ho  had  intended  to  send  to  Colone 
M'Mahon  upon  subjects  purely  profession.al,  and  the 
corresponding  bits  (which  still  lie  luckily  in  his 
pocket)  being  produced,  and  skilfully  laid  beside 
the  others,  the  following  billet-dou.x  is  the  satisfac- 
tory result  of  their  ju.xta-position. 

Ilonor'd  Colonel — my  Wife,  wlui's  the  Queen  of 
all  slatterns, 

Neglected  to  put  up  the  Book  of  new  Patterns. 

She  sent  the  wrong  Measures  too — shamefully 
wrong — 

They're  the  same  used  for  poor  Mr.  Lambert,  when 
young ; 

But,  bless  you!  they  wouldn't  go  half  round  the 
Regent — 

So,  hope  you'll  excuse  yours  till  death,  most  obe- 
dient. 

This  fully  explains  the  whole  my.stery — the 
Regent  resumes  his  wonted  smiles,  and  the  Drama 
terminates  as  usual,  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  pnr 
ties. 


INTERCEPTED  LETTERS. 


33'.^ 


NOTES. 


^Ij  Ariosto,  catito  35. 
(3)  Herrick. 

(3)  Piudar.  Pyth.  2. 

(4)  Bishop  of  Casae  Nigrie,  in  the  fourth  century. 

(5)  A  new  reading  has  been  suggested  in  the  origiuul  of  the 
Ode  of  Horace,  freely  transhited  by  Lord  Eldoii,  la  the 
line  "Sive  per  Syrteia  iter  ffistuosas,"  it  id  proposed,  by  a 
very  trifling  alteration,  to  read  ^  Surtccs^"  instead  of  '*  Syrteis," 
which  brings  the  Ode,  it  is  said,  more  home  to  the  noble  trans- 
lator, and  gives  a  peculiar  force  and  aptness  to  the  epithet 
"asstuosas."  I  merely  throw  out  this  emendation  for  the 
learned,  being  unable  myself  to  decide  upon  its  merits. 

(6)  This  young  lady,  who  is  a  Roman  Catholic,  had  lately 
made  a  present  of  some  beautiful  Ponies  to  the  Princess. 

(7)  Mr.  Addington,  so  nicknamed. 

(8)  Alluding  to  a  tax  lately  laid  upon  leather. 

(9)  The  question  whether  a  Veto  was  to  be  allowed  to  the 
Crown  in  the  appointment  of  Irish  Catholic  Bishops  was,  at 
this  time,  very  generally  and  actively  agitated. 

(10)  For  an  account  of  this  extraordinary  work  of  I\lr.  Leckie, 
nee  the  "Edinburgh  Review,"  vol.  xx. 

(11)  "The  truth  indeed  seems  to  be,  that  having  lived  so 
long  abroad  as  evidently  to  have  lost,  in  a  great  degree,  the 
use  of  his  native  language,  Mr.  Leckie  has  gradually  come 
not  only  to  speak,  but  to  icel,  like  a  foreigner.'' — F.dinbur^h 
Review. 

(12)  The  learned  Colonel  must  allude  here  to  a  description 
of  the  aiysterious  Isle,  in  the  History  of  Abdalla,  son  of  Hanif, 
where  such  inversions  of  the  order  o."  nature  are  said  to  have 
taken  place. — "A  score  of  old  women  and  the  srirao  number 
of  old  men  played  here  and  there  in  the  court,  some  at  chuck- 
farthing,  others  at  tip-cat  or  at  cockles.'' — And  again,  "There  is 
nothing,  believe  me,  more  engaging  than  those  lovely  wrink- 
les," &.C.,  &c.— See  Talcs  nf  the  East,  vol.  iii.  pp.  G07,  G08. 

(13)  This  letter,  as  the  render  will  perceive,  was  wrilfen  the 
Jay  after  a  dinner  given  by  the  M.irquis  of  Hertford. 

(14)  Colonel  M'Mahon. 

(15)  This  letter,  which  contained  some  very  heavy  euclo- 
Bures,  seems  to  have  been  sent  to  London  by  a  private  hand, 
and  then  put  into  the  Twopenny  Post-Office,  to  save  trouble. 
See  the  AppendLx. 

(16)  In  sending  this  sheet  to  the  Press,  however,  I  learn  that 
the  "muzzle"  has  been  taken  off.  and  the  Right  Hon.  Doctor 
again  let  loose ! 

(17)  A  bad  aame  for  poetry ;  but  Duigenan  is  still  worse. — 
Ab  Prudentixis  says  upon  a  very  different  subject— 

Torquetur  Apollo 
Nomine  percussua. 


(18) 


Lustralibus  ante  salivis 

Expiat,  Pkrs.  sat.  2. 


(19)  I  have  taken  the  trouble  of  examining  the  iJoctor'i 
reference  here,  and  find  him,  for  once,  correct.  The  following 
are  the  words  of  his  indignant  referee.  Gallaius: — "Asserere 
non  veremur  sacrum  bajjlismurn  a  Papistis  profanari,  et  sputi 
usum  in  pfcculnrum  expiationo  a  Puganis  non  a  Chrisliania 

mflTKisiC." 

(20)  l?ee  Mr.  Murray's  Advertisement  about  the  Mail-Coach 
copies  of  Rokeby. 

(21)  Alluding,  I  suppose,  to  the  Latin  Advertisement  of  a 
Lusua  Naturae  in  the  Newspapers  lately. 

(22)  I  have  made  many  inquiries  about  this  Persian  gentle- 
man, but  cannot  satisfactorily  ascertain  who  he  is.  From  his 
notions  of  Religious  Liberty,  however,  I  conclude  that  he  is  an 
importation  of  Ministers;  and  he  has  arrived  just  in  time  to 
assist  the  Prince  and  Mr.  Leckie  in  their  new  Oriental  Plan 
of  Reform. — See  the  second  of  these  Letters.  How  Abdallah's 
epistle  to  Ispahan  found  its  way  Into  the  Twopenny  Post-Bag 
is  more  than  I  can  pretend  to  account  for. 

(23)  "C'est  un  honnfite  hommo,"  said  a  Turkish  governor 
of  De  Ruyter;  "c'est  grand  dommage  qu'il  soit  Chretien." 

(24)  Sunnitcs  and  Shiites  are  the  two  leading  sects  into 
which  the  Mahometan  world  is  divided  ;  and  they  have  gone 
on  cursing  and  persecuting  each  other,  without  any  intermis- 
sion, for  about  eleven  hundred  years.  The  Sunni  is  the  estab- 
lished sect  in  Turkey,  and  the  Shia  in  Persia;  and  the  differ- 
ences between  Ihem  turn  chielly  upon  those  important  points, 
which  our  pious  friend  Abdallab,  in  the  true  spirit  of  Shiite 
Ascendency,  reprobates  in  this  Letter. 

(25)  "  Les  Ssunuites,  qui  etaient  comme  les  Calholiques  de 
Musulmanisme." — D''Ihrbdot. 

(26)  "  In  contradistinction  to  the  Sounis,  who  in  their  prayers 
cross  their  hands  on  the  lower  part  of  their  breast,  the  Schiahs 
drop  their  arms  in  straight  lines ;  and  as  the  t-ounis,  at  certain 
periods  of  the  prayer,  press  their  foreheads  on  the  ground  or 
carpet,  the  Schiahs,"  &c.,  &c. — Forstcr*s  Voyage. 

(27)  "Les  Tares  ne  diitestcnt  pas  AH  r^ciproquement;  au 
contraire,  ils  le  reconnaissent,"  &c.,  &.c. — Chardin. 

0i8)  "The  Shiites  wear  green  slippers,  which  the  Sunnltea 
consider  as  a  great  abomination." — Mariti. 

(29)  For'these  points  of  difference,  as  well  as  for  the  Chapter 
of  the  Blanket,  I  must  refer  the  reader  (not  having  the  book 
by  me)  to  Picart's  Account  of  the  Mahometan  Sects. 

(30)  This  will  appear  strange  to  an  English  reader,  but  it  is 
literally  translated  from  Abdallah's  Persian,  and  the  curious 
bird  to  which  he  alludes  is  the  Juftak^  of  which  I  find  the  fol- 
lowing account  in  Richardson: — "A  sort  of  bird,  that  is  said 
to  have  but  one  wing;  on  the  opposite  side  to  which  the  male 
has  a  hook  and  the  female  a  ring,  so  that,  when  they  fly,  they 
are  fastened  together." 


340 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


(31)  From  motives  of  delicacy,  and,  indeed,  of  feJloic-feeling'^ 
i  suppress  the  name  of  the  Author  whoae  rejected  manuscript 
ivaa  enclosed  in  this  letter. — See  the  Appendix. 

(XJ)  Sir  John  Carr,  the  author  of  ''Toiira  in  Ireland,  Holland, 
Sweden,"  &c.,  &c. 

(33)  This  alludes,  I  believe,  to  a  curious  correspondence 
which  is  said  to  liave  passed  lately  between  Albinia,  Countess 
of  Buckinghamshire,  and  a  cc-rtain-ingenious  Parodist. 

i^M)  Paternoster  Row. 

(35)  This  Letter  enclosed  a  Card  for  the  Crand  Fete  on  the 
5th  of  February.  . 

(36)  An  amateur  actor  of  much  risible  renown. 

(37)  Quern  tu,  Melpomene,  semel 

Nascentem  placido  iumine,  videriS}  &c. — Horat. 

The  Man,  upon  whom  thou  hast  dei^'d  to  look  funny. 

Oh  Tragedy's  Muse  !  at  the  hour  of  his  birth- 
Let  them  say  what  they  will,  that's  the  Man  for  my  money. 
Give  others  thy  tears,  but  let  me  have  thy  mirtli ! 

<3S)  The  crest  of  Mr.Coates,  the  very  amusing  amateur  trage- 
Jian  here  alluded  to,  was  a  cock ;  and  most  profusely  were 
his  liveries,  harness,  &c.,  covered  with  this  ornament. 

(,39)  To  those,  who  neither  go  to  balls  nor  read  the  Morning 
Post,  it  may  bo  necessary  to  mention,  that  the  floors  of  Hall- 
rooms,  in  general,  are  ctialked,  for  safety  and  for  ornament) 
with  various  fanciful  devices. 


(■10) 


Hearts  are  not  flint,  yet  flints  are  rent, 
Hearts  arc  not  steel,  yet  steel  is  bent. 


(II)  A  foreign  artist  much  patronized  by  the  Prince  Regent 
(4:2)  Tlie  oamo  of  a  popular  coaDlr7<daiice. 


(43)  *' Carlton  House  will  exhibit  a  complete  facsimile,  in 
respect  to  interior  ornament,  to  what  it  did  at  the  last  F6te. 
The  same  splendid  draperies,"  &c.,  &c. — Morning  Post. 

(44)  Mr.  Walsh  Porter,  to  whose  taste  was  left  the  furnishing 
of  the  rooms  of  Carlton  House. 

(45)  The  salt-cellars  on  the  Prince's  own  table  were  in  the 
form  of  an  Ass  wilh  panniers. 

(46)  Spanheim  attributes  the  unanimity,  with  which  Joan 
was  elected,  to  that  innate  and  irresistible  charm  by  which 
her  sex,  though  latent,  operated  upon  the  instinct  of  the  Car- 
dinals— "Non  vi  aliqua,  sed  concorditer,  omnium  in  se  con- 
verso  desiderio,  qua'  sunt  blandientis  sexus  artes,  latontes  in 
hac  quanquam !" 

(47)  There  was,  in  like  maimer,  a  mysterious  Book,  in  tho 
16th  Century,  which  employed  all  the  anxious  curiosity  of  the 
Learned  of  that  lime.  Every  ono  spoke  of  it;  many  wrote 
against  it;  though  it  does  not  appear  that  any  body  had  ever 
seen  it;  and  Grotius  is  of  opinion  that  no  such  Book  ever  ex- 
isted. It  was  entitled  "  Liber  do  tribus  impostoribus."  (See 
Morhof,  Cap.  de  Libris  damnatis.^— Our  moro  modern  mystery 
of  "  the  Book"  resembles  this  in  many  particulars;  and,  if  tho 
number  of  Lawyers  employed  in  drawing  it  up  be  stated  cor- 
rectly, a  slight  alteration  of  the  title  into  "  u  tribus  impostori- 
bus" would  produce  a  coincidence  altogether  very  remarkable. 

(48)  The  same  (Camber,  doubtless,  that  was  prepared  for  the 
reception  of  tho  Bourbons  at  the  first  Grand  FiMe,  and  which 
was  ornamented  (all  "  for  the  Deliverance  of  Europe")  with 
flcurs-de-lt/s. 

(49)  *'  To  enable  tho  individual,  who  holds  the  ofllce  of  Cban 
cellor,  to  maintain  it  in  becoming  splendor."  (^  loud  lavgh^ 
— Lotd  Castlereagu's  Speech  upon  the  J'tee'Chancrlior''s  Hiil. 

(50)  Mr.  I<eigh  Hunt  and  his  brother. 


LEGENDARY  BALLADS. 


THE   MISS    FEILDINGS, 

TUI3    VOLUME   13   INSCBIBED 
BY     THEIK     FAITHFUL     FKIEND     AND     SEHVAST, 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


THE  VOICE. 

It  came  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  voice  of  those  days, 
When  love,  only  love,  was  the  light  of  her  ways; 
And,  soft  as  in  moments  of  bliss  long  ago, 
It  whisper'd  her  name  from  the  garden  below. 

"  Alas,"  sigh'd  the  maiden,  "  how  fancy  can  cheat ! 
"  The  world  once  had  lips  that  could  whisper  thus 

sweet ; 
"  But  cold  now  they  slumber  in  yon  fatal  deep, 
"  Where,  oh  that  beside  them  this  heart  too  could 

sleep !" 

She  sunk  on  her  pillow — but  no,  'twas  in  vain 
To  chase  the  illusion,  that  Voice  came  again  ! 
She  flew  to  tlie  casement — but,  hush'd  as  the  grave. 
In  moonlight  lay  slumbering  woodland  and  wave. 

"  Oh  sleep,  come  and  shield  me,"  in  anguish  she  said, 
"  From  that  call  of  the  buried,  that  cry  of  the  Dead !" 
And  sleep  came  around  her — but,  starting,  she  woke. 
For  still  from  the  garden  that  spirit  Voice  spoke ! 

"  I  come,"'  she  exclaim'd, "  be  thy  home  where  it  may, 
"  In  earth  or  in  heaven,  that  call  I  obey  :" 
Then  forth  through  the  moonlight,  with  heart  beat- 
ing fast 
And  loud  as  a  death-watch,  the  pale  maiden  pass'd. 

8tiU  round  her  the  scene  all  in  loneliness  shone; 
And  still,  in  the  distance,  that  Voice  led  her  on  ; 
But  whither  she  wander'd,  by  wave  or  by  shore. 
None  ever  could  tell,  for  she  came  back  no  more. 


No,  ne'er  came  she  back, — but  the  watchman  who 

stood, 
Tliat  night   in  the   tow'r  which   o'ershadows  the 

flood. 
Saw  dimly,  'tis  said,  o'er  the  moon-lighted  spray, 
A  youth  on  a  steed  bear  the  maiden  away. 


CUPID  AND  PSYCHE 

They  told  her  that  he,  to  wliose  vows   she  had 
listen'd 
Through  night's  fleeting  hours,  was  a  Spirit  un- 
bless'd; — 
Unholy  the  eyes,  that  beside  her  had  glisten'd, 
And  evil  the  lips  she  in  darkness  had  press'd. 

"  When  ne.xt  in  thy  chamber  the  bridegroom  re- 
clineth, 
"  Bring  near  him  thy  lamp,  when  in  slumber  he 
lies; 
"  And  there,  as  tlie  light  o'er  his  dark   features 
shineth, 
"Thou'lt  see  wh.at  a  demon   hatli  won  all  thy 
sighs!" 

Too  fond  to  believe  them,  yet  doubting,  yat  fearing, 
When  calm  lay  the  sleeper  she  stole  with  het 
light ; 

And  saw — such  a  vision  I — no  image,  appearing 
To  bards  in  their  day-dreams,  was  ever  so  bright 


3i2 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


A  youth,  but  just  passing  from  childhood's  sweet 
morning, 
\MiiIe  round  him  still  lingered  its  innocent  ray ; 
Though  gleams,  from  beneath  his  shut  eyelids  gave 
warning 
Of  summer-noon  lightnings  that  under  tliem  lay. 

His  brow  had  a  grace  more  than  mortal  around  it. 
While,  glossy  as  gold  from  a  fairy-land  mine, 

His  sunny  hair  hung,  and  the  flowers  that  crown'd  it 
Scem'd  fresh  from  the  breeze  of  some  garden 
divine. 

Entranced  stood  the  bride,  on  that  miracle  gazing, 
^^^lat  late  was  but  love  is  idolatry  now; 

But,  ah — in  her  tremor  the  fatal  lamp  raising — 
A  sparkle  flew  from  it  and  dropp'd  on  his  brow. 

All's  lost — «ith  a  start  from  his  rosy  sleep  waking, 
The  Spirit  flash'd  o'er  her  his  glances  of  fire ; 

Then,  slow  Horn  the  clasp  of  her  snowy  arms  break- 
ing, 
Thus  said,  in  a  voice  more  of  sorrow  than  ire : 

"  Farewell — what    a    dream    thy    suspicion    hath 
broken ! 

'■  Thus  ever  AlTection's  fond  vision  is  cross'd  ; 
"  Dissolved  are  her  spells  when  a  doubt  is  but  spoken, 

"  And  love,  once  distrusted,  for  ever  is  lost!" 


HERO  AND  LEANDER. 

"The  night-wind  is  moaning  with  mournful  sigh, 
"  There  gleameth  no  moon  in  the  misty  sky, 

"  No  star  over  Hello's  sea  ; 
"  Yet,  yet,  there  is  shining  one  holy  liglit, 
"  One  love-kindled  star  through  the  deep  of  night, 

"  To  lead  nic,  sweet  Hero,  to  thee  !" 

Thus  saying,  he  plunged  in  the  foamy  stream, 
Still  fi.xing  Ills  gaze  on  that  distant  beam 

No  eye  but  a  lover's  could  see ; 
\nd  still,  as  the  surge  Hwept  over  his  he.ad, 
To-night,"  he  said  tenderly,  "living  or  dead, 

"  Sweet  Hero,  I'll  rest  with  tlico !" 

But  fiercer  around  him  the  wild  waves  Rpecd  ; 
Oh,  Love!  in  that  hour  of  thy  votary's  need, 

Where,  where  could  thy  Spirit  be? 
He    Blrugglct — ho    Binks — while    the    hurricane's 

breath 
Jlcan  rudely  away  his  Inst  farewell  in  dunth — 

"Sweet  Hero,  I  die  fur  thee!" 


THE  LEAF  AND  THE  FOUNTAIN 

"  Tell  me,  kind  Seer,  1  pr.iy  thee, 
'•  So  may  the  stars  obey  thee, 

"  So  may  each  airy 

"  Moon-elf  and  fairy 
"  Nightly  their  liom.age  pay  thee  1 
"  Say,  by  what  spell,  above,  below, 
'•In  stars  that  wink  or  flow'rs  that  blow, 

'■  I  may  discover, 

'■  Ere  night  is  over, 
'•  Whether  my  love  loves  me  or  no, 
'•  Whether  my  love  loves  me." 

"Maiden,  the  dark  tree  nigh  thee 

"  Hath  charms  no  gold  could  buy  thee; 

"  Its  stem  enchanted, 

"  By  moon-elves  planted, 
"Will  all  thou  seek'st  supply  thee. 
"  Climb  to  yon  boughs  that  highest  grow 
"  Bring  thence  their  fairest  leaf  below  ; 

"  And  thou'lt  discover, 

"  Ere  night  is  over, 
"  Whether  thy  love  loves  thee  or  riO, 
"  Wliether  thy  love  loves  thee." 

"  See,  up  the  dark  tree  going, 

"  With  blossoms  round  me  blowing, 

"  From  thence,  oh  Father, 

"  This  !e;if  I  gather, 
"  Fairest  that  there  is  growing. 
"Say,  by  what  sign  I  now  shall  know 
"  If  in  this  leaf  lie  bliss  or  woe  ; 

"  And  thus  discover, 

"  Ere  night  is  over, 
"  Whether  my  love  loves  mo  or  no, 
"Whether  my  love  loves  me." 

"  Fly  to  yon  fount  that's  welling, 

"  Where  moonbeam  ne'er  had  dwelling, 

"  Dip  in  its  water 

"  Th.at  leaf,  oh  Daughter, 
"  And  mark  the  tale  'tis  telling;' 
"  W^atoli  tliou  if  pale  or  bright  it  grow, 
"List  thou,  the  while,  th.at  fountain's  flow, 

"  And  thou'lt  discover, 

"  Whether  Ihy  lover, 
"  Loved  ns  ho  is,  loves  thee  or  no 
"  Loved  ns  ho  is,  loves  thee." 

Forth  llcw  the  iiyinph,  di'lighled, 
To  seek  that  fount  hcnighled  ; 

But,  scarce  a  minute 

The  leaf  lay  in  it, 
When,  lo,  its  bloom  w.ss  blighted ! 


\i      2  S  - ■ 


LEGENDARY  BALLADS. 


343 


And  as  sho  jisk'd,  with  voice  of  woe — 
I.ist'ning,  tlie  while,  tliat  fountain's  flow — 

"  Shall  I  recover 

"My  truant  lover?" 
The  fountain  seem'd  to  answer,  "  No  ;" 
The  fountiiin  answer'd,  "  No." 


CEPHALUS  AND  PROORIS. 

A  HUNTER  once  in  that  grove  reclined, 

To  shun  the  noon's  bright  eye, 
And  oft  he  woo'd  the  wandering  wind, 

To  cool  his  brow  with  its  sigh. 
While  mute  lay  ev'n  the  wild  bee's  hum, 

Nor  breath  could  stir  tlie  aspen's  hair. 
His  song  was  still, "  Sweet  air,  oh  come  !" 

While  Echo  answer'd,  "  Come,  sweet  Air'." 

But,  hark,  what  sounds  from  the  thicket  rise ! 

What  meaneth  that  rustling  spray? 
"  'Tis  the  white-horn'd  doe,"  the  Hunter  cries, 

"  I  h.ive  sought  since  break  of  day." 
Quick  o'er  the  sunny  glade  he  springs. 

The  arrow  flies  from  his  sounding  bow, 
"  Hilliho — hilliho  !"  he  gayly  sings. 

While  Echo  sighs  forth  "  Hilliho  !" 

Alas,  'twas  not  the  white-horn'd  doe 

He  saw  in  the  rustling  grove. 
But  the  bridal  veil,  as  pure  as  snow. 

Of  his  own  young  wedded  love. 
And,  ah,  too  sure  that  arrow  aped. 

For  pale  at  his  feet  he  sees  her  lie  ; — 
"I  die,  I  die,"  was  all  she  said. 

While  Echo  murmured,  "  I  die,  I  die !" 


YOUTH  AND  AGE."- 

*  Tell  me,  what's  Love  ?"  said  Youth,  one  day, 
To  drooping  Age,  wlio  cross'd  his  way. — 
"  It  is  a  sunny  hour  of  pl.ay, 
"  For  which  repentance  de.ir  doth  pay  ; 
"  Repentance !  Repentance ! 
And  this  is  Love,  as  wise  men  say." 

-  Tell  me,  what's  Love  ?"  said  Youth  jnce  more. 

Fearful,  yet  fond,  of  Age's  lore. — 

"  Soft  as  a  passing  summer's  wind  : 

"  Would'st  know  the  blight  it  leaves  behind  ? 

"  Repentance !  Repentance ! 
"  And  this  is  Love — whtn  love  is  o'er." 


"  Tell  me,  what's  Love  ?"  said  Youth  again, 
Trusting  the  bliss,  but  not  the  i)ain. 
"  Sweet  as  a  May  tree's  scented  air — 
"  Mark  ye  what  bitter  fruit  'twill  bear, 

"  Repent.ance !  Repentance  I" 
"  This,  this  is  Love — sweet  Youth,  bewarii 

Just  then,  young  Love  himself  caine  by. 
And  cast  on  Youth  a  smiling  eye ; 
Who  could  resist  that  glance's  ray  ? 
In  vain  did  Ago  his  warning  .say, 

"  Repentance !  Repentance  !" 
Youth  laughing  went  with  Love  away. 


THE  DYING  WARRIOR. 

A  WOUNDED  Chieftain,  lying 
By  the  Danube's  leafy  side. 

Thus  faintly  said,  in  dying, 
"  Oh  !  bear,  thou  foaming  tide. 
"  Tliis  gift  to  my  Lady-bride" 

'Twas  then,  in  life's  last  quiver. 
He  flung  the  scarf  he  wore 

Into  the  foaming  river. 

Which,  ah  too  quickly,  bore 
That  pledge  of  one  no  more ! 

With  fond  impatience  burning. 
The  Chieftain's  lady  stood. 

To  watch  her  love  returning 
In  triumph  down  the  flood. 
From  that  d.ay's  field  of  blood. 

But,  field,  alas,  ill-fated  I 

The  Lady  saw,  instead 
Of  the  bark  whose  speed  she  waited, 

Her  hero's  scarf,  all  red 

With  the  drops  his  heart  had  shed. 

One  shriek — and  all  was  over — 
Her  life-pulse  ceased  to  beat ; 

The  gloomy  waves  now  cover 
That  bridal-flower  so  sweet. 
And  the  scarf  is  her  winding  sheet! 


THE  MAGIC  MIRROR. 

'  Come,  if  thy  magic  Glass  have  pow'r 
"  To  call  up  forms  we  sigh  to  see ; 

'  Show  me  my  love,  in  that  rosy  bow'r, 
"  \Vhere  last  she  pledged  her  truth  to  me.' 


54.Q 


MOOEE'S  ^^ORKS. 


Kor  long  did  her  life  for  this  sphere  seem  intended, 
For  pale  was  her  cheek,  with  that  spirit-like  hue. 

Which  comes  when  the  day  of  this  world  is  nigh 
ended, 
And  light  from  another  already  shines  through. 

Tlien  her  eyes,  when  she  sung — oh,  but  once  to 
have  seen  them — 
Left  thoughts  in  the  soul  that  can  never  depart ; 
While  her  looks  and  her  voice  made  a  language  be- 
tween them, 
That  spoke  more  than  holiest  words  to  the  heart. 


But  she  pass'd  like  a  day-dream,  no  skill  could  re. 
store  her — 

Whate'er  was  her  sorrow,  its  ruin  came  fast ; 
She  died  with  the  same  spell  of  mystery  o'er  her, 

That  song  of  past  days  on  her  lips  to  the  last. 

Nor  ev'n  in  the  grave  is  her  sad  heart  reposing — 
Still  hovers  the  spirit  of  grief  round  her  tomb  ; 
For  oft,  when  the  shadows  of  midnight  are  clo- 
sing. 
The  same  strain  of  music  is  heard  through  the 
gloom. 


NOTE  S. 


(1)  The  ancients  Imd  a  mode  nfrliviniitiun  sumcwlint  siiniliir 
U>  this  ;  and  we  find  the  EtnptTor  Adrian,  when  ho  went  to 
consult  tlin  Foiintuin  of  Costnlio,  plucking  a  bay-leaf  and 
diDoing  U  iDto  th«  strred  wat«r. 


(2)  The  air  to  which  I  hiive  iidapled  these  words  was  coio 
posed  by  Mrs.  Arkwright  to  some  old  verses,  "Tfll  mewliat'i 
love,  kind  tjepberd,  prayV"  and  it  has  been  my  object  Ic 
retain  w  muth  of  (he  phrasoolofi^y  oflho  ori(;inaI  as  posKiblu. 


A  MELOLOaUE  UPON  lATIONAL  MUSIC. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


These  verses  were  written  for  .1  Benefit  at  the 
Dublin  Theatre,  and  were  spol^en  by  Miss  Smitli, 
with  a  degree  of  success  wliich  they  owed  solely 
to  her  admirable  manner  of  reciting  them.  I 
wrote  them  in  haste ;  and  it  very  rarely  happens 
that  poetry,  wliich  has  cost  but  h'ttle  labor  to  the 
writer,  is  productive  of  any  great  pleasure  to  the 
reader.  Under  this  impression,  I  certainly  should 
not  have  published  them  if  they  had  not  found 
their  way  into  some  of  the  newspapers,  with  such 
an  addition  of  errors  to  their  own  original  stock, 
that  I  thought  it  but  fair  to  limit  their  responsi- 
bility to  those  faults  alone  which  really  belong  to 
them. 

With  respect  to  tho  title  which  I  have  invented 
for  this  Poem,  I  feel  even  more  than  the  scruples 


of  the  Emperor  Tiberius,  when  he  humbly  asked 
pardon  of  the  Roman  Senate  for  using  "  the  outland- 
ish term,  monopohj."  But  the  truth  is,  having  written 
the  Poem  with  the  sole  view  of  serving  a  Benefit,  I 
thought  that  an  unintelligible  word  of  this  kind 
would  not  be  without  its  attraction  for  the  multi- 
tude, with  whom,  "  If  'tis  not  sense,  at  least  'tis 
Greek."  To  some  of  my  readers,  however,  it  may 
not  be  superfluous  to  say,  that  by  "  Melologue,"  I 
mean  that  mixture  of  recitation  and  music,  which  is 
frequently  adopted  in  the  performance  of  Collins's 
Ode  on  the  Passions,  and  of  which  the  most  striking 
example  I  can  remember  is  the  prophetic  speech  of 
Joad  in  the  Athalie  of  Racine. 

T.  M. 


MELOLOGUE. 


A  KuoKT  SruArN  of  Music  feom  tile  Oechestea. 

There  breathes  a  language,  known  and  felt 
Far  as  tho  pure  air  spreads  its  living  zone  ; 

Wherever  rage  can  rouse,  or  pity  melt. 

That  language  of  tho  soul  is  felt  and  known. 
From  those  meridian  plains. 
Where  oft,  of  old,  on  some  high  tow'r, 

Tlie  soft  Peruvian  pour'd  his  midnight  strains. 

And  call'd  his  distant  love  with  such  sweet  pow'r. 
That,  when  she  heard  the  lonely  lay. 

Not  worlds  could  keep  her  from  his  arn'.s  away—' 


To  the  bleak  climes  of  polar  night. 
Where  blithe,  beneath  a  sunless  sky, 

The  Lapland  lover  bids  his  reindeer  fly. 

And  sings  along  the  length'ning  waste  of  snow, 
Gayly  as  if  the  blessed  light 
Of  vernal  Phoebus  burn'd  upon  his  brow  ; 
Oh  Music !  thy  celestial  claim 
Is  still  resistless,  still  the  same  ; 
And,  faithful  as  the  mighty  sea 

To  the  pale  star  that  o'er  its  realm  presides. 
The  spell-bound  tides 

Of  human  pnssitin  rise  and  fall  for  thee ! 


348 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Gbeek  Am. 

List !  'tis  a  Grecian  maid  that  sings, 
^Vhile,  from  Ilissus'  silv'ry  springs, 
She  draws  the  cool  I}Tnph  in  Iier  graceful  urn  ; 
And  by  her  side,  in  Music's  charm  dissolving, 
Some  patriot  youth,  the  glorious  past  revoU-ing, 
Dreams  of  bright  days  that  never  can  return ; 
When  Athens  nursed  her  olive  bough, 

With  hands  by  tyrant  pow'r  unchain'd  ; 
And  braided  for  the  muse's  brow 
A  wreath  by  tyrant  touch  unstain'd. 
When  heroes  trod  each  classic  field 

Where  coward  feet  now  faintly  filter ; 
When  ev'ry  arm  was  Freedom's  shield. 
And  ev'ry  heart  was  Freedom's  altar ! 

FLODKISn    OF    TaUMPETS. 

Hark,  'tis  the  sound  that  charms 

The  war-steed's  wak'ning  ears ! — 
Oh!  many  a  mother  folds  her  arms 
Round  her  bov-soldier  when  that  call  she  hears; 
And,  though  her  fond  heart  sink  with  fears. 
Is  proud  to  feel  his  young  pulse  bound 
Witli  valor's  fever  at  the  sound. 
Sec,  from  his  native  hills  afar 
The  rude  Helvetian  flies  to  war; 
Careless  for  what,  for  whom  he  fights, 
For  slave  or  despot,  wrongs  or  rights; 

A  conqueror  oft — a  hero  never — 
Vet  lavish  of  his  life-blood  still, 
Vs  if  'twere  like  his  mount.ain  rill. 

And  gush'd  for  ever ! 

Yes,  Music,  here,  even  here, 
x-.Tiid  this  thouglitlcss,  vague  career, 
Tli_f  Boul-fcit  charm  asserts  its  wondrous  pow'r — 

l/iere's  a  wild  air  which  oft,  among  the  rocks 
Of  lii«  own  loved  land,  at  evening  hour. 

Is  hoard,  when  shepherds  homeward  pipe  their 
flocks, 
Who»e  every  note  liath  power  to  thrill  liis  mind 
Wilh  tcnd'rest  thoughts;  to  bring  around    his 
knees 
Thp  rosy  children  whom  he  left  behind, 


And  fill  each  little  angel  eye 
With  speaking  tears,  that  ask  him  why 
He  wander'd  from  his  hut  for  scenes  like  these. 
Vain,  vain  is  then  the  trumpet's  brazen  roar ; 

Sweet  notes  of  home,  of  love,  are  all  he  hears ; 
And  the  stern  eyes,  that  look'd  for  blood  before, 
Now  melting,  mournful,  lose  themselves  in  teara 

Swiss  Am. — "  Ranz  des  Taches." 
But,  wake  the  trumpet's  blast  again. 
And  rouse  the  ranks  of  warrior-men ! 
Oh  War,  when  Truth  tliy  arm  employs, 
And  Freedom's  spirit  guides  the  laboring  storm, 
'Tis  then  thy  vengeance  takes  a  hallow'd  form. 
And,  like  Heaven's  lightning,  s.acredly  destroys 
Nor,  Music,  througli  thy  breathing  sphere. 
Lives  there  a  sound  more  grateful  to  the  ear 
Of  Hhn  who  made  all  harmony. 
Than  the  bless'd  sound  of  fetters  bre.iking, 
And  the  first  hymn  that  man,  awaking 
From  Slavery's  slumber,  breathes  to  Liberty. 

Spanish  CnoEUS. 

Hark  !  from  Spain,  indignant  Sp.ain, 

Bursts  the  bold,  enthusiast  strain. 

Like  morning's  music  on  tlie  air ; 

And  seems,  in  every  note,  to  swe.ir 
By  Saragossa's  ruin'd  streets. 

By  brave  Gerona's  dcathful  story, 
Th.at,  while  one.  Sp.ininrd's  life-blood  beats, 

That  blood  sliall  stain  the  conqu'ror's  glory 

Spanish  Aik. — "  Ya  Despkrto." 
But  ah  !  if  vain  tlic  patriot's  zeal. 
If  neither  valor's  force  nor  wisdom's  light 
Can  break  or  melt  that  blood-eomcnted  seal. 
Which  shuts  so  close  the  beok  of  Europe's  rights 
What  song  shall  tlicn  in  sadness  tell 

Of  broken  pride,  of  prospects  shaded. 
Of  buried  !ioi)cs,  remenibcr'd  well, 

Of  ardor  qucnch'd,  and  honor  faded  ? 
Wliat  muse  shall  mourn  the  doalhless  brave, 

In  sweetest  dirge  at  Jlcmory's  shrhie  ? 
Wliat  harp  sliall  sigh  o'er  Freedom's  grave? 
Oh,  Erin,  Thine! 


NOTE. 


(I>  ^  A  ccrtnin  PpunlanI,  nno  nlftht  Intn,  mol  iki  Indliin 
woinnn  In  Ui«  Rtrnolnuf  Cozco,  nnil  would  Imvo  takrii  lipr  lo 
hli  homr,  but  nhn  crl<.>4j  txil,  *■  Fur  (torl'n  snkn,  Sir,  lot  mo  Ko' 
for  Itiiit  pipe,  which  you  honr  In  yondor  lower,  cnlln  mo  wltl 


ffront  ptuwlon,  niiJ  I  cniiiiot  n-funp  Ihc  miminoiKi;  for  l»v» 
cormtriiliis  mo  to  RO,  Hint  I  may  hu  his  wlfis  nml  ho  mj 
hunbnnjl/*'— nrrirri7o»i0  d*  la  I'fgOy  In  ^Ir  PbuI  Hycnura 
tmrifihitiui). 


SET    OE    GLEES 


MUSIC   BY   MOORE. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  SHIPS. 

When  o'er  the  silent  seas  alone, 
For  days  and  nights  we've  cheerless  gone, 
Oh  tliey  who've  felt  it  know  how  sweet, 
Some  sunny  morn  a  sail  to  meet. 

Sparkling  at  once  is  ev'ry  eye, 
"  Ship  alloy !  ship  ahoy !"  our  joyful  cry ; 
While  answering  hack  the  sounds  wo  hear 
"Ship  ahoy!  sliipahoy!  what  cheer?  what  cheer?" 

Then  sails  are  hack'd,  we  nearer  come. 
Kind  words  are  said  of  friends  and  home ; 
And  soon,  too  soon,  we  part  with  pain, 
To  sail  o'er  silent  seas  again. 


HIP,  HIP,  HURRA ! 

Come,  fill  round  a  bumper,  fill  up  to  the  brim. 

He  who  shrinks  from  a  bumper  I  pledge  not  to  him ; 

"  Here's  the  girl  th.at  each  loves,  be  her  eye  of  what 

hue, 
"  Or  lustre,  it  may,  so  her  heart  is  but  true." 

Charge!  (drinks)  hip,  hip,  hurra,  hurra! 

Come,  ch.arge  high  again,  boys,  nor  let  the  full  wine 
Leave  a  space  in  the  brimmer,  where  d.ayliglit  may 

shine ; 
"Here's  the  ft 'ends  of  our  youth — tliougli  of  some 

we're  uereft, 
"  May  tne  links  that  are  lost  but  endear  what  are 

left!" 

Charge !  (drinks)  hip,  hip,  hurra,  hurra ! 

Once  more  fill  a  bumper — ne'er  talk  of  the  hour; 
On  hearts  thus  united  old  Time  has  no  pow'r. 
"  May  our  lives,  tho',  alas !  like  the  wine  of  to-night, 
"  They  must  soon  have  an  end,  to  the  last  flow  as 
bright." 

Charge!  (drinks)  hip,  hip,  huria,  hurra! 


Quick,  quick,  now,  I'll  give  you,  since  Time's  glass 

will  run 
Ev'n  faster  than  ours  doth,  three  bumpers  in  one; 
"  Here's  the  poet  who  sings — here's  the  warrior  who 

fights— 
"  Here's  the  statesman  who  speaks,  in  the  cause  of 

men's  rights !" 

Charge !  (drinks)  Iiip,  hip,  hurra,  hurra ! 

Come,  once  more,  a  bumper ! — then  drink  as  you 

please, 
Tho',  who  could  fill  half-way  to  toast  such  a,«  these  t 
"  Here's  our  ne.xt  joyous  meeting — and  oh  when  we 

meet, 
"May  our  wine  be  as  bright  and  our  union  aa 

sweet !" 

Charge  !  (drinks)  hip,  hip,  hurra,  hurra ! 


HUSH,  HUSH! 

'  Hush,  hush !" — how  well 

That  sweet  word  sounds, 
Wiien  Love,  the  little  sentinel. 

Walks  his  night-rounds ; 
Then,  if  a  foot  but  dare 

One  rose-leaf  crush. 
Myriads  of  voices  in  the  air 

Wliisper,  "  Hush,  hush !" 

'Hark,  hark, 'tis  he!" 

The  night-elves  cry 
And  hush  their  fairy  harmony, 

Wliile  lie  steals  by  ; 
But  if  Iiis  silv'ry  feet 

One  dew-drop  brush. 
Voices  are  heard  in  chorus  sweet, 

Whisp'ring,  "  Hush,  hush !" 


350 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


THE  PARTING  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 

HE. 

Ok  to  the  field,  our  doom  is  seal'd, 

To  conquer  or  be  slaves : 
Tills  sun  shall  see  our  nation  fiee, 

Or  set  upon  our  gravs. 


Farewell,  oh  farewell,  my  love, 
May  Heav'n  thy  guardian  be. 

And  send  bright  angels  from  above 
To  bring  thee  back  to  mc. 


Ou  to  the  field,  the  battle-field, 
Where  Freedom's  standard  waves. 

This  sun  shall  see  our  tyrant  yield, 
Or  shine  upon  our  graves. 


THE  WATCHMAN. 


WATOnXAN. 

Past  twelve  o'clock — past  twelve. 

Good  night,  good  night,  my  dearest — 
How  fast  the  moments  fly ! 

'Tis  time  to  part,  thou  hcarest 
That  hateful  watchman's  cry. 

•WATCHMAN. 

Past' one  o'clock — past  one. 

Yet  stay  a  moment  longer — 

Alas !  why  is  it  so, 
Tho  wish  to  stay  grows  stronger, 

The  more  'tis  time  to  go? 

WATCHMAN. 

Past  two  o'clock — past  two. 

Now  wraj)  thy  cloak  about  thee — 
The  hours  must  sure  go  wrong. 

For  when  they're  pass'd  without  thee. 
They're,  oh,  ten  limes  ns  long. 

WATCHMAN. 

Past  three  o'clock — past  tlirce. 

Again  that  dreadful  warning! 

Had  ever  lime  hucIi  flight? 
And  HOC  tlu?  hky,  'lis  morning — 

So  now,  indeed,  good  night. 


WATCHMAN. 

Past  tlirec  o'clock — past  tliree. 
Good  night,  good  night 


SAY,  WHAT  SHALL  WE  DANCE  f 

Say,  w  hat  shall  we  dance  ? 
Shall  we  bound  along  tho  moonlight  pl.iin. 
To  music  of  Italy,  Greece,  or  Spain  ? 

Say,  wliat  shall  we  dance? 
Shall  we,  like  those  \\'ho  rove 
Through  bright  Grenada's  grove. 
To  the  light  Bolero's  measures  move  ? 
Or  choose  the  Guaracia's  languishing  lay, 
And  thus  to  its  sound  die  awaj'? 

Strike  tho  gay  cliords. 
Let  us  hear  each  strain  from  ev'ry  shore 
That  music  haunts,  or  young  feet  wander  o'er. 
Hark !   'tis  (he  light  march,  to   whose   measured 

time, 
The  Polish  lady,  by  her  lover  led. 
Delights  through  gay  saloons  with  step  unlired  to 

tread. 
Or  sweeter  still,  tlirougli  nioonliglit  walks, 

Whose  shadows  serve  to  hide 
The  blush  that's  raised  by  him  who  talks 

Of  love  the  while  by  her  side ; 
Then  comes  the  smooth  waltz,  to  whose  floating 

sound 
Like  dreams  we  go  gliding  around. 
Say,  whidi  shall  we  dance  ?  which  sliall  we  dancB 


THE  EVENING  GUN. 

Rememb'rest  thou  that  setting  sun. 

The  last  I  saw  with  thee. 
When  loud  we  heard  the  cv'ning  gun 

Peal  o'er  the  twilight  sea? 
Boom  ! — the  sounds  appear'd  to  sweep 

Far  o'er  the  verge  of  day, 
Till,  into  realms  beyond  tlic  (loop, 

They  scem'd  to  die  away. 

Oft,  when  the  toils  of  d.iy  arc  done, 

In  pensive  dreams  of  thee, 
I  sit  to  hear  lh.it  cv'ning  gun,     • 

Peal  o'er  tho  stormy  sea. 
Doom! — and  while,  o'er  billows  cnrl'd, 

The  di»tant  sounils  decay, 
1  weep  ami  wish,  from  this  rough  world. 

Like  them,  to  dio  away. 


SONGS  FROM  M.  P.; 


OR.     THE     BLUE-STOCKING 


SONG. 


Young  Love  lived  once  in  an  Inimble  slied, 

Where  roses  breathing, 

And  woodbines  wreathing 
Around  the  lattice  their  tendrils  spread, 
As  wild  and  sweet  as  the  life  he  led. 

His  garden  flourish'd, 

For  young  Hope  nourish'd 
The  infant  buds  with  beams  and  showers ; 
But  lips,  though  blooming,  must  still  be  fed. 
And  not  even  Love  can  live  on  flowers. 

Alas !  th.at  Poverty's  evil  eye 

Should  e'er  come  hither. 

Such  sweets  to  wither ! 
The  flowers  laid  down  their  heads  to  die. 
And  Hope  fell  sick  as  the  witch  drew  nigh. 

She  came  one  morning. 

Ere  Love  had  v.'arning, 
And  raised  the  latch,  where  the  young  god  lay 
*  Oh  ho !"  said  Love — "  is  it  you  ?  good-by  ;" 
So  he  oped  the  window,  and  flew  aw.ay ! 


To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  pain, 

To  weep,  yet  scarce  know  why ; 
To  sport  an  hour  with  Beauty's  chain, 

Then  throw  it  idly  by. 
To  kneel  at  many  a  shrine, 

Yet  lay  the  heart  on  none ; 
To  think  all  other  charms  divine. 

But  those  we  just  have  won. 
This  is  love,  faithless  love, 

Such  as  kindleth  hearts  that  rove. 

To  keep  one  sacred  flame, 

Tlirough  life  unchill'd,  unmoved. 

To  love,  in  wintry  age,  the  same 
As  first  in  youth  we  loved ; 


To  feel  that  we  adore, 
Ev'n  to  such  fond  excess, 

That,  though  the  lieart  would  break-, 
It  could  not  live  with  less. 

This  is  love,  ftiithful  love. 

Such  as  saints  might  feel  above. 


with  men 


Spirit  of  Joy,  thy  alt.ir  lies 

In  youthful  hearts  th.it  hope  like  mine ; 
And  'tis  the  light  of  laughing  eyes, 

That  leads  us  to  thy  fairy  shrine. 
There  if  we  And  the  sigh,  the  tear, 

They  are  not  those  to  Sorrow  known ; 
But  breath  so  soft,  and  drops  so  clear, 

Th.at  Bliss  may  cLaim  them  for  her  own. 
Then  give  me,  give  me,  while  I  weep. 

The  sanguine  hope  that  brightens  woe. 
And  teaches  ev'n  our  tears  to  keep 

The  tinge  of  pleasure  as  they  flow. 

The  child,  who  sees  the  dew  of  night 

Upon  the  spangled  hedge  at  morn, 
Attempts  to  catch  the  drops  of  light. 

But  wounds  his  finger  with  the  thorn. 
Thus  oft  the  brightest  joys  we  seek, 

Are  lost,  when  touch'd,  and  turn'd  to  pain 
The  flush  they  kindled  leaves  tlie  cheek. 

The  tears  they  waken  long  remain. 

But  give  me,  give  me,  &c.  &.c 


When  Leila  touch'd  the  lute. 

Not  the7i  alone  'twas  felt. 
But,  when  the  sounds  were  mute, 

■  In  memory  still  they  dwelt. 
Sweet  lute  !  in  nightly  slumbers 
Still  we  heard  thy  morning  numhers. 


852 


MOOEE'S  WORKS 


Ah,  how  could  she,  who  stole 
Such  breath  from  simple  wire, 

CUPID'S  LOTTERY. 

Be  led,  in  pride  of  soul, 

A  LoTTEKT,  a  Lottery, 

To  string  with  gold  her  Ij're  ? 

In  Cupid's  Court  there  used  to  be; 

Sweet  lute  !  thy  chords  she  breaketh ; 

Two  roguish  eyes 

Golden  now  the  strings  she  waketh ! 

The  highest  prize 

In  Cupid's  scheming  Lottery ; 

But  where  are  all  the  tales 

And  kisses,  too. 

Her  lute  so  sweetly  told  ? 

As  good  as  new, 

In  lofty  themes  she  fails. 

Which  weren't  very  hard  to  win. 

And  soft  ones  suit  not  gold. 

For  he,  who  won 

Rich  lute  I  we  see  thee  glisten, 

The  eyes  of  fun. 

But,  alas !  no  more  we  listen ! 

Was  sure  to  have  the  kisses  in. 

* 

A  Lottery,  a  Lottery,  &c. 

This  Lottery,  this  Lottery, 

BOAT  GLEE. 

In  Cupid's  Court  went  merrily, 

The  song  that  lightens  our  languid  way 
When  brows  are  glowing. 
And  faint  with  rowing, 
Is  like  the  spell  of  Hope's  airy  Lay, 
To  whose  sound  through  life  we  str.ay. 
The  beams  that  flash  on  the  oar  awhile, 

As  we  row  along  through  w.aves  so  clear 
Illume  its  spray,  like  the  fleeting  smile 
That  shines  o'er  Sorrow's  tear. 

And  Cupid  play'd 

A  Jewish  trade 
In  this  his  sclieming  Lottery ; 

For  hearts,  we're  told, 

In  shares  he  sold 
To  many  a  fond  believing  drone, 

And  cut  the  hearts 

So  well  in  parts, 
That  e.nch  believed  tlie  whole  his  owa 
Chor. — A  Lottery,  a  Lottery, 

Nothing  is  lost  on  him  who  sees 

In  Cupid's  Court  there  used  to  be; 

With  an  eye  that  Feeling  gave ; — 

Two  roguish  eyes 

For  him  there's  a  story  in  every  breeze. 

The  highest  prize 

And  a  picture  in  every  wave. 

In  Cupid's  scheming  Lolti'iy. 

Then  sing  to  ligliten  the  languid  way ; — 
Wiien  brows  .iro  glowing. 

And  fahit  with  rowing: 

'Tis  like  the  spell  of  Hope's  airy  lay. 

SONG. 

To  whose  sound  tlirough  life  we  stray. 

SUNG    I.N   THE    cn.VRACTIiR    OK   A    rUEXOT 

Oh  think,  when  a  hero  is  sighing, 

What  danger  in  such  an  adorer  ! 
What  woman  could  dream  of  denying 

The  hand  that  l.iys  laurels  before  her? 
No  heart  is  so  guarded  around. 

But  the  smile  of  a  victor  would  take  it ; 
No  bosom  can  slumber  so  sound. 

But  the  trumpet  of  Glory  will  wake  it. 

Lovo  Homctimes  is  given  to  sleeping, 

And  woo  to  Jlie  he.irt  that  allows  him  ; 
For  soon  neither  smiling  nor  weeping 

Will  e'er  from  Hiich  sluinber  arouse  him. 
But  though  he  were  sleeping  so  fast. 

That  tlio  life  almost  seem'd  to  forsake  liiin, 
5vcn  then,  one  Houl-thrilllng  bla.st, 

From  the  Inimpct  of  Glory  would  wake  him. 


Though  sacred  the  tie  that  our  country 0    .'i   ,Cn., 

And  dear  to  the  heart  her  rcmoinbranci.  ici  lin*. 
Yet  dark  are  the  ties  where  no  liberty  shi.icth, 

And  sad  the  remembrance  that  slavery  stains. 
Oh  Liberty,  born  in  the  cot  of  the  peasant. 

But  dying  of  languor  in  luxury's  dome, 
Our  vision,  when  absent — our  glory,  when  present — 

Wliore  tlinu  .'irt,  O  T.ilierty !  there  is  my  home. 

Farewell  to  the  land  where  In  childhood  I  wander'd  ! 

In  vain  is  she  mighty,  in  vain  is  she  brave ; 
Unbless'd  is  tho  blood  that  for  tyrants  is  squander'd, 

And  Fame  h.'is  no  wreaths  for  the  brow  of  the  slave. 
But  hail  to  thee,  Alliion  !  who  meel'sl  Ihe  commotion 

Of  I'iUrope,  ns  calm  as  Ihy  clilVs  meet  Ihe  foam ; 
Willi  no  bonds  but  the  law,  and  no  slave  but  tlif 
ocean, 

Mail,  'I'cmple  of  Liberlyl  Ihon  .>rt  my  homo. 


LALLA    ROOIUl. 


SAMUEL    ROGERS,    ESQ. 


THIS    EASTERN   HOMANCE   IS    INSCRIBED, 
BT     Ills     VEUT     GRATEFUL     AND     AFFECTIONATE     FRIEND, 

May  19,  It  17.  THOMAS  MOORE. 


LALLA    ROOKH. 


In  the  eleventli  3'ear  of  the  reign  of  Aurungzebe, 
Abdiilla,  King  of  the  Lesser  Bucharia,  a.  lineal  de- 
scendant from  tlie  Great  Zingis,  having  abdicated 
the  throne  in  favor  of  liis  son,  set  out  on  a  pilgrim- 
age to  the  Shrine  of  the  Prophet ;  and,  passing  into 
India  through  the  delightful  valley  of  Cashmere, 
rested  for  a  short  time  at  Delhi  on  hia  way.  He 
was  entertained  by  Aurungzebe  in  a  style  of  mag- 
nificent hospitality,  worthy  iilike  of  the  visiter  and 
the  Iiost,  and  was  aftervv.irds  escorted  witli  the  same 
splendor  to  Surat,  where  he  embarked  for  Arabia.' 
During  the  stay  of  the  Royal  Pilgrim  at  Dellii,  a 
marriage  was  agreed  upon  between  the  Prince,  his 
son,  and  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  Emperor, 
Lalla  Rookii  ;■ — a  Princess  described  by  the  poets 
of  her  time  as  more  beautiful  than  Leila,^  Shirine,' 
Dewilde,'  or  any  of  those  heroines  whose  names 
and  loves  embellish  the  songs  of  Persia  and  Ilin- 
dostan.  It  was  intended  that  the  nuptials  should 
bo  celebrated  at  Cashmere ;  where  the  young  King, 
as  soon  as  the  cares  of  empire  would  permit,  was 
to  meet,  for  the  first  time,  his  lovely  bride,  and, 
after  a  few  months'  repose  in  that  enchanting 
v.alley,  conduct  her  over  the  snowy  hills  into 
Bucharia. 

The   day   of  Lalla   Rookii's   departure   from 

Delhi  was  as  splendid  as  sunshine  and  pageantry 

could  make  it.     The  bazaars  and  b.aths  were  all 

covered  with   tlie   richest  tapestry;    liundrctls  of 

VOL.  II. —  1 


gilded  barges  upon  the  Jumna  floated  witli  their 
banners  sliining  in  the  water ;  while  through  the 
streets  groups  of  beautiful  children  went  strewing 
the  most  delicious  flowers  around,  as  in  that 
Persian  festival  called  the  Scattering  of  the  Roses;' 
till  every  part  of  the  city  was  as  fragrant  as  if  a 
c.ir.avan  of  musk  from  Khoten  had  passed  through 
it.  The  Princess,  having  taken  leave  of  her  kind 
father,  who  at  parting  hung  a  cornelian  of  Yemen 
round  her  neck,  on  which  was  inscribed  a  verse 
from  the  Koran,  and  having  sent  a  considerable 
present  to  the  Fakirs,  who  kept  up  the  Perpetual 
Lamp  in  her  sister's  tomb,  meekly  ascended  the 
palankeen  prepared  for  lier ;  and,  while  Aurungzebe 
stood  to  take  a  last  look  from  his  balcony,  the  pro- 
cession moved  slowly  on  the  ro.id  to  Lahore. 

Seldom  had  the  Eastern  world  seen  a  cavalcade 
so  superb.  From  the  gardens  in  the  suburbs  to 
the  Imperial  palace,  it  was  one  unbroken  line  of 
splendor.  The  gallant  appearance  of  the  R.ijahs 
and  Mogul  lords,  distinguished  by  those  insignia 
of  the  Emperor's  favor,'  the  feathers  of  the  egret 
of  Cashmere  in  their  turbans,  and  the  sm.all  silver- 
rimmed  kettle-drums  at  the  bows  of  their  saddles ; 
— the  costly  armor  of  their  cavaliers,  who  vied,  on 
this  occasion,  with  the  guards  of  the  great  Keder 
Khan,*  in  the  brightness  of  their  silver  battle-axes 
and  the  massinoss  of  their  m.aces  of  gold; — the 
glittering  of  the   gilt  pineapples'  on  the  tops  of 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


the  palankeens; — the  embroidered  trappings  of 
the  elepliants,  bearing  on  their  backs  small  turrets, 
in  the  shape  of  little  antique  temples,  w-ithin  which 
the  Ladies  of  Lalla  Rookh  lay  as  it  were  en- 
shrined ; — the  rose-colored  veils  of  the  Princess's 
own  sumptuous  litter,"  at  the  front  of  wliich  a  fiiir 
young  female  slave  sat  fanning  her  through  the 
curtains,  with  feathers  of  the  Argus  pheasant's 
-wing ;" — and  the  lovely  troop  of  Tartarian  and 
Cashmerian  maids  of  honor,  whom  the  young  King 
had  sent  to  accompany  his  bride,  and  who  rode  on 
each  side  of  the  litter,  upon  small  Arabian  horses ; 
— all  was  brilliant,  tasteful,  and  magnificent,  and 
pleased  even  the  critical  and  fastidious  Fadladeen, 
Great  Nazir  or  Chamberlain  of  the  Haram,  who 
was  borne  in  his  palankeen  immediately  after  the 
Princess,  and  considered  himself  not  the  least  im- 
portant personage  of  the  pageant. 

Fadladeen  was  a  judge  of  every  tiling, — from 
the  pencillings  of  a  Circassian's  eyelids  to  the 
deepest  questions  of  science  and  literature ;  from 
the  mixture  of  a  conserve  of  rose-leaves  to  the 
composition  of  an  epic  poem :  and  such  influence 
had  his  opinion  upon  the  various  tastes  of  the  day, 
that  all  the  cooks  and  poets  of  Delhi  stood  in  awe 
of  him.  His  political  conduct  and  opinions  were 
founded  upon  th.at  line  of  S.idi, — "  Should  the 
Prince  at  noonday  s<iy.  It  is  night,  declare  tliat  you 
bcliold  the  moon  and  stars." — And  his  zeal  for  re- 
ligion, of  which  Aurungzebe  was  a  munificent 
protector,"  was  about  as  disinterested  .as  that  of 
the  goldsmith  who  fell  in  love  with  the  diamond 
eyes  of  the  idol  of  Jaghcrnaut." 

During  the  first  d.iys  of  their  journey,  Lalla 
RooKii,  who  h.ad  passed  all  her  life  within  the 
shadow  of  the  Royal  Gardens  of  Delhi,'*  found 
enough  in  the  beauty  of  the  scenery  through  wliich 
they  p.nssed  to  interest  her  mind,  and  delight  her 
imagination  ;  and  when  .at  evening,  or  in  the  heat 
of  the  day,  they  turned  ofl"  from  the  high  ro.ad  to 
those  retired  and  romantic  jilaces  which  had  been 
selected  for  her  encampments, — sometimes  on  the 
banks  of  a  small  rivulet,  as  clear  as  the  waters  of 
the  Lake  of  Pearl ;"  sometimes  under  the  siicred 
shade  of  a  Banyan  tree,  from  wliich  the  view  opened 
upon  a  glade  covered  with  antelopes;  and  often  in 
those  hidden,  embowered  cpols,  described  by  one 
from  the  Isles  of  the  West,"  as  "  places  of  melan- 
chiily,  delight,  and  safely,  where  all  the  company 
around  w.is  wild  peacocks  and  lurlle-dovcs;" — she 
fell  11  charm  in  these  scenes,  so  lovely  and  so  new 
to  her,  which,  for  n  time,  made  her  IndifTurcnt  to 
rvcn"  other  niauscment.     Hut  Lalla  K(k>kii  was 


young,  and  the  young  love  variety ;  nor  could  the 
conversation  of  her  Ladies  and  the  Great  Cham- 
berlain, Fadladeen,  (the  only  persons,  of  course, 
admitted  to  her  pavilion.)  sufficiently  enliven  those 
many  vacant  hours,  which  were  devoted  neither  to 
tlie  pillow  nor  the  palankeen.  There  was  a  little 
Persian  slave  who  sung  sweetly  to  the  Vina,  and 
wlio,  now  and  then,  lulled  the  Princess  to  sleep 
with  the  ancient  ditlies  of  her  country,  about  the 
loves  of  Wamak  and  Ezra,"  the  fair-hnired  Zal  and 
his  mistress  Rodaliver  ;"  not  forgetting  the  combat 
of  Rustam  with  the  terrible  Wliite  Demon."  At 
other  times  she  was  amused  by  those  graceful 
dancing-girls  of  Delhi,  who  had  been  permitted  by 
the  Bramins  of  the  Great  Pagoda  to  attend  her, 
much  to  the  horror  of  the  good  Mussulman  Fadla- 
deen, who  could  sec  nothing  graceful  or  .agreeable 
in  idolaters,  and  to  whom  the  very  tinkling  of  their 
golden  anklets'"  was  an  abomination. 

But  these  and  many  other  diversions  were  re- 
peated till  they  lost  all  their  charm,  and  the  nights 
and  noondays  wore  beginning  to  move  heavily, 
when,  at  length,  it  was  recollected  that,  among  the 
.attendants  sent  by  the  bridegroom,  w.as  a  young 
poet  of  Ca.shmere,  much  celebrated  througliout  the 
Valley  for  his  manner  of  reciting  the  Stories  of  the 
E.ist,  on  whom  his  Royal  Master  had  conferred  the 
privilege  of  being  admitted  to  the  pavilion  of  the 
Princess,  that  he  might  help  to  begnile  the  tedious- 
ncss  of  the  journey  by  some  of  his  most  agreeable 
recitals.  At  the  mention  of  a  poet,  Fadladeen 
elevated  his  critical  eyebrows,  and,  h.aving  refreshed 
his  faculties  with  a  dose  of  that  delicious  opium" 
which  is  distilled  from  tlie  black  poppy  of  the 
Thebais,  gave  orders  for  the  minstrel  to  lie  forth- 
with introduced  into  the  presence. 

The  Princess,  who  had  once  in  lier  life  seen  a 
poet  from  beliind  the  screens  of  gauze  in  her 
Father's  hall,  and  had  conceived  from  that  specimen 
no  very  favorable  ideas  of  the  Caste,  expected  but 
little  in  (his  new  exhibition  to  interest  her; — she 
felt  inclined,  however,  to  alter  her  opinion  on  the 
very  first  ajipcarance  of  Feramokz.  lie  was  a 
youth  about  Lalla  Rookh's  own  age,  and  graceful 
as  that  idol  of  women,  Crishna," — such  as  ho  ap- 
pears to  their  young  imaginations,  heroic,  beautiful, 
breathing  nnisic  from  his  very  eyes,  and  exalting 
the  religion  of  his  worshippers  into  love.  Ills 
dress  was  simple,  yet  not  without  some  marks  of 
costliness;  and  the  I^julies  of  the  Princess  wero 
not  long  in  discovering  that  the  cloth,  which  en- 
circled  his  high  Tartarian  cap,  was  of  the  most 
delicate  kind  that  the  rhawl  goats  of  Tibet  supply." 


LALLA  KUOKU. 


Here  .iiid  there,  too,  over  liis  vest,  wliieli  was  con- 
fined by  :i  flowered  girdle  of  Kiislian,  hung  wirings 
of  fine  pearl,  disposed  with  an  air  of  stndied  negli- 
gence;— nor  did  the  exquisite  embroidery  of  his 
sandals  escape  the  observation  of  these  fair  critics; 
who,  however  they  might  give  way  to  Fadlapeen 
upon  the  unimportant  topics  of  religion  and  gov- 
ernment, had  the  spirit  of  martyrs  in  every  thing 
relating  to  such  momentous  matters  as  jewels  and 
embroiderv. 

For  the  purpose  of  relieving  the  pauses  of 
recitation  by  music,  the  young  Cashmerian  held  in 
his  hand  a  kitar ; — such  as,  in  old  times,  the  Arab 
maids  of  the  West  used  to  listen  to  by  moonlight 
in  the  gardens  of  the  Alhambra — and,  having  pre- 
mised, with  much  humility,  that  the  story  ho  was 
about  to  relate  was  founded  on  the  adventures  of 
that  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan,'*  who,  in  the 
year  of  the  Ilegira  163,  created  such  alarm  through- 
out the  Eastern  Empire,  made  an  obeisance  to  the 
Princess,  and  thus  began : — 


THE  VEILED   PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAI^." 

In  that  delightful  Province  of  the  Sun, 
The  first  of  Persian  lands  he  shines  upon, 
Where  all  the  loveliest  children  of  his  beam, 
Flow'refs  and  fruits,  blush  over  ev'ry  stream,"" 
And,  fairest  of  all  streams,  the  Murga  roves 
Among  Merou's"  bright  palaces  and  gi-oves; — 
There  on  that  throne,  to  which  the  blind  belief 
Of  millions  rais'd  him,  sat  the  Prophet-Chief, 
The  Great  Mokanna.     0"er  his  features  hung 
The  Veil,  the  Silver  Veil,  which  he  had  flung 
In  mercy  there,  to  hide  from  mortal  sight- 
His  dazzling  brow,  till  man  could  bear  its  light. 
For,  far  less  luminous,  his  votaries  said, 
Were  ev'n  the  gleams,  miraculously  shed 
O'er  Moussa's'"  cheek,"'  when  down  the  Mount  he 

trod. 
All  glowing  from  the  presence  of  his  God ! 

On  either  sid-e,  with  ready  hearts  and  hands. 
His  chosen  guard  of  bold  Believers  stands ; 
Young  firo-ey'd  disputants,  who  deem  their  swords, 
On  points  of  faith,  more  eloquent  than  words ; 
1  And  such  their  zeal,  there's  not  a  youth  with  brand 
1  Uplifted  there,  but,  at  the  Chief's  command. 
Would  make  his  own  devoted  heart  its  sheath. 
And  bless  the  lips  that  doom'd  so  dear  a  death ! 


In  hatred  to  the  Ca.iph's  hue  cf  night,'" 
Their  vesture,  helms  and  all,  is  snowy  white; 
Their  weapons  various — some  equipp'd,  for  sjiccd. 
With  javelins  of  tlie  light  Kathaian  reed  ;" 
Or  bows  of  buflalo  horn  and  shining  quivers 
FiU'd   with    the   stems"   that   bloom    on    Iran's 

rivers ;°' 
While  some,  for  war's  more  terrible  attacks, 
Wield  the  huge  mace  and  pond'rous  battle-axe ; 
And  as  they  wave  aloft  in  morning's  beam 
The  milk-white  plumage  of  their  helms,  they  seem 
Like  a  clienar-tree  grove"  when  winter  throws 
O'er  all  its  tufted  heads  his  feath'ring  snows. 

Between  the  porphyry  pillars,  that  u])liol(l 
The  rich  moresque-work  of  the  roof  of  gold, 
Aloft  the  Ilaram's  curtain'd  galleries  rise 
Where  through  the  silken  network,  glancing  eyes 
From  time  to  time,  like  sudden  gleams  that  glow 
Through  autumn  clouds,  shine  o'er  the  pomp  be- 
low.— 
What  impious  tongue,  ye  blushing  saints,  would 

dare 
To  hint  that  aught  but  He.av'n  hath  jilaced  you 

there  1 
Or  that  the  loves  of  this  light  world  could  bind 
In  their  gross  chain,  your  Prophet's  soaring  mind  ? 
No — wrongful  thouglit ! — eommission'd  from  above 
To  people  Eden's  bowers  with  shapes  of  love, 

t Creatures  so  bright,  that  the  same  lips  and  eye^ 
^hey  wear  on  earth  will  sen-c  in  Par.adise,)         1 
There  to  recline  among  Heav'n's-native  maids. 
And  crown  th'  Elect  with  bliss  that  never  fades — 
Well  hath  the  Prophet-Chief  his  bidding  done ; 
And  ev'ry  beauteous  race  beneath  the  sun. 
From    tliose    who    kneel    at    Brahma's    burning 

founts," 
To    tlie    fresli    nymphs    bounding    o'er    Yemen's 

mounts; 
From  Persia's  eyes  of  full  and  fawn-like  ray. 
To  the  small,  half-shut  glances  of  Kathat;^" 
And  Georgia's  bloom,  and  Azab's  darker  smiles. 
And  the  gold  ringlets  of  the  Western  Isles; 
All,   all    are   there ; — each   Land   its   flower   hath 

given. 
To  form  that  fair  young  Nursery  forHeav'n! 

But  why  this  pageant  now  ?  this  arm'd  array  ? 
What  triumph  crowds  the  rich  Divan  to-day 
With  turban'd  he.ads,  of  ev'ry  hue  and  race, 
Bowing  before  that  veil'd  and  awful  *i;icc, 
Like  tulip-beds,"  of  difT'rent  shape  and  dyes. 
Bending  beneath  th'  invisible  West-wind's  sighs ! 
What  new-made  mystery  now,  for  Faith  to  sign, 
And  blood  to  seal,  as  genuine  and  divine. 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


What  dazzling  mimickry  of  God's  own  power 
Hath    the    bold   Prophet    plann'd    to    grace   this 
hour? 

Not  such   the   pageant   now,   though   not   less 
proud; 
Yon  warrior  youth.,  advancing  from  the  crowd. 
With  silver  bow,  with  belt  of  broider'd  crape. 
And  fur-bound  bonnet  of  Bucharian  shape,'* 
So  fiercely  beautiful  in  form  and  eye. 
Like  war's  wild  planet  in  a  summer  sky; 
That  youth  to-day, — a  proselyte,  worth  hordes 
Of  cooler  spirits  and  less  practised  swords, — 
Is  come  to  join,  all  bravery  and  belief. 
The  creed  and  standard  of  the  heav'n-sont  Chief 

Though  few  his  years,  tlie  West  already  knows 
Young  AziJi's  fame; — beyond  th'  Olympian  snows 
Ere  manhood  darken'd  o'er  his  downy  cheek, 
O'erwhclm'd  in  figlit,  and  captive  to  the  Greek," 
He  linger'd  there,  till  peace  dissolved  his  chains; — 
Oh,  wbocould,  even  in  bondage,  tread  the  plains 
Of  glorious  Greece,  nor  feel  his  spirit  rise 
Kindling  within  him  ?  who,  with  heart  and  eves, 
Could  walk  where  liberty  had  been,  nor  see 
The  shining  foot-prints  of  her  Deity, 
Nor  feci  those  godlike  breathings  in  the  air, 
Which  mutely  told  her  spirit  had  been  there? 
Not  lie,  that  youthful  warrior, — no,  too  well 
For  his  soul's  quiet  work'd  th'  awak'ning  spell ; 
And  now,  returning  to  his  own  dear  land, 
Tull  of  those  dreams  of  good  that,  vainly  grand. 
Haunt  the  young  heart, — proud  views  of  human 

kind, 
Of  men  to  Gods  exalted  and  refined, — 
False  views,  like  that  horizon's  fair  deceit. 
Where  earth  and  heav'n  but  seem,  alas,  to  meet ! — 
Soon  as  he  heard  an  Arm  Divine  was  raised 
To  right  the  nations,  and  beheld,  emblazed 
On  the  white  (lag,  Mokanna's  host  unfurl'd 
Those  words  of  sunshine,  "  Freedom  to  the  World," 
At  once  his  faith,  his  sword,  his  soul  obcy'd 
Th'  inspiring  summons;  every  chosen  blade 
That  fought  beneath  that  banner's  sacred  text 
Secni'd  doubly  edged,  for  this  world  and  the  next ; 
And  ne'er  did  Faith  witii  her  smooth  bandage  bind 
Eyes  more  devoutly  willing  to  be  blind. 
In  virtue's  cause; — never  was  soul  inspired 
Willi  livelier  trust  in  what  it  most  desired, 
Than  his,  th'  enthusiast  there,  who  kneeling,  pale 
Willi  pious  nVe,  before  that  Silver  Veil, 
I'elipves  llic  form,  lo  which  he  bends  his  knee, 
Some  pure,  ri'd(<'ming  iingel,  sent  to  free 
'i'liis  fcller'd  world  from  every  bimd  and  Btaiii, 
And  bring  it',  priiiml  glories  back  again ! 


Low  as  young  Azim  knelt,  that  motley  crowd 
Of  all  earth's  nations  sunk  the  knee  and  bow'd. 
With  shouts  of  "Alla!"  echoing  long  and  loud; 
While  high  in  air,  above  the  Prophet's  head, 
Hundreds  of  banners,  to  the  sunbeam  spread. 
Waved,  like  the  wings  of  the  white  birds  that  fan 
The  flying  throne  of  star-taught  Soliman." 
Then  thus  he  spoke  : — "  Stranger,  though  new  the 

frame 
'•  Th_v  soul  inhabits  now,  I've  tiack'd  its  flame 
"  For  many  an  age,'"  in  ev'ry  chance  and  change 
'•Of  that  existence,  tlirougli  whose  vari<?d  range, — 
"As  tlirough   a  torch-race,  wliere,  from  hand  to 

hand 
"The  flying  youths  transmit  their  shining  brand, 
"  From  frame  to  frame  the  unextiiiguish'd  soul 
"  Rapidly  passes,  till  it  reach  the  goal ! 

'■Nor  think  'lis  only  the  gross  Spirits,  warm'd 
"  With  duskier  fire  and  for  earth's  medium  form'd, 
"Tliat  run  this  course: — Beings,  the  most  divine, 
"Tlius  deign  through  dark  mortality  to  shine. 
"  Such  was  the  Essence  that  in  Ad.a.;ii  dwelt, 
"  To   which  all   Ile.av'n,   except  the   Proud    One 

knelt :''' 
"Such  the  refined  Intelligence  that  glow'd 
"  In   JIol'ssa's"  frame, — and,  thence   descending, 

flow'd 
"  Through  many  a  Prophet's  breast ;" — in  Issa" 

shone, 
"  .\nd  in  MoiiAMMr.D  burn'd;  till,  hast'ning  on, 
"  (.^s  a  bright  river  that,  from  fall  to  fall 
"In  many  a  maze  descending,  bright  through  all, 
"  Finds  some  fair  region  where,  each  labyrinth  pass'd, 
"  In  one  full  lake  of  light  it  rests  at  last,) 
"That  Holy  Spirit,  settling  calm  and  free 
"  From  lapse  or  shadow,  centres  all  in  me  !" 

Again,  throughout  tli'  assembly  at  these  words. 
Thousands  of  voices  rung:  the  warriors'  swords 
Where  pointed  up  to  heaven ;  a  sudden  wind 
In  th'  open  banners  play'd,  and  from  behind 
Those  Persian  hangings,  that  but  ill  could  scrcei 
The  Haram's  loveliness,  white  hands  were  seen 
Waving  embmider'd  scarves,  whose  motion  gave 
A  perfume  forth — like  those  the  Houris  wave 
When  beck'ning  to  their  bow'rs  Ih'  immorlal  Bravu 

'■  l?nt   these,"   pursued    the    Chief,   "are  trutln 
sublime, 
"Tli:il  claim  a  holier  mood  and  calmer  time 
"  Than  earlh  allows  us  now ; — this  sword  iniistllrBl 
"'I'lic  (hirkling  priMin-house  of  Mankind  burst, 
'•  Ere  Peace  can  visit  tiiem,  or  Truth  let  in 
"  Her  wakening  daylight  on  a  world  of  sin. 


iiiU'  iii\    l\iti>nln'r.i  >!<«».•  York 


LALLA  EUOKK. 


"But  then, — eolo.sti:t.  warnors,  then,  when  all 
"  Earth's  shrines  and  thrones  before  our  banner  tall ; 
'•  When  the  glad  Slave  shall  at  these  feet  lay  down 
"Ills  broken  chain,  the  tyrant  Loi-d  his  crown, 
'•  The  Priest  his  book,  the  Conqueror  his  wreath, 
"  And  from  the  lips  of  Truth  one  mighty  breath 
"Shall,  like  a  whirlwind,  scatter  in  its  breeze 
"That  whole  dark  pile  of  human  mockeries; — 
'•Then  sliall  the  reign  of  mind  commence  on  enrll], 
"And  starting  fresh  as  from  a  second  birlh, 
"Man,  in  the  sunshine  of  the  world's  new  spring, 
■'  Shall  walk  transparent,  like  some  holy  thing! 
"Then,  too,  j-our  Prophet  from  his  angel  brow 
"  Shall  cast  the  Veil  thathides  its  splendors  now, 
"And  gladden'd  Earth  shall,  through  her  wide  ex- 
panse, 
"Bask  in  the  glories  of  this  countenance  ! 

"For  thee,  young  warrior,  welcome! — thou  hast 

yet 
"Some  tasks  to  learn,  some  frailties  to  forget, 
"Ere   tlie  white   war-plume   o'er   tliy   brow   can 

wave ; — 
"But,  once  my  own,  mine  nil  till  in  the  grave!" 

The  pomp  is  at  an  end — the  crowds  are  gone — 
Each  ear  and  heart  still  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  that  deep  voice,  which  tlirill'd  like  Alla's  own ! 
The  Young  all  dazzled  by  the  plumes  and  lances. 
The    glitt'ring    throne,   and   Haram's   half-caught 

glances ; 
The  Old  deep  pond'ring  on  the  promised  reign 
Of  peace  and  truth  :  and  all  the  female  train 
Ready  to  risk  their  eyes,  could  they  but  gaze 
A  moment  on  that  brow's  miraculous  blaze ! 

But  there  was  one,  among  the  chosen  maids, 
Who  blush'd  behind  the  gallery's  silken  shades, 
One,  to  whose  soul  tlie  pageant  of  to-day 
Has  been  like  death  : — you  saw  her  pale  dfemay. 
Ye  wond'ring  sisterhood,  and  heard  the  burst 
Of  exclamation  from  her  lips,  when  first 
She  saw  that  youth,  too  well,  too  dearly  known, 
Silently  kneeling  at  the  Prophet's  throne. 

Ah  Zelica!  there  2cas  a  time,  when  bliss 
Shone  o'er  thy  heart  from  ev'ry  look  of  his; 
When  but  to  see  him,  hear  him,  breatlie  the  air 
In  which  he  dwelt,  was  thy  soul's  fondest  prayer; 
When  round  him  hung  such  a  perpetual  spell, 
Whate'er  he  did,  none  ever  did  so  well. 
Too  happy  days ;  when,  if  he  touch'd  a  flow'r 
Or  gem  of  thine,  'twas  sacred  from  that  hour; 
When  thou  didst  study  him  till  every  tone 
.And  gesture  and  dear  ook  became  thv  own, — 


Thy  voice  like  his,  the  changes  of  his  face       \ 
In  thine  reflected  with  still  lovelier  grace,         \ 
Like  echo,  sending  back  sweet  music,  fraught   \ 
With  twice  th'  aerial  sweetness  it  had  brought ! 
Yet  now  he  comes, — brighter  than  even  ho 
E'er  beam'd  before, — but,  ah !  not  bright  for  theti ; 
No — dread,  unlook'd  for,  like  a  visitant 
From  th'  other  world,  he  comes  as  if  to  haunt 
Thy  guilty  soul  with  dreams  of  lost  delight, 
Long  lost  to  all  but  mem'ry's  aching  sight : — 
S.id  dreams !  as  when  the  Spirit  of  our  Youth 
Returns  in  sleep,  sparkling  with  all  the  truth 
And  innocence  once  ours,  and  leads  us  back. 
In  mournful  mockery,  o'er  the  shining  track 
Of  our  young  life,  and  points  out  every  ray 
Of  hope  and  peace  we've  lost  upon  the  way! 

Once  happy  pair ! — In  proud  Bokhara's  groves, 
Who  had  not  heard  of  their  first  youthful  loves? 
Born  by  that  ancient  flood,"  which  from  its  spring 
In  the  dark  Mountains  swiftly  wandering, 
Enrieh'd  by  ev'ry  pilgrim  brook  that  shines 
With  relics  from  Bucharia's  ruby  mines, 
And,  lending  to  the  Caspian  half  its  strength. 
In  the  cold  Lake  of  Eagles  sinks  at  length  ; — 
There,  on  the  banks  of  that  bright  river  born, 
The  flow'rs,  that  hung  above  its  wave  at  morn, 
Bless'd  not  the  waters,  as  they  murmur'd  by, 
With  holier  .seent  and  lustre,  than  the  sigh 
And  virgin-g-tapce  of  first  affection  cast 
Upon  their  yeuth'a  smooth  current,  as  it  pa.ss'd'. 

But  war  disturb'd  this  vision, — far  away 
From  her  fond  eyes  summon'd  to  join  th'  array 
Of  Persia's  warriors  on  the  hills  of  Thrace, 
The  youth  exchanged  his  sylvan  dwelling-plac 
For  the  rude  tent  and  wav-field's  dreadful  clash 
His  Zelica's  sweet  glaoe»3  for  the  flash 
Of  Grecian  wild-fire,  and  Leva's  gentle  chains 
For  bleeding  bondage  on  Bzz.\NTnrii'9  plains. 

Blonth  after  month,  in  widowhood  of  soul     j 
Drooping,  the  maiden  saw  two  sumnjera  roll     1 
Their  suns  away — but,  ah,  how  cold  and  dim     \ 
Ev'n  summer  suns,  when  not  beheld  with  hiu! 
From  time  to  time  ill-omen'd  rumors  came. 
Like  spirit-tongues,  mutt'ring  the  sick  man's  ii;jo»~ 
Just  ere  he  dies  r — at  length  those  sounds  of  <Ir«»  • 
Fell  with'ring  on  her  soul,  "  Azim  is  dead  I" 
Oh  Grief,  beyond  all  other  griefs,  when  fate 
First  leaves  the  young  heart  lone  .and  desolate 
In  the  wide  world,  without  that  only  tie 
For  which  it  loved  to  live  or  feard  to  die; —  * 
Lorn  as  the  hung-up  lute,  that  ne'er  liath  spoken 
Since  the  sad  d.ay  its  master-chord  w.as  brok(n.' 


6 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


Fond  maid,  the  sorrow  of  her  soul  was.  such, 
Ev"n  reason  sunk,— blighted  beneath  its  touch  ; 
And  though,  ere  long,  her  sanguine  spirit  rose 
Above  the  first  dead  pressure  of  its  woes. 
Though  liealth  and  bloom  return'd,  the  delicate 

chain 
Of  thought,  once  tangled,  never  elear'd  again. 
Warm,  lively,  soft  as  in  youth's  happiest  day, 
The  mind  was  still  all  there,  but  turn'd  astray ; — 
A  \\and'ring  bark,  upon  whose  pathway  shone 
All  stars  of  heaven,  except  the  guiding  one  I 
Again  she  smiled,  nay,  much  and  brightly  smiled, 
But  'twas  a  lustre,  strange,  unreal,  wild ; 
And  when  she  sung  to  her  lute's  touching  strain, 
'Twas  like  the  notes,  half  ecstasy,  half  pain, 
The  bulbul"  utters,  ere  her  soul  depart. 
When,  vanquish'd  by  some  minstrel's  pow'rful  arl, 
She  dies  upon  the  Inte  wliose  sweetness  broke  her 

heart  I 

Such  was  the  mood  in  which  that  mission  found 
Young  Zelica, — that  mission,  which  around 
The  Eastern  world,  in  every  region  bless'd 
With  woman's  smile,  sought  out  its  loveliest. 
To  grace  that  galaxy  of  lips  and  eyes 
Which  the  Veil'd  Prophet  destined  for  the  skies; — 
And  such  quick  welcome  as  a  spark  receives 
Dropp'd  on  a  bed  of  Autumn's  wither'd  leaves, 
Did  every  tale  of  these  enthusiasts  find 
In  the  wild  maiden's  sorrow-blighted  mind. 
All  fire  at  once  tlie  madd'ning  zeal  she  caught; — 
Elect  of  Paradise  !  blest,  rapturous  tliought ! 
Predestined  bride,  in  heaven's  eternal  dome. 
Of  some  brave  youth — ha  I   durst  they  say   "  of 

some  ?" 
No — of  the  one,  one  only  object  traced 
In  her  heart's  core  too  deep  to  be  effaced; 
The  one  whose  mem'ry,  fresh  as  life,  is  twined 
With  every  broken  link  of  her  lost  mind  ; 
Whose    im.ige    lives,    though    Reason's    self    be 
i  wreck'd. 

Safe  'mid  the  ruins  of  her  intellect! 

.Mas,  poor  Zf.uca  !   it  needed  all 
The  fantasy,  which  held  thy  mind  in  thrall. 
To  see  in  that  gay  Ilaram's  glowing  maids 
A  sainted  colony  for  Eden's  shades ; 
Or  dream  that  he, — of  whose  unholy  flame 
Thou  wtrt  too  soon  the  victim, — shining  came 
From  P.'ir.idise,  to  people  il.s  pure  sphere 
With  souls  like  thine,  which  he  lialli  riiin'd  here! 
No — had  not  reason's  light  tolally  set, 
And  lefl  thee  dark,  thou  hadst  an  nmulct 
In  the  loved  image,  graven  on  thy  heart, 
Which  would  have  saved  thee  from  the  tempter's  art, 


And  kept  alive,  in  all  its  bloom  of  breath, 
That  purity,  whose  fading  is  love's  death ! — 
But  lost,  inflamed, — a  restless  zeal  took  place 
Of  the  mild  virgin's  still  and  feminine  crace ; 
First  of  the  Prophet's  favorites,  proudly  fii-st 
In  zeal  and  charms, — too  well  th'  Impostor  nursed 
Her  soul's  delirium,  in  whose  active  flame, 
Thus  lighting  up  a  young,  luxuriant  frame. 
He  saw  more  potent  sorceries  to  bind 
To  his  dark  yoke  the  spirits  of  mankind. 
More  subtle  ch.iins  than  hell  itself  e'er  twined. 
No  art  was  spared,  no  witch'ry; — all  the  skill 
His  demons  taught  him  was  employ 'd  to  fill 
Her  mind  with  gloom  and  ecstasy  by  turns — 
That  gloom,   through   which   Frenzy   but   fiereej 

burns ; 
That  ecstasy,  which  from  the  depth  of  sadness 
Glares  like  the  m.aniac's  moon,  whose  liglit  is  mad- 
ness ! 

'Twas  from  a  brilliant  banquet,  where  the  sound 
Of  poesy  and  music  breathed  around, 
Together  picturing  to  her  mind  and  ear 
The  glories  of  that  he.iv'n,  her  destined  sphere, 
Where  all  was  pure,  where  every  stain  that  lay 
Upon  the  spirit's  light  should  pass  away. 
And,  realizing  more  than  youthful  love 
E'er  wish'd  or  dieam'd,  she  should  for  ever  rove 
Through  fields  of  fragrance  by  her  Azim's  side, 
His  own  bless'd,  purified,  eternal  bride ! — 
'Twas  from  a  .scene,  a  witching  trance  like  this. 
He  hurried  her  away,  yet  breathing  bliss, 
To  the  dim  cliarnel-house  ; — through  all  its  steams 
Of  damp  and  death,  led  only  by  those  gleams 
Wliich  foul  Corruption  lights,  as  with  design 
To  show  the  g.ay  and  proud  she  too  can  snme — 
And,  i)assing  on  through  upright  ranks  of  Dead, 
Which  to  the  maiden,  doubly  crazed  by  dread, 
Seem'd,  through  the  blui-ili  death-light  round  tliem 

cast. 
To  move  their  lips  in  mutt'rings  as  she  pass'd — 
There,  in  that  awful  place,  when  each  had  qnafTd 
And  pledg'd  in  silence  .such  a  fearful  draught. 
Such — oh  1  the  look  and  taste  of  that  red  bowl 
Will  haunt  her  till  she  dies — he  bound  her  soul 
By  a  dark  oath,  in  hell's  own  language  fnuned, 
Never,  while  earth  his  mystic  preseiu'c  elairn'd, 
While  the  blue  arch  of  day  hung  o'er  llioui  botli. 
Never,  by  that  all-imprecating  oath, 
In  joy  or  sorrow  from  his  side  to  sever. — 
She  swore,  and  the  wide  charnel  echoed,  "  N'evor 

never  I" 

From  that  dreail  hour,  entirely,  wildly  giv'n 
To  him  and — sho  believed,  lost  maid ! — to  lioav'n ' 


LALLA  EOOKH. 


Iler  brain,  her  heart,  her  passions  a]I  inflamed, 
How  proud  she  stood,  when  in  full  Ilurain  named 
The  Priestess  of  the  Faith ! — how  flash'd  licr  eyes 
With  light,  alas,  that  was  not  of  the  skies, 
When  round,  in  trances,  only  less  than  hers. 
She  saw  the  Harani  kneel,  her  prostrate  worship- 
pers. 
Well  might  Mokanna  think  tliat  form  alone 
Had  spells  enougli  to  make  the  world  his  own  :— 
Light,  lovely  limbs,  to  wliich  the  spirit's  play 
Gave  motion,  airy  as  tlie  dancing  spray, 
When  from  its  stem  the  small  bird  wings  away: 
Lips  in  whose  rosy  labyrinth,  when  slie  smiled. 
The  soul  was  lost;  and  blushes,  swift  and  wild 
As  are  the  momentary  meteors  sent 
Across  th'  uncalra,  but  beauteous  firmament. 
And  then  her  look — oh !  wliere's  the  heart  so  wise 
Could  unbewilder'd  meet  those  matchless  eyes? 
Quick,  restless,  strange,  but  exquisite  withal, 
Like  those  of  angels,  just  before  their  fall ; 
Now  shadow'd  with  the    shames  of  earth — now 

croas'd 
By  glimpses  of  the  Heav'n  her  heart  had  lost ; 
In  ev'ry  glance  there  broke,  without  control, 
The  flashes  of  a  bright,  but  troubled  soul, 
Where  sensibility  still  wildly  play'd, 
Like  lightning,  round  the  ruins  it  had  made! 

And  such  was  now  young  Zelic.a — so  changed 
Prom  her  who,  some  years  since,  delighted  ranged 
The  almond  groves  that  shade  Bokhaka's  tide, 
All  life  and  bliss,  with  AziM  by  her  side! 
So  alter'd  was  she  now,  this  festal  day, 
When,  'mid  the  proud  Divan's  dazzling  array. 
The  vision  of  that  Youth  whom  she  had  loved. 
Had    wept    as    dead,    before    lier    breathed    and 

moved ; — 
When — bright,  she   thought,   as  if   from   Eden's 

track 
But  half-way  trodden,  he  had  wander'd  back 
Again  to  earth,  glist'ning  wiih  Eden's  light — 
Her  beauteous  Azim  shone  before  her  sight. 

I     O  Reason !  who  shall  say  what  spells  renew, 
I  When  least  we  look  for  it,  thy  broken  clew ! 
{Through  what  small  vistas  o'er  the  darken'd  brain 
iThy  intellectual  day-beam  bursts  again ; 
And  how,  like  forts,  to  which  bclcaguerers  whi 
Unhoped-for  entrance  through  some  friend  within. 
One  clear  idea,  waken'd  in  the  breast 
By  mem'ry's  magic,  lets  in  all  the  rest. 
Would  it  were  thus,  unhappy  girl,  with  thee ! 
But  though  light  came,  it  came  but  p.artially ; 
Enough  to  show  the  maze,  in  wliich  thy  sense 
Wander'd  about, — but  not  to  guide  it  thence ; 


Enough  to  glimmer  o'er  the  yawning  wave. 
But  not  to  point  the  harbor  which  might  save. 
Hours  of  deliglit  and  peace,  long  left  behind, 
With  that  dear  form  came  rushing  o'er  her  mind ; 
But,  oh!  to  think  how  deep  her  soul  had  gone 
In  shame  and  fiilsehood  since  those  moments  shone , 
And,  then,  her  oath — there  madness  lay  again. 
And,  shudd'ring,  back  she  sunk  into  her  chain 
Of  mental  darkness,  as  if  blest  to  floe 
From  light,  whose  every  glimpse  was  agony ! 
Yet,  one  relief  this  glance  of  former  years 
Brought,  mingled  with  its  pain, — tears,  floods  of 

tears, 
Long  frozen  at  her  heart,  but  now  like  rills 
Let  loose  in  spring-time  from  the  snowy  hills. 
And  gushing  warm,  after  a  sleep  of  frost. 
Through  valleys  where  their  flow  had  long  been  lost. 

Sad  and  subdued,  for  the  first  time  her  frame 
Trembled  with  horror,  when  the  sad  summons  came, 
(A  summons  proud  and  rare,  w-hich  all  but  she. 
And  she,  till  now,  had  heard  with  ecstacy,) 
To  meet  BIokanna  at  his  place  of  prayer, 
A  garden  oratory,  cool  and  fair. 
By  the  stream's  side,  where  still  at  close  of  day 
The  Prophet  of  the  Veil  retired  to  pray ; 
Sometimes  alone — but,  oft'ncr  far,  with  one, 
One  chosen  nymph  to  share  his  orison. 

Of  late  none  found  such  favor  in  his  sight 
As  the  young  Priestess;   and  though,  since  that 

night 
When  the  death-eaverns  echo'd  every  tone 
Of  the  dire  oath  that  made  her  all  his  own, 
Th'  Impostor,  sure  of  his  infituate  prize. 
Had,  more  than  once,  thrown  off  his  soul's  disguise, 
And  utter'd  such  unheav'nly,  monstrous  things, 
As  ev'n  across  the  desp'rate  wanderings 
Of  a  weak  intellect,  whose  lamp  was  out. 
Threw  startling  shadows  of  dismay  and  doubt ; — 
Y'et  zeal,  ambition,  her  tremendous  vow. 
The  thought,  still  haunting  her  of  that  bright  brow, 
Wliose  blaze,  as  yet  from  mortal  eye  conceal'd. 
Would  soon,  proud  triumph !  be  to  her  reveal'd. 
To  her  alone ; — and  then  the  hope,  most  dear. 
Most  wild  of  all,  that  her  transgression  here 
Was  but  a  passage  through  earth's  grosser  fire, 
From  which  the  spirit  would  at  last  aspire, 
Ev'n  purer  than  before, — as  perfumes  rise 
Through  flame  and  smoke,  most  welcome  to  the 

skies — 
And  that  when  Azni's  fond,  divine  embrace 
Should  cu'cle  her  in  heav'n,  no  dark'ning  trace 
Would  on  that  bosciii  he  once  loved  remain, 
But  all  be  bright,  be  pure,  bs  his  again! — 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


These  were  the  wild'ring  dreams,  whose  cursed 

deceit 
Had  chain'd  her  soul  beneath  the  tempter's  feet, 
And  made  her  tliink  ev'n  damning  falseliood  sweet. 
But  now  that  Shape,  whicli  had  appall'd  her  view 
That  Semblance — oh  how  terrible,  if  true  ! 
Wliieh  came  across  her  frenzy's  full  career 
With  shock  of  consciousness,  cold,  deep,  severe. 
As  when,  in  northern  seas,  at  midnight  dark, 
An  isle  of  ice  encounters  some  swift  bark, 
\nd,  startling  all  its  wretches  from  their  sleep. 
By  one  cold  impulse  hurls  them  to  the  deep; — 
So  came  that  shock  not  frenzy's  self  could  bear. 
And  waking  up  each  long-IuU'd  image  there, 
But  chcck'd  her  headlong  soul,  to  sink  it  in  despair ! 

Wan  and  dejected,  througli  the  ev'iiing  dusk. 
She  now  went  slowly  to  that  small  kiosk, 
Where,  pondering  alone  his  impious  schemes, 
MoKAXNA  waited  her — too  wrapt  in  dreams 
Of  the  fair-rip'ning  future's  rich  success, 
To  heed  the  sorrow,  pale  and  spiritless. 
That  sat  upon  his  victim's  downcast  brow, 
Or  mark  how  slow  her  step,  how  alter'd  now 
From  the  quick,  ardent  Priestess,  whoso  light  bound 
Came  like  a  spirit's  o'er  tli'  unechoing  ground, — 
From  that  wild  Zelica,  whose  every  glance 
Was  thrilling  fire,  whose  ev'ry  tiiought  a  trance ! 

Upon  liis  couch  the  Veil'd  Mokanna  lay, 
While  lamps  around — not  such  as  lend  their  ray, 
Glimm'ring  and  cold,  to  those  who  nightly  pray 
In  holy  Kooji,"  or  Mecca's  dim  arcades, — 
But  brilliant,  soft,  such  lights  as  lovely  maids 
Look  loveliest  in,  shed  their  luxurious  glow 
Upon  his  mystic  Veil's  white  glitt'ring  flow. 
Beside  him,  'stead  of  beads  and  books  of  pray'r. 
Which  the  world  fondly  thought  he  mused  on  there, 
Stood  Vases,  fill'd  with  Kisiimee's"  golden  wine, 
And  the  red  weepings  of  the  Siiiraz  vine ; 
Of  which  his  curtain'd  lips  full  many  a  draught 
Took  zealously,  as  if  each  drop  they  quaff'd, 
Like  Zemzen's  Spring  of  IloHness,"  liad  pow'r 
To  freshen  the  soul'a  virtues  in(o  flow'r! 
And  still  he  dr.nnk  and  pondcr'd — nor  could  see 
Tm'  approaching  maid,  so  deep  his  rcvery  ; 
At  length,  with  fiendish    laugh,  like   that   which 

broke 
From  (Inus  at  the  Fall  of  JIan,  he  spoke: — 
"  Yc»,  ye  vile  race,  for  hell's  amusement  given, 
"  Too  mean  for  earth,  yet  claiming  kin  willi  hcw'n  j 
"  God'w  iningcs,  forsooth  ! — such  gods  as  lie 
•"Whom  IxDiA  serves,  Iho  monkey  deity; — *' 
"  Ye  creatures  of  a  breath,  proud  things  cf  rlay, 
"To  whom  if  Lucifeii,  as  grandnms  sny, 


"  Refused,  though  at  the  forfeit  of  heaven's  light. 

"To  bond  in  worship,  LtJCiFER  was  right! — " 

"  Soon  shall  I  plant  this  foot  upon  the  neck 

"  Of  your  foul  race,  and  without  fear  or  chock, 

"Luxuriating  in  hate,  avenge  my  shame, 

'•  My    deep-felt,    long-nursed    lo.athing    of    man's 

name  I — 
'■  Soon  at  tlie  liead  of  myriads,  blind  and  liercp 
"  As  hooded  falcons,  through  the  universe 
"I'll  sweep  my  dark'ning,  desolating  way, 
"  Weak  man  my  instrument,  cursed  man  my  prey  I 

"  Ye  wise,  ye  Icaru'd,  wlio  grope  your  dull  way  oi. 
"By  the  dim  twinkling  gleams  of  ages  gone, 
"  Like  superstitious  thieves,  who  think  the  light 
"  From  dead  men's  marrow  guides  them  best  at 

night—" 
"  Ye  shall  h.ave  honors — we;ilth — yes.  Sages,  yes — 
"  I  know,  grave  fools,  your  wisdom's  nothingness; 
"Uiidazzled  it  can  track  yon  starry  sphere, 
"  But  a  gilt  stick,  a  bauble  bliuds  it  here. 
"  How  I  shall  laugh,  when  trumpeted  along, 
"In  lying  speech,  and  still  more  lying  song, 
"  By  these  Icarn'd  slaves,  the  meanest  of  the  throng ; 
"  Tlieir  wits  bought  \i]\  their  wisdom  shrunk  «o 

small, 
"  A  sceptre's  puny  point  can  wield  it  all  I 

"  Ye  loo,  believers  of  incredible  creeds, 
"  Whose   faith   enshrines   the   monsters  which   it 

breeds ; 
"  Who,  bolder  ev'n  than  Nemkod,  think  to  risi-. 
"  By  nonsense  heap'd  on  nonsense,  to  the  skii> ; : 
"  Ye  shall  have  miracles,  ay,  sound  ones  too, 
"  Seen,  heard,  attested,  ev'ry  thing — but  true. 
"  Your  preaching  zealots,  too  inspired  to  seek 
"  One  grace  of  meaning  for  the  things  they  speak  ; 
"  Your  martyrs,  ready  to  shed  out  their  blood, 
"  For  truths  loo  heav'nly  to  be  understood  ; 
"  And   your   State   Priests,   sole  venders   of   the 

lore, 
"  That  works  salvation ; — ns,  on  Ava's  shore, 
"  Where  none  but  priests  are  privileged  to  trade 
"  In  tliat  best  marble  of  which  Gods  are  made :" 
"They  shall  have  mysteries — ay,  precious  stulT, 
"  For  knaves  to  thrive  by — mysteries  enough; 
"  Dark,  tangled  doctrines,  dark  as  fraud  can  weavw 
"  Which  simple  votaries  .shall  on  trust  receive, 
"  While  craftier  feign  belief,  till  they  believe. 
"  A  Ileav'n  too  ye  must  have,  yc  lords  of  dust, — 
"  A  splendid  Paradise, — pure  souls,  yo  must: 
"  That  Prophet  ill  sustains  his  holy  call, 
"  Who  finds  not  heav'ns  to  suit  the  tastes  of  all, 
"  Ilonris  for  boys,  omniscience  for  sages,  J 

"  Anil  wings  and  glories  for  all  r.mks  and  n;;oB. 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


«  Vain  tilings! — :i»  lust  or  vanity  inspires, 

"  Tlie  Iieav'n  of  ciicli  is  bnt  wiiat  each  des'  res, 

"  And,  soul  or  sense,  wliatc'er  the  object  he, 

"  Man  would  be  man  to  all  eternity! 

"  So  let  him — Edlis! — grant  this  crowning  curie, 

"But  keep  him  what  ho  is,  no  Hell  were  worse." 

"Oh   my  lost   sonl !"   exelaimM  the  slnulirrinff 

maid, 
Whose  ears  had  dniiik  like  poison  all  lie  said: — 
MoKANNA  started — not  abash'd,  afraid, — 
He  knew  no  more  of  fear  than  one  who  dwells 
Beneath  the  tropics  knows  of  icicles! 
But,  in  those  dismal  words  that  reach'd  his  ear, 
'•  Oh  my  lost  soul !"  there  was  a  sound  so  drear. 
So  like  that  voice,  among  the  sinful  dead. 
In  which  the  legend  o'er  Hell's  Gate  is  read. 
That,  new  as  'twas  from  her,  whom  naught  could 

dim 
Or  sink  till  now,  it  startled  even  him. 

"  Ha,  my  fair  Priestess  !" — thus,  with  ready  w'ile, 
Th'  Impostor  turn'd  to  greet  lier — "  thou,  whose 

smile 
"  Hath  inspiration  in  its  rosy  beam 
"  Beyond  th'  Enthusiast's  hope  or  Prophet's  dream ; 
"  Light  of  the  Faith  !  who  twin'st  religion's  zeal 
"  So  close  with  love's,  men  know  not  which  they 

feel, 
"  Nor  which  to  sigh  for,  in  their  trance  of  heart, 
"  The  heav'n  thou  preachest  or  the  heaven  thou  art! 
"  What  should  I  be  without  thee?  without  thee 
"  How  dull  were  power,  how  joyless  victory  ! 
"  Though  borne  by  angels,  if  that  smile  of  thine 
•'  Bless'd  not  my  banner,  'twere  but  half  divine. 
"But — why  so   mournful,  child!   those  eyes  that 

shone 
■*  All  life  hist  night — what ! — is  their  glory  gone? 
"Come, come — this  morn's  fatigue  hath  made  them 

pale, 
•'  Tliey  want  rekindling — suns   themselves  would 

fail 
"  Did  not  their  comets  bring,  as  I  to  thee, 
"  From  light's  own  fount  supplies  of  brilliancy. 
"  Thou  seest  this  cup — no  juice  of  earth  is  here, 
"  But  the  pure  waters  of  that  upper  sphere, 
"  Whose  rills  o'er  ruby  bods  and  topaz  flow, 
"  Catching  the  gem's  bright  color,  as  they  go. 
"  Nightly  my  Genii  come  and  fdl  these  urns — 
"  Nay,  drink — in  ev'ry  drop  life's  essence  burns  ; 
"  'Twill  make  that  soul  all  tire,  those  eyes  all  light — 
"  Come,  come,  I  want  thy  loveliest  smiles  to-night ; 
"There  is  a  youth — why  start? — thou  saw'st  him 

then ; 
"  Look'd  he  not  nobly?  .such  the  godlike  men 
vol.  rr. — 2 


"  Thou'lt  have  to  woo  thee  in  the  bow'r.s  above  ; — 
"Though  he,  I  fear,  hath  thoughts  too   stern  for 

love. 
"  Too  ruled  by  that  cold  enemy  of  bliss 
"  The  w-orld  calls  virtue — we  must  conquer  this, 
"  Nay,  shrink  not,  pretty  sage!  'tis  not  for  thee 
"  To  scan  the  mazes  of  Heav'n's  mystery : 
"  The  steel  must  pass  through  fire,  ere  it  can  yield 
"Fit  instruments  for  mighty  hands  to  wield. 
'•  This  very  night  I  mean  to  try  the  art 
"Of  powerful  beauty  on  that  warrior's  heart. 
"  All  that  my  Haram  boasts  of  bloom  and  wit, 
"Of  skill  and  charms,  most  rare  and  exquisite, 
"Shall   tempt  the  boy; — young   Mikzala's  blue 

eyes, 
"  Whose  sleepy  lid  like  snow  on  violets  lies; 
"Arouya's  checks,  warm  as  a  spring-day  sun, 
"  And  lips  that,  like  the  seal  of  Solomon, 
"  Have  magic  in  their  pressure ;  Zeba's  lute, 
"  And  Lilla's  dancing  feet,  that  gleam  and  shoot 
"  Rapid  and  white  as  sea-birds  o'er  the  deep — 
"  All  shall  combine  their  witching  powers  to  steep 
"  j\ly  convert's  spirit  in  that  soft'ning  trance, 
"  From  which  to  heav'n  is  but  the  next  advance  ; — 
"  That  glowing,  yielding  fusion  of  the  breast, 
"  On  which  Religion  stamps  her  image  best. 
"  But  hear  me,  Priestess  ! — though  each  nymph  of 

these 
"  Hath  some  peculiar,  practised  jiow'r  to  please, 
"  Some  glance  or  step  which,  at  the  mirror  tried, 
"  First  charms  herself,  then  all  the  world  beside  ; 
"There  still  wants  one,  to  make  the  vicfry  sure, 
"  One  who  in  every  look  joins  every  lure  ; 
"  Through  whom   all   beauty's   beams  concentred 

pass, 
"  Dazzling  and  warm,  as  through   love's  burning 

glass ; 
"  Whose  gentle  lips  persuade  without  a  word, 
"  Whose  words,  ev'n  when  unmeaning,  are  adored, 
"  Like  inarticulate  breathings  from  a  shrine, 
"  Which  our  faith  takes  for  granted  are  divine  ! 
"  Such  is  the  nymph  we  want,  all  warmth  and  light 
"  To  crown  the  rich  temptations  of  to-night; 
"  Such  the  refined  enchantress  that  must  be 
"  This  hero's  vanquisher, — and  thou  art  she  !" 

With  her  hands  clasp'd,  her  lips  apart  and  pale, 
The  maid  had  .stood,  gazing  upon  the  Veil 
From  w-hich  these  vvord.s,  like  south  winds  through 

a  fence 
Of  Kerzrah  flow'rs,  came  fill'd  with  pestilence;'' 
So  boldly  utter'd  too  !  as  if  all  dread 
Of  frowns  from  her,  of  virtuous  frowns,  were  fled, 
And  the  wretch  felt  assured  that,  once  plunged  in 
Her  woman's  soul  wou  d  know  no  pause  in  sin' 


10 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


At  first,  tliouj,'li  mute  she  listcn'd,  like  a  dream," 
Scera'd  all  he  said:    nor  could  her  mind,  whose 

beam 
As  yet  was  weak,  penetrate  half  his  scheme. 
But  when,  at  length,  he  utter'd,  "  Thou  art  she  !" 
All  flash'd  at  once,  and  shrieking  piteously, 
-  Oh  not  for  worlds  !"  she  cried — "  Great  God  I   to 

whom 
"  I  once  knelt  innocent,  is  this  my  doom  I 
"  Are  all  my  dreams,  my  hopes  of  heavenly  bliss, 
'•  My  purity,  my  pride,  then  come  to  this, — 
"  To  live,  tlie  wanton  of  a  fiend  !  to  be    " 
"  Tlie  pander  of  liis  guilt — oh  infamy! 
"  .-Vnd  sunk,  myself,  as  low  as  hell  can  steep 
"In  its  hot  flood,  drag  others  down  as  deep! 
"  Others — ha !  yes — that  youth  who  came  to-day — 
"  Not  him  I  loved — not  him — oh !  do  but  say, 
"  But  swear  to  me  this  moment  'tis  not  he, 
"  And  I  will  serve,  dark  fiend,  will  worship  even 

thee !" 

"  Beware,  young  raving  thing ; — in  time  beware, 
'•  Nor  utter  what  I  cannot,  must  not  bear, 
"  Ev'n  from  thy  lips.     Go — try  thy  lute,  thy  voice, 
"  The  boy  must  feel  their  magic ; — I  rejoice 
"  To  see  those  fires,  no  matter  whence  they  rise, 
"Once  more  illuming  my  fair  Priestess'  eyes; 
"  And  should  the  youth,  whom  soon  those  eyes 

shall  warm, 
"  Indeed  resemble  thy  dead  lover's  form, 
"So  much  the  h.appier  wilt  thou  find  thy  doom, 
"  As  one  warm  lover,  full  of  life  and  bloom, 
"  Excels  ten  thousand  cold  ones  in  the  tomb. 
"Nay,  n.ay,  no  frowning,  sweet! — those  eyes  were 

made 
"  For  love,  not  anger — I  must  bo  obey'd." 

"  Obey'd ! — 'tis  well — yes,  I  deserve  it  all — 
"On  me,  on  me  Heav'n's  vengeance  cannot  fall 
"  Too  heavily — but  Aznt,  brave  and  true 
"  And  beautiful — must  he  bo  ruin'd  too  1 
"  JIust  he  too,  glorious  as  lie  is,  be  driven 
"  A  renegade  like  me  from  Love  .and  Heaven  ? 
"Like  mo? — weak  wretch,  I  wrong  him — not  like 

mc ; 
"No — he's  all  truth  .and  strength  and  purity! 
"  Fill  up  your  m.add'ning  hcll^;up  to  the  brim, 
"  Its  witch'ry,  ficndn,  will  have  no  charm  for  him. 
''  I*t    loose    your   glowing   wantons   from   (heir 

bow'rs, 
"He  loves,  ho  lovea,  and  can  defy  their  powers ! 
"  VVrclf.h  .as  I  .im,  in  his  heart  still  I  reign 
"  I'nro  an  w!ipn  first  we  met,  without  a  stain  ! 
"  ThooKh  ruiuM— lost — my  luem'ry,  like  a  charm 
"  liCft  by  tho  dead,  irtlll  keeps  his  soul  from  harm. 


"  Oh!  never  let  him  know  how  deep  the  brow  \ 

"He  kiss'd  .at  p.arting,  is  dishonor'd  nj>v, — 
"  Ne'er  tell  him  how  debased,  how  sunk  is  she, 
"Whom   once   he   loved — once! — still   loves    do< 

tingly. 
'•  Thou  laugh'st,  tormentor,— what  I— thou'lt  brand 

my  name  ? 
"Do,  do — in  vain — lie'U  not  believe  my  shame — 
"  He  tliinks  me  true,  that  naught  beneath  God's 

sky 
"  Could  tempt  or  ch.ange  mc,  and — so  once  thought 

I. 
"But  this  is  past — though  worse  than  dualh  mj 

lot, 
"  Than  hell — "lis  nothing  while  he  knows  it  not. 
"  Far  off  to  some  benighted  land  I'll  fly, 
"  Where  sunbeam  ne'er  shall  enter  till  I  die ; 
'•  Where   none  will   ask  the  lost  one  whence  she 

came, 
"  But  I  m.ay  fade  and  fall  witliout  a  name. 
"  And  tliou — cursed  man  or  fiend,  whato'er  thou 

art, 
"  Who   found'st   this  burning  plague-spot  in  my 

heart, 
"  .\nd   sprc.ad'st   it — oh,  so  quick  ! — through  soul 

and  frame, 
"  Willi  more  than  demon's  art,  till  I  became 
"A  loathsoinc  tiling,  all  pestilence,  all  flame! — 
"  If,  when  I'm  gone " 

"  Hold,  fearless  maniac,  hold. 
"  Nor   tempt   my  rage — by   Heaven,  not   half  so 

bold 
"  The  puny  bird,  that  dares  with  teasing  hum 
"  Within  the  crocodile's  stretch'd  jaws  to  come;" 
"And  so  thou'lt  fly,  forsooth? — what! — give  up  all 
"Thy  chaste  dominion  in  the  Ilaram  Hall, 
"  Where  now  to  Love  and  now  to  Alla  given, 
"ILalf  mistress  and  half  saint,  thou  hang'st  .as  even 
"  Ah  doth  Medina's  tomb,  'twixt  hell  and  hc.avcn  ! 
"Thou'lt  fly? — as  easily  niay  rciitilcs  run, 
"The  gaunt  snake  once  hath  fixed  his  eyes  upon; 
"  .As  easily,  when  caught,  the  prey  may  bo 
"  I'luck'd  from  his  loving  folds,  as  thou  from  me. 
"No,  no,  'tis  fi.x'd — let  good  or  ill  betide, 
"Thou'rt   mine   till    death,  till   death    IMokanna' 

bride ! 
"Hast  thou  forgot  thy  oath?" — 

.\t  this  dread  word 
The  Maid,  whose  s|iirit  his  rude  lainils  had  stirr'd 
Through  all  its  depths,  and  roused  an  anger  there, 
That  burst  .ind  jiglitcii'd   even  through  her  do. 

spair — 
Shrunk  back,  aa  if  a  blight  were  in  tho  breath 
That  spoke  that  word,  and  staggor'd  pale  as  death. 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


11 


"Yes,  my  sworn  hr.ii,  lut  otiiers  seek  in  bow'rs 
"  Their  bridiil  phice — the  cliarncl-vault  was  ours! 
"Instead  of  scents  and  balms,  for  thou  and  me 
"Rose  the  rich  steams  of. sweet  mortality; 
"  Gay,  fliclc'ring  death-liglits  shone  while  we  were 

wed, 
"  And,  for  our  guests,  a  row  of  goodly  Dead, 
"  (Immortal  spirits  in  their  time,  no  doubt,) 
"  From  reeking  shrouds  upon  the  rite  look'd  out! 
"  That   oath   thou   lieard'st   more  lips  than  thine 

repeat — 
"That  cup — thou  sluidd'resf.  Lady, — was  it  sweet? 
"  Tliat  cup  we  pledged,  the  charnel's  choicest  wine, 
"Hath  bound  thee — ay — body  and  soul  all  mine  ; 
"  Bound  thee  by  chains  that,  whether  blcss'd  or 

cursed 
"No  matter  now,  not  hell  itself  shall  burst! 
"Ilenco,  woman,  to  the  Ilarani,  and  look  gay, 
"  Look  wild,  look — any  thing  but  sad  ;  yet  f.tay — 
"One  moment  more — from  what  this  night  hath 

passM, 
"  I  see  thou  know'st  me,  know'st  me  well  at  last. 
"  Ila !  ha !  and  so,  fond  thing,  thou  thought'st  all 

true, 
"  And  that  I  love  mankind  ? — I  do,  I  do — 
"As  victims,  love  them  ;  as  the  sea-dog  dotes 
"Upon  the  small,  sweet  fry  that  round  him  floats; 
"Or,  as  the  Nile-bird  loves  the  slime  that  gives 
"That  rank   and   venomous   food   on    which   she 

lives!"— 

"  And,  now  thou  seest  my  sotiTs  angelic  hue, 
"'Tis  time  those /ea/ures  were  uncurtain'd  too  ; — 
"  This  brow,  whose  light — oh  rare  cetestial  light ! 
"Hath  been  reserved  to  bless  thy  fiivor'd  sight; 
"  These  dazzling  eyes,  before  whose  shrouded  miglit 
"Thou'st  seen    immortal   Man   l;neel   down  and 

quake — 
"  Would  that  they  were  heaven's  lightnings  for  his 

sake ! 
"  But  turn  and  look — then  wonder,  if  thou  wilt, 
"That  I  should  hate,  should  take  revenge,  by  guilt, 
"  Upon  the  hand,  whose  mischief  or  whose  mirth 
"  Sent  me  thus  maim'd  and  monstrous  upon  earth  ; 
"  And  on  that  race  who,  though  more  vile  tliey  be 
"  Than  mowing  apes,  are  dcmi-gods  to  me ! 
"  Here — judge  if  hell,  with  all  its  power  to  danm, 
"Can  .idd  one  curse  to  the  foul  thing  I  am  !'' — 

lie    raised    his    veil — the   Maid    turn' 1   s'owly 
round, 
l.ook'd    at    him--sliriek'd--and    sunk     upon    the 
ground ! 


-  On  their  arrival,  next  night,  at  the  place  of 
encampment,  they  were  surprised  and  delighted  to 
find  the  groves  all  around  illuminated  ;  some  artists 
of  Yamtclieou'''  having  been  sent  on  previously  for 
the  purpose.  On  each  side  of  the  green  alley 
which  led  to  the  Royal  Pavilion,  artificial  sceneries 
of  bamboo-work  "  were  erected,  representing 
arelics,  minarets,  and  towers,  from  wliich  hung 
thousands  of  silken  lanterns,  painted  by  tho  most 
delicate  pencils  of  Canton. — Nothing  could  be 
more  beautiful  than  the  leaves  of  tho  mango-trees 
and  acacias,  shining  in  tlio  light  of  the  bamboo- 
scenery,  whicli  shed  a  lustre  round  as  soft  as  that 
of  the  niglifa  of  Peristan. 

Lalla  Rookh,  however,  v,ho  was  too  much 
occupied  by  the  sad  story  of  Zelica  and  her  lover, 
to  give  a  thought  to  any  thing  else,  except,  perliaps, 
him  who  related  it,  hurried  on  through  this  scene 
of  splendor  to  her  pavilion, — greatly  to  the  mortifi- 
cation of  the  poor  artists  of  Yamtclieou, — and  was 
followed  with  equal  rapidity  by  the  Great  Chamber- 
lain, cursing,  as  lie  went,  that  ancient  Mandarin, 
whose  parent.ll  anxiety  in  lighting  up  the  shores  of 
the  hake,  where  his  beloved  daughter  had  wandered 
and  been  lost,  was  the  origin  of  these  fantastic 
Chinese  illuminations." 

Without  a  moment's  dekay,  young  Feramorz 
was  introduced,  and  Fadladeen,  who  could  never 
rn.ake  up  his  mind  as  to  the  merits  of  a  poet,  till  he 
knew  the  religious  sect  to  whicli  he  belonged,  waa 
about  to  ask  him  whether  he  was  a  Shia  or  a  Sooni, 
when  Lalla  Rookh  impatiently  clapped  her  hands 
for  silence,  and  the  youth,  being  seated  upon  the 
musnud  near  her,  proceeded: — 


Prepare    thy    soul,   young   .\zim  I — thou    hast 
braved 
The   bands  of  Gref.ce,  still    mighty  though  en. 

sl.aved ; 
H.ast  faced  her  phalanx.  .armM  with  all  its  fame ; 
Her  Macedonian  pikes  and  globes  of  flame  ; 
All  this  hast  fronted,  with  firm  heart  and  brow; 
But  a  more  perilous  trial  waits  thee  now, — 
Woman's  bright  eyes,  a  dazzling  host  of  eyes 
From  every  land  where  woman  smiles  or  siglis ; 
Of  every  hue,  as  Love  may  chance  to  raise 
His  black  or  azure  banner  in  their  blaze; 
And  each  sw  cet  mode  of  warfare,  from  the  flash 
That  lightens  boldlv  through  the  .sh.idowv  lash. 


12 


M(^ORE^S  WOKKS. 


To  the  siv,  slcaling  splendors,  almost  hid. 

Like   swords   linlf-slieatird,  beneath  the  downcast 

lid;— 
Such,  AziM,  is  the  lovely,  luminous  host 
Now  led  ajfainst  f hee  ;  and,  let  conqu'rors  boast 
Their  fields  of  fame,  he  who  in  virtue  arms 
A  young,  warm  spirit  against  beauty's  charms, 
Who  feels  her  brightness,  yet  defies  her  thrall. 
Is  the  best,  bravest  conqu'ror  of  them  all. 

Now,   through    the    Haram   chambers,   moving 

lights 
And  busy  shapes  proclaim  the  toilet's  rites; — 
From  room  to  room  the  ready  handmaids  hie. 
Some  skiird  to  wreathe  the  turban  tastefully. 
Or  hang  the  veil,  in  negligence  of  shade, 
O'er  the  warm  blushes  of  the  youthful  maid, 
Who,  if  between  the  folds  but  nne  eye  shone, 
Like    Seba's    Queen   could    vanquish    with   that 

one : — " 
While  some  bring  leaves  of  Henna,  to  imbue 
The  fingers'  ends  with  a  bright  roseate  hue," 
So  bright,  that  in  the  mirror's  depth  they  seem 
Like  lips  of  coral  branches  in  the  stream: 
And  others  mix  the  Kohol's  jetty  dye, 
To  give  that  long,  dark  languish  to  the  eye," 
Which  makes  the  maids,  whom  kings  are  proud  to 

cull 
P'rom  fair  Circassia's  vales,  so  beautiful. 
All  is  in  motion;  rings,  and  plumes,  and  pearls 
Are  shining  ev'rywhere: — some  younger  girls 
Are  gone  by  moonlight  to  the  garden-beds. 
To  gather  fresh,  cool  chaplets  for  their  heads ; — 
Gay  creatures!   sweet,    though   mournful,  'tis  to 

see 
How  each  prefers  a  garland  from  that  tree 
Which  bilnjjs  to  mind  her  childhood's  innocent  d;iy 
And  the  dear  fields  and  friendships  far  away. 
The  maid  of  India,  bless'd  again  to  hold 
In  her  full  lap  the  Champac's  leaves  of  gold," 
Thinks  of  the  lime  when,  by  the  Ganges'  flood, 
Her  little  playmates  .scalter'd  many  a  bud 
Upon  her  long  black  hair,  with  glossy  gleam 
Just  dripping  from  the  consecrated  stream; 
While  the  young  Arab,  haunted  by  the  smell 
Of  her  own  mountain  flow'rs,  as  by  a  spell, — 
The  sweet  Elcayn,"  and  that  courteous  tree 
Which  bows  to  nil  who  seek  its  canopy,"" 
Sees,  call'd  up  round  her  l)y  these  magic  scents. 
The  well,  the  camels,  and  her  father's  tents; 
Siglm  for  the  home  she  left  with  little  pain. 
And  wishes  cv'n  its  sorrows  back  ng.-du ! 

Meanwhile,  through  vast  illuminaled  ItalU, 
Silent  and  bright,  where  nothing  but  (he  falls 


I 


Of  fragrant  waters,  gushing  with  cool  sound 
From  many  a  jasper  fount,  is  heard  around. 
Young  AziM  roams  bewilder'd, — nor  can  guess 
Wh.at  means  this  maze  of  light  and  loneliness. 
Here,  the  way  leads,  o'er  tesselated  floors 
Or  mats  of  Cairo,  through  long  corridors. 
Where,  ranged  in  cassolcts  and  silver  urns. 
Sweet  wood  of  aloe  or  of  sandal  burns : 
And  sjiicy  rods,  sueli  as  illume  at  night 
The  bow'rs  of  Tibet,"  send  forth  odorous  light. 
Like  Peris'  wands,  when  pointing  out  the  road 
For  some  pure  Spirit  to  its  blest  abode: — 
And  here,  at  once,  the  glittering  saloon 
Bursts  on  his  sight,  boundless  and  bright  as  noon 
Where,  in  the  midst,  reflecting  back  the  rays 
In  broken  rainbows,  a  fresh  fountain  plays 
High  as  th'  cnamcU'd  cupola,  which  tow'rs 
All  rich  with  Arabesques  of  gold  and  flow'rs 
And  the  mosaic  floor  beneath  shines  through 
The  sprinkling  of  that  fountain's  silv'ry  dew. 
Like  the  wet,  glist'ning  shells,  of  ev'ry  dye. 
That  on  the  margin  of  the  Red  Sea  lie. 

Here  too  he  traces  the  kind  visitings 
Of  woman's  love  in  those  fair,  living  things 
Of  land  and  wave,  whose  fate — in  bond.agc  thro;  n 
For  their  weak  loveliness — is  like  her  own  I 
On  one  side  gleaming  with  a  sudden  grace 
Through  water,  brilliant  as  the  crystal  vase 
In  which  it  undulates,  small  fishes  shine. 
Like  golden  ingots  from  a  fairy  mine; — 
While,  on  the  other,  latticed  lightly  in 
With  odoriferous  woods  of  Cotiorin," 
Each  brilliant  bird  that  wings  the  air  is  seen ; — 
(i;iy,  sparkling  loories,  such  .'is  gleam  between 
The  crimson  blossoms  of  the  coral  tree" 
In  the  warm  isles  of  India's  sunny  sea: 
Jlecc.x's  blue  sacred  pigeon,'"  and  the  thrush 
Of  Hindostan,"  whose  holy  warbllngs  gush. 
At  evening,  from  the  tall  pagoda's  top; — 
Those  golden  birds  that,  in  the  si)ice-time,  drop 
About  the  gardens,  drunk  with  that  .sweet  food" 
Whose  scent   hath   Inicd   them   o'er   the   summci 

flood ;" 
And  those  that  under  .'Vraby's  soft  s\in 
Build  their  high  nests  of  budding  cinnamon  ;" 
In  short,  nil  rare  and  beauteous  things,  that  fly 
Through  the  pmc  clement,  here  calmly  lie 
Slee|iiiig  in  light,  like  the  green  birds"  that  dwell 
In  Lden's  radiant  fields  of  asphodel; 

So  on,  through  sceiu's  past  all  imagining. 
More  like  the  lu.vurles  of  that  impious  King," 
Whom  Death's  dark  Angel,  with  his  lightning  loreri, 
Sinu'k  down  atui  blnstcd  ev'n  in  Pleasure's  porch. 


LALLA  llOOKH. 


13 


Tliim  tlie  pure  dwelling  of  u  Prophet  sent, 

Arm'd  willi  Heaven's  swonl,  fur  man's  entVanchisc- 

meiit — 
Youiiif  AziM  wander'd,  looking  sternly  round, 
His  simple  garb  and  war-bootii'  clanking  Bound 
l?ut  ill  according  with  the  pomp  and  grace 
Ajid  silent  lull  of  that  voluptuous  place. 

"  Isi  this,  then,"  thought  the  youth,  "  is  this  the 
way 
"  To  free  man's  spirit  from  the  dead'ning  sway 
"  Of  worldly  sloth, — to  teach  him  wliile  he  lives, 
"  To  know  no  bliss  but  that  which  virtue  gives, 
"And  when  he  dies,  to  leave  his  lofty  name 
"  A  light,  a  landmark  on  the  cliffs  of  fame  ? 
"It  was  not  so,  Land  of  the  generous  thought 
"And  daring  deed,  thy  godlike  sages  taught; 
'  It  was  not  thus,  in  bowers  of  wanton  ease, 
"Thy  Freedom  nursed  her  sacred  energies; 
"Oh!  not  beneath  th'  enfeebling,  with'ring  glow 
•'Of  such  dull  lux'ry  did  those  myrtles  grow, 
"  With  winch  she  wreathed  her  sword,  when  she 

would  dare 
"Immortal  deeds;  but  in  the  bracing  air 
"Of  toil, — of  temperance, — of  that  high,  rare, 
"Ethereal  virtue,  which  alone  can  breathe 
"Life,  health,  and  lustre  into  Freedom's  wreath. 
"Who,  th.at  surveys  this  span  of  earth  we  press, — 
"  This  specli  of  life  in  time's  great  wilderness. 
This  narrow  isthmus  'tv/ixt  two  boundless  seas. 
The  past,  the  future,  two  eternities! — ■ 
Would  sully  the  bright  spot,  or  leave  it  bare, 
When  he  might  build  him  a  proud  temple  there, 
A  name,  tli.at  long  sh.all  hallow  all  its  sp.ace. 
And  be  each  purer  soul's  high  resting-place. 
But  no — it  cannot  be,  that  one,  whom  God 
Has  sent  to  break  the  wizard  Falsehood's  rod, — 
A  Prophet  of  the  Truth,  whose  mission  draws 
Its  rights  from  Heaven,  should  thus  profane  its 

cause 
With  the  world's  vulgar  pomps;-:— no,  no, — I  see — 
He  thinks  me  weak — this  glare  of  luxury 
Is  but  to  tempt,  to  try  the  eaglet  gaze 
Of  my  young  soul— shine   on,  'twill  stand  the 
blaze !" 


So  thought  the  youth; — but,  cv'n  while  he  defied 
This  witching  scene,  he  felt  its  witch'ry  glide 
Through   ev'ry    sense.      The    perfume   breathing 

round, 
Like  ii  pervading  spirit; — the  still  sound 
Of  falling  waters,  lulling  as  the  song 
Of  Indian  bees  at  sunset,  when  they  throng 
Around  the  fragrant  Nilica,  and  deep 
In  its  bUie  blossoms  hum  themselves ta sleep;" 


\. 


And  music,  too— dear  music !  that  can  touch 

Beyond  all  else  the  .soul  that  loves  it  much — :/ 

Now  heard  far  od'  so  f.ir  as  but  to  seem 

Like  the  faint,  exquisite  music  of  a  dream  ; 

All  was  too  nmch  for  him,  too  full  of  bliss. 

The  heart  could  nothing  feel,  that  felt  not  this ; 

Soften'd  he  sunk  upon  a  couch,  and  gave 

His  soul  up  to  sweet  thoughts,  like  wave  on  wave 

Succeeding  in  smooth  se.i.s,  when  storms  arc  laid ; 

He  thought  of  Zelica,  his  own  dear  maid. 

And  of  the  time  when,  full  of  blissful  sighs, 

They  sat  and  look'd  into  each  other's  eyes. 

Silent  and  happy — as  if  God  had  giv'n 

Naught  else  worth  looking  at  on  this  side  heav'n. 

"Oh,  my  loved  mistress,  thou,  whose  spirit  still 
"  Is  with  me,  round  me,  wander  where  I  will — 
"  It  is  for  thee,  for  thee  alone  I  seek 
"The  paths  of  glory;  to  light  up  thy  cheek 
"  With  warm  approval — in  that  gentle  look, 
"  To  read  ray  praise,  as  in  an  angel's  book, 
"  And  think  all  toils  rew.arded,  when  from  thee 
"I  gain  a  smile  worth  immortality! 
"How  shall  I  bear  the  moment,  when  restored 
"To  that  young  heart  where  I  alone  am  Lord, 
"  Though  of  such  bliss  unworthy, — since  the  best 
"  Alone  deserve  to  be  the  happiest : — 
"  When  from  those  lips,  unbreathed  upon  for  years,    I 
"I  shall  again  kiss  off  the  soul-felt  tears, 
"And  find  those  tears  warm  as  when   last  they 

started, 
"  Those  sacred  kisses  pure  as  when  we  parted. 
"  O  my  own  life  ! — why  should  a  single  day, 
"A  moment  keep  me  from  those  arms  aw.ayl" 

While  thus  he  thinks,  still  nearer  on  the  breeze 
Come  those  delicious,  dream-like  harmonies, 
Each  note  of  which  but  adds  new,  downy  links 
To  the  soft  chain  in  which  his  spirit  sinks. 
He  turns  him  tow'rd  the  sound,  .and  far  away 
Through  a  long  vista,  sparkling  with  the  play 
Of  countless   lamps, — like  the   rich   track  which 

Day 
Leaves  on  the  waters,  when  he  sinks  from  us. 
So  long  the  p.ath,  its  light  so  tremulous; — 
He  sees  a  group  of  fem.ile  forms  advance. 
Some  chain'd  together  in  the  mazy  dance 
By  fetters,  forged  in  the  green  sunny  bow'rs, 
As  they  were  captives  to  the  King  of  Flow'rs ;" 
And  some  disporting  round,  unlink'd  and  free. 
Who  seem'd  to  mock  their  sisters'  slavery; 
And  round  and  round  them  still,  in  wheeling  flight 
Went,  like  gay  moths  about  a  lamp  at  night; 
While  others  waked,  .as  gracefully  .along 
Their  fctt  kept  time,  the  very  soul  of  scng 


14 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


From  psalt'ry,  pipe,  and  lutes  of  lieav'nly  thrill, 
Or  their  own  youthful  voices,  heav'nlier  still. 
And  now  they  come,  now  pass  before  his  eye, 
Forms  such  as  Nature  moulds,  when  she  would  vie 
With  Fancy's  pencil,  and  ^ve  birth  to  things 
Lovclv  beyond  its  fairest  picturing-s. 
Awhile  they  dance  before  him,  tlien  divide. 
Breaking,  like  rosy  clouds  at  even-tide 
.■\round  tlie  rich  p.ivilion  of  the  sun, — 
Till  silently  dispersing,  one  by  one. 
Through  many  a  path,  that  from  the  chamber  leads 
To  gardens,  terraces,  and  moonlight  meads. 
Their  distant  laughter  comes  upon  the  wind, 
.\nd  but  one  trembling  nymph  remains  behind, — 
Beek'ning  thcin  back  in  vain,  for  they  are  gone. 
And  she  is  left  in  all  that  light  alone; 
No  veil  to  curtain  o'er  !ier  beauteous  brow, 
In  its  young  bashfulness  more  beauteous  now ; 
But  a  light  golden  chain-work  round  her  hair," 
Such  as  the  maids  of  Yezd"  and  Shiras  wear. 
From  which,  on  cither  side,  gr.nccfiiUy  hung 
.\  golden  .amulet,  in  tli'  Arab  tongue, 
l'2ngravcn  o'er  with  some  iniinortal  line 
From  Holy  Writ,  or  bard  scarce  less  divine ; 
While  her  left  h.and,  as  shrinkingly  she  stood. 
Held  a  small  lute  of  gold  .and  sand.al-wood, 
Which,  once  or  twice,  she  touch'd  with  hurried 

strain. 
Then  took  her  trembling  fingers  off  again. 
But  when  at  length  a  timid  glance  she  stole 
At  AziM,  the  sweet  gravity  of  soul 
She  saw  through  .all  his  fe.atures  calm'd  her  fear. 
And,  like  a  half-tamed  antelope,  more  near, 
Though  shrinking  still,  she  came; — then  sat  her 

down 
Upon  a  musnnd's"  edge,  and,  bolder  grown. 
In  the  pathetic  mode  of  Isfahan" 
Touch'd  a  preluding  strain,  .and  thus  beg.an : — 

There's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendemeer's"  stream, 
And  the  nightingale  sings  round  it  all  the  day 
long; 
[n  the  time  of  my  childhood  'tw.as  like  a  sweet 
dream. 
To  sit  in  the  roses  and  hear  the  bird's  song. 

That  bower  and  its  music  I  never  forget, 

But  oft  when  alone,  in  the  bloom  of  the  year, 

I  think — U  the  nightingale  singing  there  yot? 
Are  the  roses  still  bright  by  the  calm  Bekde- 

MEER? 

No,  the  roses  soon  wilhcr'd  that  hijng  o'er  the  wave, 
But  Homo  blossoms  were  gatlier'd,  wliilc  freshly 
thpv  "liono, 


And  a  dew  was  distill'd  from  their  ilowers,  that 
gave 
All  the  fragrance  of  summer,  wlien  summer  was 
gone. 

Thus  memory  draws  from  delight,  ere  it  dies. 
An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  many  a  year; 
Thus   bright   to   my  soul,  as   'twas   then   to   my 
eyes, 
Is  that  bower  on  the  banks  of  the  calm  BesijE- 
MEER  ! 

"  Poor  maiden !"    thought  the  youth,  "  if  thou 
wort  sent, 
"  With  thy  soft  lute  and  beauty's  bl.indisliraent, 
"  To  v.'akc  unholy  wislics  in  this  heart, 
"Or  tempt  its  troth,  thou  little  know'st  the  art. 
"For  though  thy  lip  should  sweetly  counsel  wrong 
"  Those  vestal  eyes  would  disavow  its  song. 
"  But  thou  h.ast  breathed  such  purity,  thy  lay 
"  Returns  so  fondly  to  youth's  virtuous  d.iy, 
"And  le.ads  thy  soul — if  e'er  it  wandered  thence — 
"  So  gently  back  to  its  first  innocence, 
"That  I  would  sooner  slop  tlic  unchnin'd  dove, 
"  Wlien  swift  returning  to  its  home  of  love, 
"  And  round  its  8no\yy  wing  new  fetters  twine, 
"Than  turn  from  virtue  one  pure  wish  of  thine!" 

Scarce  h.ad  this  feeling  pass'd.  when,  sparklin> 
through 
The  gently  open'd  curtains  of  light  blue 
That  veil'd  the  breezy  casement,  countless  eyes. 
Peeping  like  stars  through  the  blue  ev'ning  skies, 
l.ook'd  laughing  in,  as  if  to  mock  the  pair 
That  sat  so  still  and  melancholy  there: — 
And  now  the  curtains  fly  apart,  and  in 
From  the  cool  air,  'mid  show'rs  of  jessamine 
Which  those  without  lling  after  them  in  play. 
Two  lightsome  maidens  spring, — lightsome  as  they 
Who  live  in  th'  air  on  odors, — and  around 
The  bright  saloon,  scarce  conscious  of  the  ground, 
Ch.ase  one  .another,  in  a  varying  dance 
Of  mirth  and  languor,  coyness  and  advance. 
Too  eloquently  like  love's  warm  pursuit : — 
While  she,  who  sung  so  gently  to  the  lute 
Her  dream  of  home,  steals  timidly  away. 
Shrinking  as  violets  do  in  summer's  ray, — 
But  t^dtcs  with  her  from  Azim's  heart  that  sigh, 
We  sometimes  give  to  forms  that  pass  ns  by 
In  the  world's  crowd,  too  lovely  to  remain, 
Creatures  of  light  we  never  see  ngnin  ! 

Around  the  white  necks  of   the   nymphs  who 
danced 
Hung  cnrcnnet^  of  orient  genu,  that  glanced 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


16 


More  brilliant  than  the  sea-ghiss  glittVing  o'er 

Tliu  hills  of  crystal  on  the  Caspian  8hore  ;" 

While  from  their  lon!x,  dark  tresses,  in  a  fall 

Of  curls  descending,  bells  as  musical 

As  those  that,  on  the  golden-shafted  trees 

Of  Edf.n,  shake  in  the  eternal  breeze," 

Rung  round  their  stops,  at  ev'ry  bound  more  sweet, 

As  'twere  tli'  ecstatic  language  of  their  feet. 

At   length   the   chase    was   o'er,  and   they   stood 

wreathed 
Within  each  other's  arms ;  while  soft  there  breathed 
Through  the  cool  casement,  mingled  with  the  sighs 
Of  moonlight  flow'rs,  music  that  seem'd  to  rise 
From  some  still  lake,  so  liquidly  it  rose ; 
And,  as  it  swell'd  again  at  each  fiint  close. 
The  ear  could  track  through  all  that  maze  of  chords 
And  young  sweet  voices,  these  impassion'd  words: 

A  Spirit  there  is,  whose  fragrant  sigh 
Is  burning  now  through  earth  and  air; 

Where  cheeks  are  blushing,  the  Spirit  is  nigli, 
Where  lips  are  meeting,  the  Spirit  is  there! 

His  breath  is  the  soul  of  flow'rs  like  these. 
And  his  floating  eyes — oh  !  they  resemble'' 

Blue  water-lilies,"  when  the  breeze 

Is  making  the  stream  around  them  tremble. 

Ilail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  kindling  pow'r! 

Spirit  of  Love,  Spirit  of  Bliss! 
Thy  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  hour. 

And  there  never  was  moonlight  so  sweet  as  this. 

By  the  fair  and  brave 

Who  blushing  unite. 
Like  the  sun  and  wave. 

When  they  meet  at  night ; 

By  the  tear  tluit  shows 

When  passion  is  nigh, 
As  the  rain-drop  flows 

From  the  heat  of  the  sky  ; 

By  the  first  love-beat 

Of  the  youthful  heart. 
By  the  bliss  to  meet. 

And  the  pain  In  part; 

By  all  that  thou  hast 

To  raort.ils  given. 
Which — oh,  could  it  last, 

This  earth  were  heaven  ! 

(Ve  cal!  thee  hither,  entrancing  Power ! 
Spirit  of  Love,  Spirt  of  Bliss! 


Thy  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  hour, 

And  there  never  was  moonlight  so  swtct  as  this. 

Impatient  of  a  scene,  whose  lu.\'ries  stole. 
Spite  of  himself,  too  deep  into  his  soul. 
And  where,  midst  all  that  the  young  heart  loves 

most, 
Flow'rs,  music,  smiles,  to  yield  was  to  be  lost, 
The  youth  had  started  up,  and  turn'd  away 
From  the  light  nymphs,  and  their  lu.xurious  lay. 
To  muse  upon  the  pictures  that  hung  round, — "' 
Bright  images,  that  spoke  without  a  sound. 
And  views,  like  vistas  into  f  liry  ground. 
But  here  again  new  spells  came  o'er  his  sense: — 
All  that  the  pencil's  mute  omnipotence 
Could  call  up  into  life,  of  soft  and  fair. 
Of  fond  and  ^j.issionate,  was  glowing  there  ; 
Nor  yet  too  warm,  but  touch'd  with  that  line  art 
Which  paint'*  \>2  pleasure  but  the  purer  part ; 
Which    kno'«»    ev'n    Beauty    when    haif-veil'd   is 

best,— 
Like  her  own  .■.'ch.xiit  planet  of  the  west, 
Wliose  orb  win-'?  h;Mf  retired  looks  loveliest." 
There  hung  the  hi^t'iry  of  the  Genii-King, 
Traced  through  each  n.iy,  voluptuous  wandering 
With  her  from  Saba's  hovi'crs,  in  whose  bright  eyb ) 
He  read  that  to  be  bles*.  is  to  be  wise ; — '" 
Here  fond  Zulkika"  woes  ^\  ii.S  open  arms 
The  Hebrew  boy,  who  flics  fr^m  \\zr  youog  chari*** 
Yet,  flying,  turns  to  gaze,  and,  haU  undonir. 
Wishes  that  Ilenv'n  and  she  coi'hl  h'tth  bo  wo'- • 
And  here  Mohammed,  born  for  love  vd  t.'i-i''. 
Forgets  the  Koran  in  his  Mary's  smih'-; — 
Then  beckons  some  kind  angel  from  abcv« 
With  a  new  text  to  consecrate  their  love."' 

With  rapid  step,  yet  pleased  and  ling'ring  e;*- 
Did  the  youth  pass  these  pictured  stories  by, 
And  hasten'd  to  a  casement,  where  the  light 
Of  the  calm  moon  came  in,  and  freshly  bright 
The  fields  without  were  seen,  sleeping  as  still 
As  if  no  life  rcmain'd  in  breeze  or  rill. 
Here  paused  he,  while  the  music,  now  less  near. 
Breathed  with  a  holier  language  on  his  ear, 
-As  though  the  distance,  and  that  hoav'nly  ray 
Through  whicli  the   sounds   came  floating,  took 

away 
All  that  had  been  too  earthly  in  the  lay. 

Oh !  could  he  listen  to  such  sounds  unmoved. 
And  by  th.at  light — nor  dream  of  her  he  loved? 
Dream  on,  unconscious  boy  !  while  yet  thou  may'st ; 
'Tis  the  last  bliss  thy  soul  shall  ever  taste. 
Clasp  yet  awhile  her  image  to  thy  heart. 
Ere  all  the  light,  that  made  it  dear,  depart. 


16 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Think  of  her  smiles  as  when  thou  s.iw'st  them  last, 
Clear,  beautiful,  by  naught  of  earth  o'ercast; 
Recall  her  tears,  to  thee  at  parting  giv'n. 
Pure  as  they  weep,  (/"angels  weep,  in  Heav'n. 
Think,  in  her  own  still  bower  she  waits  thee  now, 
With  the  same  glow  of  heart  and  bloom  of  brow, 
Vet  shrined  in  solitude — thine  all,  thine  only- 
Like  the  one  star  above  thee,  bright  and  lonely. 
Oh!  that  a  dream  so  sweet,  so  long  enjoy 'd. 
Should  be  so  sadly,  cruelly  destroy'd! 

Tlie  song  is  husli'd,  the   laugliing  nymphs  are 

flown, 
And  he  is  loft,  musing  of  bliss,  alone ; — 
Alone? — no,  not  alone — that  heavy  sigh. 
That  sob  of  grief,  wliioh  broke  from   some  one 

nigli — 
Whose  could  it  be? — alas  I  is  misery  found 
Here,  even  here,  on  this  enchanted  ground  ? 
He  turns,  and  sees  a  female  form,  close  veil'd, 
Leaning,  as  if  both  heart  and  strength  had  fail'd. 
Against  a  pillar  near; — not  gUtt'ring  o'er 
With  gems  and  wreaths,  such  as  the  others  wore, 
But  in  that  deep-blue,  melancholy  dress," 
Bokhara's  maidens  wear  in  mindfulness 
Of  friends  or  kindred,  dead  or  far  away ; — 
And  such  as  Zelica  had  on  that  day 
Ue  left  her — when,  with  heart  too  full  to  speak. 
Ho  took  away  her  last  warm  tears  upon  his  check. 

A  strange  emotion  slira  within  him, — more 
Than  mere  compassion  ever  waked  before  ; 
Unconsciously  he  opes  his  arms,  while  she 
Springs  forward,  as  with  life's  Inst  energy. 
But,  swooning  in  tliat  one  convulsive  bound, 
Sinks,  ere  she  reach  his  arms,  upon  the  ground; — 
Her  veil  falls  off — her  faint  hands  clasp  his  knees — 
'Tis  she  herself! — 'tis  Zelica  he  sees! 
'  But,  ah,  so  pale,  so  changed — none  but  a  lover 
i  Could  in  that  wreck  of  beauty's  shrine  discover 
The  nnce-adorcd  ilivinity — ev'n  ho 
Stood  for  some  moments  mute,  and  doubtingly 
Put  back  the  ringlets  from  her  brow,  and  gazed 
Upon  those  lids,  where  once  such  lustre  blazed. 
Ere  ho  could  think  she  was  indeed  his  own, 
Own  darling  maid,  whom  he  so  long  had  known 
In  joy  and  sorrow,  beautiful  in  both  ; 
Who,  ov'n  when  grief  was  heaviest — when  lolh 
He  left  her  for  the  wars — in  that  worst  hour 
Sat  in  Iter  sorrow  like  the  sweet  night-flow'r,"' 
When  darkness  brings  its  weeping  glories  out. 
And  Kprrods  iUs  sighs  like  frankincense  .about. 

•'  lyioK  up,  my  Zelica — one  moment  show 
"Tlioflo  gontic  eyes  to  mc,  that  I  ni.iy  know 


"Thy  life,  thy  loveliness  is  not  all  gone, 
"  But  there,  at  least,  shines  as  it  ever  shone. 
"  Come,  look  upon  thy  Azim — one  dear  glance, 
'■Like  those  of  old,  were  heav'n!  whatever  chance 
■•Hath  brought  thee  here,  oh, 'twas  a  blessed  one! 
'■  There — my  loved  lips — they  move — that  kiss  hat! 

run 
"  Like  the  first  shoot  of  life  through  every  vein, 
"And  now  I  clasp  her,  mine,  all  mine  again. 
'•Oh  the  delight — now,  in  this  very  hour, 
"  When   had   the  whole   rich  world   been   in  my 

pow'r, 
"I  should  have  singled  o>it  thee,  only  tliee, 
"  From  the  whole  world's  collected  treasury — 
"  To  have  thee  here — to  hang  thus  fondly  o'er 
••  My  own,  best,  purest  Zelica  once  more !" 

It  was  indeed  the  touch  of  those  fond  lips 
Upon  her  eyes  that  chased  their  short  eclipse, 
And,  gradual  as  the  snow,  .at  Heaven's  breath. 
Melts  off  and  shows  the  azure  flow'rs  beneath. 
Her  lids  unclosed,  and  the  bright  eyes  were  seen 
Gazing  on  his — not,  as  they  late  had  been. 
Quick,  restless,  wild,  but  mournfully  serene ; 
As  if  to  lie,  ev'n  for  th.at  tranced  minute. 
So  near  his  heart,  had  consolation  in  it ; 
.\nd  thus  to  wake  in  his  beloved  caress 
Took  from  her  soul  one  half  its  wretchedness. 
But,  when  she  heard  him  call  her  good  and  pure, 
Oh,  'twas  too  much — too  dreadful  to  endure! 
Shudd'ring  she  broke  away  from  his  embrace, 
And,  hiding  with  both  hands  her  guilty  face. 
Said,  in  a  tone  whose  anguish  would  have  riv'n 
A  heart  of  very  marble,  "Pure! — oh  Heav'n!" — 

That  tone — those  looks  so  changed — the  wither. 

ing  blight, 
Th.at  sin  and  sorrow  leave  where'er  they  light; 
The  dead  des|)(indency  of  those  sunk  eyes, 
Where  once,  had  ho  thus  mot  her  by  surprise, 
He  would  have  seen  himself,  (oo  happy  boy. 
Reflected  in  a  thousand  lights  of  joy; 
And  then  the  ]ilace, — that  bright,  unholy  pl.aco, 
Where  vice  lay  hid  beneath  such  winning  grace 
And  charm  of  lux'ry,  as  the  viper  weaves 
lis  wily  cov'ring  of  sweet  balsam  leaves, — °' 
All  struck  upiMi  his  heart,  sudden  and  cold 
As  death  itself; — it  nerds  not  to  be  told — 
No,  no — he  sees  it  idl,  |)l,iin  as  the  brand 
Of  burning  shnmc  can  mark — whato'er  the  hand, 
That  could  from  Heav'n  and  him  such  brightness 

sever, 
'Tis  done — to  Heav'n  and  him  she's  lost  for  ever! 
It  \v;is  a  dreadful  moment;  not  the  tears. 
The  ling'ring,  lasting  misery  of  ycara 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


17 


Could  match  that  minute's  anjjuisli — all  tlie  worst 
Of  sorrow's  elements  in  that  dark  hurst 
Broke  o'er  hia  soul,  and,  witli  one  crash  of  fate. 
Laid  the  whole  hopes  of  his  life  dcso  ale. 

'■Oh!  curse  nie  not,"  she  cried,  as  wild  he  toss'd 
His  desp'rate  hand  tow'rds  Heav'n — "  though  I  am 

lost, 
"  Think  not  that  guilt,  that  falsehood  made  me  fall, 
"  No,  no — 'twas  grief,  'twas  madness  did  it  all ! 
"Nay,  doubt  me   not — thouifh  all   thy  love  hath 

ceased — 
"  I  know  it  hath — yet,  yet  believe,  at  least, 
"  That  every  spark  of  reason's  light  must  be 
"  Quench'd  in  this  brain,  ere  I  could  stray  from  thee. 
"  They  told  me  thou  wert  dead — why,  AziM,  wliy 
"  Did  we  not,  both  of  us,  that  instant  die 
"  When  we  were  parted  ?   oh !   couldst  thou  but 

know 
"  With  what  a  deep  dcvotedness  of  w-oo 
"  I  wept  thy  absence — o'er  and  o'er  again 
"  Thinking  of  tliee,  still  thee,  till  thought  grew 

pain, 
't  And  mem'rj',  like  a  drop  that,  night  and  day, 
'*  Falls  cold  and  ceaseless,  wore  my  heart  away. 
"  Didst  thou  but  know  how  pale  I  sat  at  home, 
"  My  eyes  still  turn'd  tlie  way  thou  wert  to  come, 
'•  And,  all  the  long,  long  night  of  hope  and  fear, 
"  Thy  voice  and  step  still  sounding  in  my  ear — 
"  Oil  God !  thou  wouldst  not  wonder  that,  at  last, 
"  When  every  hope  was  all  at  once  o'ercast, 
"  Wiien  I  heard  frightful  voices  round  rae  say 
"  Azim  is  dead! — this  wretched  brain  gave  way, 
"  And  I  became  a  wreck,  at  random  driven, 
"  Without  one  glimpse  of  reason  or  of  Ileav'n — 
"  All  wild — and  even  this  quenchless  love  within 
"  Turn'd  to  foul  tires  to  light  me  into  sin! — 
"  Thou  pitiest  me — I  knew  thou  wouldst — that  sky 
"  Hiith  naught  beneath  it  half  so  lorn  as  I. 
"  The  fiend,  who  lured  me  hither — hist !  come  near, 
"  Or  thou  too,  thou  art  lost,  if  he  should  hear — 
"Told  me  such  things — oh!  with  such  dev'lish  art, 
"  As  would  have  ruin'd  ev'n  a  holier  heart — 
"  Of  thee,  and  of  that  ever-radiant  sphere, 
"  Where  bless'd  at  length,  if  I  but  served  him  here, 
"  I  should  for  ever  live  in  thy  dear  sight, 
"  And  drinl;  from  those  pure  eyes  eternal  light. 
"  Think,  think  how  lost,  how  madden'd  I  must  be, 
"  To  hope  that  guilt  could  lead  to  God  or  thee ! 
"  Thou  weep'st  for  me — do  weep — oli,  that  I  durst 
"  Kiss  off  that  tear!  but,  no — these  lips  are  cursed, 
"  They  must  not  touch  thee  ; — one  divine  caress, 
••  One  blessed  moment  of  forgetfulness 
"  I've  had  within  those  arms,  and  that  shall  lie, 
"  Shrined  in  my  soul's  deep  mem'ry  till  I  die; 
VOL.  u. — 3 


"The  last  of  joy's  last  relics  here  below, 
"The  one  sweet  drop,  in  all  this  waste  of  woe, 
"My  heart  has  treasured  from  alTecIion's  spring, 
"  To  soothe  and  cool  its  deadly  withering ! 
"  But  thou — yes,  thou  must  go — for  ever  go ; 
"  This  place  is  not  for  thee — for  thee  !  oh  no : 
"Did  I  but  tell  thee  half,  thy  tortured  brain 
"  Would  burn  like  mine,  and  mine  go  wild  again  ! 
"  Enough,  that  Guilt  reigns  here — that  hearts,  once 

good, 
"  Now  tainted,  cliill'd,  and  broken,  are  his  food. — 
"  Enough,  that  we  are  parted — that  there  rolls 
"  A  flood  of  headlong  fate  between  our  souls, 
"Whose  darkness  severs  me  as  wide  from  thee        \ 
"  As  hell  from  heav'n,  to  all  eternity  !" 

"  Zelica,  Zelica  !"  the  youth  ex'claim'd, 
In  all  the  tortures  of  a  mind  inflamed 
Almost  to  madness — "  by  that  sacred  Heav'n, 
"Where  yet,  if  pray'rs  can  move,  thou'lt  be  for- 

giv'n, 
"As  thou  art  here — here,  in  this  writhing  heart, 
"  All  sinful,  wild,  and  ruin'd  as  thou  art ! 
"  By  the  remembrance  of  our  once  pure  love, 
"  Which,  like  a  churchyard  light,  still  burns  above 
"  The  grave  of  our  lost  souls — which  guilt  in  thee 
"  Cannot  extinguish,  nor  despair  in  me ! 
"  I  do  conjure,  implore  thee  to  fly  hence — 
"If  thou  hast  yet  one  spark  of  innocence, 
"Fly  with  me  from  this  place" — 

"With  thee!  oh  bliss! 
"'Tis  worth  whole  years  of  torments  to  hear  this. 
"What!    take   the   lost    one  with  thee? — let  her 

rove 
"  By  thy  dear  side,  as  in  those  days  of  love, 
"  When  we  were  both  so  happy,  both  so  pure — 
"  Too  heav'nly  dream  !  if  tliere's  on  earth  a  cure 
"For  the  sunk  heart,  'tis  this — day  after  day 
"  To  be  the  bless'd  companion  of  thy  way  ; 
"  To  hoar  thy  angel  eloquence — to  see 
"  Those  virtuous  eyes  for  ever  turn'd  on  me ; 
"  And,  in  their  light  rechasten'd  silently,  \ 

"Like  the  stain'd  web  that  whitens  in  the  sun,       j' 
"Grows  pure  by  being  purely  shone  upon  !  J 

"  And  thou  wilt  pray  for  me — I  know  thou  wilt —  ' 
"^At  the  dim  vesper  hour,  when  thoughts  of  guilt 
"  Come  heaviest  o'er  the  heart,  thou'lt  lift  thine 

eyes, 
"Full  of  sweet  tears,  unto  the  dark'ning  skies, 
"  And  plead  t\ir  me  with  Heav'n.  till  I  can  dare 
"To  fix  my  own  weak,  sinful  glances  there; 
"Till  the  good  angels,  when  they  see  me  cling 
"  For  ever  near  thee,  pale  and  sorrowing, 
"  Shall  for  thy  sake  pronounce  my  soul  furgiv'n. 
"And  bid  tine  i:ikc  thy  weeping  slave  to  Heav'n! 


18 


:\[OOEES  AVOEKS. 


•♦  Oh  yes,  I'll  fly  with  thee " 

Scarce  had  she  said 
These  breathless  words,  when  a  voice  deep  and 

dread 
As  that  of  MoxKEK,  waking  up  the  dead 
From  tlicir  first  sleep — so  startlintr 'twas  to  hoth — 
Rung  through  the  casement  near,  "  Thv  oath  I  thy 

oath !" 
Oh  Heav'n,  the  ghastliness  of  that  Maid's  look  ! — 
"'Tis  he,"  faintly  she  cried,  while  terror  shook 
Her  inmost  core,  nor  durst  she  lift  her  eyes, 
Thongli   through   the  casement,  now,  naught  but 

the  skies 
And  moonlight  fields  were  seen,  calm  as  before — 
"Tis  he,  and  I  am  his — all,  all  is  o'er — 
"  Go — fly  this  instant,  or  thou'rt  ruin'd  too — 
"  My  oath,  my  oath,  oh  God !  'tis  all  too  true, 
"  True  as  the  worm  in  this  cold  heart  it  is — 
"I  am  Mokanna's  bride — his,  Aziii,  his — 
"The  Dead  stood  round  us,  while  I  spoke  that  vow, 
'■Their  blue  lips  ccho'd  it— I  hear  them  now! 
"Their  eyes  glared  on  me,  while  I  pledged  that 

bowl, 
"'Twas burning  blood — I  feel  it  in  my  soul! 
"And  the  Veil'd  Bridegroom — hist!  I've  seen  to- 
night 
"  What  angels  know  not  of — so  foul  a  sight, 
"So  horrible — oh!  never  may'st  thou  see 
"What  there  lies  hid  from  all  but  hell  and  me! 
"But  I  must  hence — oft"  off — I  am  not  thine, 
"  Nor  Ilcav'n's,  nor  Love's,  nor  aught  that  is  divine — 
"Hold  me  not— ha!  think'st  thou  the  fiends  that 

sever 
"Hearts,  cannot  sunder  hands? — thus,  then — for 

ever !" 

With  all  that  strength,  which  madness  lends  the 

weak. 
She  flung  away  his  arm ;  and,  with  a  shriek. 
Whose  sound,  though  he  should  linger  out  more 

years 
Than  wretch  e'er  told,  can  never  leave  his  ears — 
Flew  up  through  that  long  avenue  of  light, 
Fleetly  as  some  dark,  ominous  bird  of  night, 
Across  the  sun,  and  soon  was  out  of  sight! 


I.Ai.i.A  KfioKil  could  think  of  nothing  all  day  but 
the  misery  cflhcse  two  young  lovers. '  Hcrgayoty 
wns  gone,  and  she  looked  pensively  even  upon 
Fadladkejj.  She  felt,  too,  without  knowing  why, 
n  Hort  of  uneasy  pleasure  in  imagining  that  AziM 
muHt  have  been  just  such  a  youth  as  Fr.iiAMOiiz  ; 
jiiKt  n<i  worthy  to  enjoy  nil  th«  blesiilngH,  without 


any  of  the  pangs,  of  that  illusive  passion,  which  too 
often,  like  the  sunny  apples  ■>(  Istkahar,°°  is  all 
sweetness  on  one  side,  and  all  bitterness  on  tlie 
other. 

As  they  passed  along  a  sequestered  river  after 
sunset,  they  saw  a  young  Hindoo  girl  U|)on  the 
bank,"  whose  employment  seemed  to  them  so 
strange,  that  they  stopped  their  palankeens  to  ob- 
serve her.  She  had  lighted  a  small  lamp,  filled 
with  oil  of  cocoa,  and  placing  it  in  an  earthen  dish, 
adorned  with  a  wreath  of  flowers,  had  committed  it 
with  a  trembling  hand  to  the  stream ;  and  was  now 
an.\iously  watching  its  progress  down  the  current, 
heedless  of  the  gay  cavalcade  which  had  drawn  up 
beside  her.  Lalla  Rookh  was  all  curiosity; — 
when  one  of  her  attendants,  who  had  lived  upon 
the  banks  of  the  Ganges,  (where  this  cerenionv  is 
so  frequent,  that  often,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
the  river  is  seen  glittering  all  over  with  liglits,  like 
the  Oton-Tala,  or  Sea  of  Stars,''*)  informed  the 
Princess  that  it  was  the  usual  way  in  which  the 
friends  of  those  who  had  gone  on  dangerous 
voyages  offered  up  vows  for  their  safe  return.  If 
the  lamp  sunk  immediately,  the  omen  was  dis- 
astrous; but  if  it  went  shining  down  tlie  stream, 
and  continued  to  burn  till  entirely  ont  of  sight,  the 
return  of  the  beloved  object  was  considered  as 
certain. 

Lai.la  Rookh,  as  they  moveil  on,  more  than 
once  looked  back,  to  observe  how  the  young  Hin- 
doo's lamp  proceeded ;  and,  while  she  saw  with 
pleasure  that  it  was  still  nnextingnished,  she  could 
not  hclj)  fearing  that  all  the  hopes  of  this  life  were 
no  better  than  that  feeble  light  upon  the  river.  The 
remainder  of  the  journey  was  passed  in  silence. 
She  now,  for  the  first  time,  felt  that  shade  of  mel- 
ancholy which  comes  over  the  youthful  maiden's 
heart,  as  sweet  and  transient  as  Iier  own  broalh 
upon  a  mirror;  nor  was  it  till  she  heard  the  lute 
of  Feuamoi!Z,  touched  lightly  at  the  door  of  her 
pavilion,  that  she  waked  from  the  rcvery  in  which 
she  h.id  been  wandering.  Instantly  her  eyes  were 
liglited  up  with  pleasure;  and,  after  a  few  unheard 
remarks  from  Faiii.adf.i:n  upon  the  indecorum  of 
a  poet  seal hig  himself  in  presenco  of  a  I'rincess, 
every  thing  was  arranged  as  on  the  preceding  even- 
ing, and  nil  listened  with  eagerness,  while  the  story 
wn«  tlniH  continued  : — 


Wiio»B..'iro  the  gilded  Icnis  that  crowd  the  way, 
Whero  nil  wn*  wnHto  and  Bilont  yosterdar  ^ 


T'HE    PA.SFT11F1MT  Jfi 


LALLA  ROOKII. 


19 


This  City  of  W:ir  wliicli,  in  a  fow  sliovt  liours, 

ILuli  siu-uiig  lip  liorc,"'  as  if  tin?  magic  powers 

Of  Him  who,  in  the  twiiilding  of  a  star, 

Built  tlie  high  pillar'J  halls  of  Chilminar,'"" 

Had  conjured  up,  far  as  the  eye  can  see, 

This  world  of  tents,  and  domes,  and  snn-brifflit 

armory : — 
Princely  pavilions,  scrccii'd  by  many  a  fold 
Of  crimson  clolh,  and  topp'd  with  !;alls  of  gold: — 
Steeds,  with  their  liousings  of  rich  silver  spun, 
Their  chains  and  poitrels  glitt'ring  in  the  sun  ; 
And  camels,  tufted  o'er  with  Yemen's  shells,"' 
Shaking  in  every  breeze  llioir  light-toned  bells! 

But  ycster-eve,  so  motionless  around, 
So  mute  was  this  wide  plain,  that  not  a  sound 
But  the  far  torrent,  or  the  locust  bird '" 
Hunting  among  the  thickets,  could  be  heard; — 
Yet  hark !  what  discords  now,  of  ev'ry  kind, 
Shouts,  lauglis,  and  screams  are  revelling  in  the 

wind ; 
The  neigh  of  cavalry; — the  tinkling  throngs 
Of  laden  camels  and  their  drivers'  songs;'" — 
Ringing  of  arms,  and  flapping  in  the  breeze 
Of  streamers  from  ten  thousand  canopies ; — 
War-music,  bursting  out  from  time  to  time. 
With  gong  and  tymbalon's  tremendous  chime ; — 
Or,  in  the  pause,  when  harsher  sounds  are  mute, 
The  mellow  breathings  of  some  horn  or  flute. 
That  far  off,  broken  by  the  eagle  note 
Of  til'  Abyssinian  trumpet,'"  swell  and  float. 

Who  leads  this  mighty  army  ">. — ask  ye  "  who  ?"' 
And  mark  ye  not  those  banners  of  dark  hue, 
The  Night  and  Shadow,'"'  over  yonder  tent? — 
It  is  the  Caliph's  glorious  armament. 
Roused  in  Ids  Palace  by  the  dread  al.arms, 
That  hourly  came,  of  the  false  Prophet's  arms, 
And  of  his  host  of  infidels,  who  hurl'd 
Defiance  fierce  at  Islam'""  and  tlie  world, — 
Though  worn  with  Grecian  warfare,  and  behind 
The  veils  of  his  bright  Pal.ace  calm  reclined. 
Yet  brook'd  he  rot  such  blasphemy  should  stain. 
Thus  unrevenged,  the  evening  of  his  reign  ; 
But,  having  sworn  upon  tlie  Holy  Grave'"' 
To  conquer  or  to  perish,  once  more  gave 
His  shadowy  banners  proudly  to  the  breeze, 
And  with  an  army,  nursed  in  victories. 
Here  stands  to  crush  the  rebels  th.at  o'errun 
His  blest  and  beauteous  Province  of  the  Sun. 

Ne'er  did  the  march  of  Mahadi  display 
Such  pomp  before ; — not  ev'n  when  on  his  w.ay 
To  JIecca's  Temple,  when  both  land  and  sea 
Were  spoil'd  to  feed  the  Pilgrim's  luxury;'"' 


When  round  him,  mid  the  burning  .sands,  he  B.aw 

Fruits  of  the  North  in  icy  freshness  thaw, 

.^nd  conl'd  his  thirsty  .ip,  beneath  the  glow 

Of  Mecc.v's  sun,  with  urns  of  Persian  snow: — '"' 

Nor  e'er  did  armament  more  grand  than  that 

Pour  from  the  kingdoms  of  the  Caliphat. 

First,  in  the  van,  the  People  of  the  Rock,"" 

On  their  light  mountain  steeds,  of  royal  stock:'" 

Then,  chieftains  of  Damascus,  proud  to  see 

The  flashing  of  their  swords'  rich  maripietry  ; — '" 

Men,  from  the  regions  near  the  Volga's  mouth, 

Mix'd  with  the  rude,  bhick  archers  of  the  South; 

And  Indian  lancers,  in  white  turban'd  ranks, 

From  the  far  Sinde,  or  Attock's  sacred  banks, 

With  dusky  legions  from  the  Land  of  Myrrh,"" 

And  m.my  a  mace-arm'd  Moor  and  Mid-sea  islander. 

Nor  less  in  number,  though  more  new  and  rude 
In  warfare's  school,  was  the  vast  multitude 
That,  fired  by  zeal,  or  by  oppression  wrong'd. 
Round  the  white  standard  of  th'  impostor  throng'd. 
Beside  his  thousands  of  Believers — blind. 
Burning  and  headlong  as  the  Saraicl  wind — 
Jlany  who  felt,  and  more  who  fear'd  to  feel 
The  bloody  Islamite's  converting  steel, 
Flock'd  to  his  banner ; — Chiefs  of  th'  Uzbek  race, 
Waving  their  heron  crests  with  martial  grace  ;"* 
Turkomans,  countless  as  their  flocks,  led  forth 
From  til'  aromatic  pastures  of  the  North ; 
Wild  warriors  of  the  turquoise  hilLs,"" — and  those 
Who  dwell  beyond  the  everlasting  snows 
Of  Hindoo  Kosh,"°  in  stormy  freedom  bred, 
Their  fort  the  rock,  their  camp  the  torrent's  bed. 
But  none,  of  all  who  own'd  the  Chief's  command, 
Rush'd  to  th.at  battle-field  with  bolder  hand. 
Or  sterner  hate,  than  Iran's  outlaw'd  men,'" 
Her  Worshippers  of  Fire — all  panting  then 
For  vengeance  on  th'  accursed  Saracen ; 
Vengeance  at  last  for  their  dear  country  spurn'd. 
Her  throne  usurp'd,  and  her  bright  shrines  o'er- 

turn'd. 
From  Yezd's""  eternal  Mansion  of  the  Fire, 
Vv'here  aged  s.aints  in  dreams  of  Heav'n  expire: 
From  Badku,  and  those  fountains  of  blue  flame 
That  burn  into  the  Caspian,""  fierce  they  came, 
Careless  for  what  or  whom  the  blow-  was  sped. 
So  vengeance  triumph'd,  and  their  tyrants  bled. 

Sucli  was  the  wild  and  miseellaneous.  host, 
That  high  in  air  their  motley  banners  toss'd 
Around  the  Prophet-Chief — all  eyes  still  bent 
Upon  that  glittering  Veil,  where'er  it  went, 
That  beacon  through  the  battle's  stormy  flood, 
That  rainbow  of  the  field,  whoso  sliowers  were 
blood! 


20 


^[OOEE'S  WORKS. 


Twice  hath  the  sun  upon  tlicir  conflict  set, 
And  risen  nga'in,  and  found  them  grappling  yet; 
While  streams  of  carnage  in  his  noontide  bUize, 
Smoke  up  to  Heav'n — hot  as  that  crimson  Iiaze, 
By  wliich  the  prostrate  Caravan  is  awed,"° 
In  the  red  Desert,  wlien  the  wind's  abroad. 
"  On,  Swords  of  God  I"  the  panting  Caliph  calls, — 
'•Tlirones   for   the    living — Ileav'n   for   him    who 

falls!"— 
"  On,  brave  avengers,  on,"  JfoSAXXA  cries, 
'•  And  Eelis  blast  the  recreant  slave  that  flies !" 
Now  comes  the  brunt,  the  crisis  of  the  day — 
They  clash — they  strive — the  Caliph's  troops  give 

way  I 
Mokaxna's  self  plucks  the  black  Banner  down, 
And  now  the  Orient  World's  Imperial  crown 
Is  just  witliin  his  grasp — when,  hark,  that  shout! 
Some  hand  hath  check'd  the  flying  Moslem's  rout ; 
And  now  they  tur^  they  rally — at  their  head 
A  warrior,  (like  those  angel  youths  w-ho  led. 
In  glorious  panoply  of  Heav'n's  own  mail, 
The   Champions   of   the   Faith   through   Bedeh's 

vale,"') 
Bold  as  if  gifted  with  ten  thousand  lives, 
Turns  on  the  fierce  pursuer's  blades,  and  drives 
At  once  the  multitudinous  torrent  back — 
While  hope  and  courage  kindle  in  his  track  ; 
And,  at  each  step,  his  bloody  falchion  makes 
Terrible  vistas  through  which  vict'ry  breaks'! 
In  vain  Mokanxa,  midst  the  gvnoral  (light, 
Standi,  like  the  red  moon,  on  some  stormy  night. 
Among  the  fugitive  clouds  that,  hurrying  by, 
^  Leave  only  her  unsh.nken  in  the  sky — 
In  vain  he  yells  his  desperate  curses  out. 
Deals  death  promiscuously  to  all  about, 
To  foes  that  charge  and  coward  friends  that  fly, 
\nd  seems  of  flW  the  Great  Arch-enemy. 
riie  panic  spreads — "  A  miracle  !''  throughout 
The  Moslem  ranks,  "  a  miracle !"  they  shout. 
All  gazing  on  that  youth,  whose  coming  seems 
A  light,  a  glory,  such  as  breaks  in  dreams ; 
And  cv'ry  sword,  true  as  o'er  billows  dim 
The  needle  tracks  the  load-star,  following  him  ! 

Right  tow'rds  Mokanna  now  he  cleaves  his  path, 
Impatient  cleaves,  as  though  the  bolt  of  wrath 
lie  hears  from  Ileav'n  withheld  its  awful  bur.st 
From  weaker  heads,  and  souls  but  half  way  cursed, 
To  break  o'er  Him,  the  mightiest  and  the  worst! 
But  vain  his  speed — though,  in  that  hour  of  blood. 
Had  all  God's  senplis  round  Mokax.'sa  stood, 
Willi  "Words  of  fire,  ready  like  fate  to  fall, 
MoXAJtriA's  .soul  would  have  defied  them  all ; 
Yet  now,  llic  rush  of  fugitives,  too  strong 
For  human  force,  hurries  ov'n  him  alon;j: 


In  vain  he  struggles  'mid  the  wedg'd  arrav 
Of  flying  thousands — lie  is  borne  away ; 
And  the  sole  joy  his  batfled  spirit  knows. 
In  this  forced  flight,  is — murd'ring  as  he  goes ! 
As  a  grim  tiger,  whom  tiie  torrent's  might 
Surprises  in  some  pareh'd  ravine  at  night. 
Turns,  ev'n  in  drowning,  on  the  wretched  flocks, 
Swept  witli  him  in  that  snow-flood  from  the  rocks. 
And,  to  the  last,  devouring  on  his  w.-iy. 
Bloodies  the  stream  he  Iiath  not  power  to  stay. 

"Alia  ilia  Alia!" — the  glad  shout  renew — 
"Alia  Akb.ar!"'"— the  Caliph's  in  Merou. 
Hang  out  your  gilded  tapestry  in  the  streets, 
And  light  your  shrines  .ind  cluint  your  ziraleets.'"' 
The  Swords  of  God  Ijave  friumph'd — on  his  tliron* 
Your  Caliph  sits,  and  the  veil'd  Cliicf  hath  flown. 
Who  doth  not  envy  that  young  warrior  now. 
To  whom  the  Lord  of  Isl.im  bends  his  brow. 
In  all  the  graceful  gratitude  of  power, 
For  his  throne's  safety  in  that  perilous  hour? 
Who  doth  not  wonder,  wlien.  amidst  th'  .aeelaini 
Of  thousands,  heralding  to  heaven  his  name — 
'Jlid  all  those  holier  harmonies  of  f  mie, 
Which  sound  along  the  path  of  virtuous  souls, 
Like  music  round  a  planet  as  it  rolls, — 
He  turns  away — coldly,  as  if  some  gloom 
Hung  o'er  his  heart  no  triumphs  can  illume ; — 
Some  sightless  grief,  upon  whose  blasted  gaze 
Thougli  glory's  light  may  play,  in  vain  it  plays. 
Yes,  wretched  A/IM !  thine  is  such  a  grief, 
Bevond  all  hope,  all  terror,  all  relief;  * 

A  dark,  cold  calm,  which  nothing  now  cm  break. 
Or  warm  or  brighten, — like  that  Syrian  Lake," 
Upon  whose  surface  morn  and  summer  shed 
Their  smiles  in  vain,  for  all  beneath  is  dead  I — 
Hearts  there  have  been,  o'er  which  this  weight  of  woo 
Cnnie  bv  long  use  of  suff'ring.  fame  and  slow; 
r.ut  thine,  lost  yohth!  was  sudden — over  thee 
It  broke  nt  once,  when  all  seem'd  ecstasy; 
When  Hope  look'd  up,  and  saw  the  gir.omy  Past 
Melt  into  splendor,  and  Bliss  dawn  at  Last — 
'Twas  then,  ev'n  then,  o'er  joys  so  freshly  blown, 
This  mortal  blight  of  misery  came  down  ; 
Ev'n  then,  the  full,  warm  gushings  of  thy  heart 
Were    check'd — like    fount-drops,   frozen    as   they 

-::ni  — 
.\nd  there,  like  them,  cold,  .sunless  relies  hang. 
Each  fix'd  nnd  chill'd  into  a  lasting  pang. 

One  sole  desire,  one  passion  now  remains 
To  keep  life's  fever  still  within  his  veins, 
\'eng<'ance ! — dire  vengeance  on   the  wretch  who 

cast 
O'er  hiui  nnd  all  he  loved  that  ruii.nus  bInsL 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


21 


For  this,  when  rumors  rcacli'd  him  in  his  flight 

Far,  far  away,  after  that  fatal  night,— 

Rumors  of  armies,  thronging  to  111'  attack 

Of  the  Veil'd  Chief,— lor  thi-i  he  wing'J  him  back, 

Fleet  as  the  vnllure  speeds  to  flags  unfurl'd. 

And,  wlicn  all  hope  seem'd  dcsp'rate,  wildly  hurl'd 

Himself  into  the  sc;ile,  and  saved  a  world. 

For  this  ho  still  lives  on,  careless  of  all 

The  wreaths  that  Glory  on  his  patli  lets  fall ; 

For  this  alone  exists— like  liglitning-fire. 

To  speed  one  bolt  of  vengeance,  and  expire! 

But  safe  as  yet  that  Spirit  of  Evil  lives; 
With  a  small  band  of  desp'rate  fugitives, 
The  last  sole  stubborn  fragment,  left  unriv'n. 
Of  the  proud  host  that  late  stood  fronting  Heav'n, 
He  gain'd  Merou — breathed  a  short  curse  of  blood 
O'er    his    lost    throne — then    pass'd    the   Jihon's 

flood,''' 
And  gath'ring  all,  whose  madness  of  belief 
Still  saw  a  Saviour  in  their  down-fall'n  Cliicf, 
Raised  the  white  banner  within  Neksheb's  gates,'" 
And    there,   untamed,  th'   approaching    conqu'ror 
waits. 

Of  all  liis  Haram,  all  that  busy  hive 
With  music  and  with  sweets  sparkling  alive. 
He  took  but  one,  the  partner  of  his  flight. 
One — not  for  love — not  for  her  beauty's  light — 
No,  Zelica  stood  with'ring  'midst  the  gay. 
Wan  as  the  blossom  that  fell  yesterday 
From  th'  Alma  tree  and  dies,  while  overhead 
To-day's  young  flow'r  is  springing  in  its  stead.'"' 
Oh,  not  for  love — the  deepest  Damn'd  njust  be 
Toueh'd  with  Heaven's  glory,  ere  such  fiends  as  he 
Can  feel  one  glimpse  of  Love's  divinity. 
But  no,  she  is  his  victim  ; — there  lie  all 
Her  charms  for  him — charms  that  can  never  pall, 
As  long  as  hell  within  liis  heart  can  stir, 
Or  one  faint  trace  of  Heaven  is  left  in  her. 
To  work  an  angel's  ruin, — to  behold 
As  wliite  a  page  as  Virtue  e'er  unroll'd 
Blacken,  beneath  his  touch,  into  a  scroll 
Of  damning  sins,  seal'd  with  a  burning  soul — 
This  is  his  triumph  ;  this  the  joy  accursed. 
That  ranks  him  among  demons  all  but  first: 
This  gives  the  victim,  that  before  him  lies 
Blighted  and  lost,  a  glory  in  his  eyes, 
A  light  like  that  with  which  hell-fire  illumes 
The  ghastly,  writhing  wretch  whom  it  consumes! 

l!nt  other  tasks  now  wait  him — tasks  that  need 
All  the  deep  daringness  of  thought  and  deed 
With  which  the  Dives'"'  have  gifted  him — for  mark. 
Over  yon  plains,  which  night  had  else  made  dark. 


Those  lanterns,  countless  as  the  wing«:l  lights 

That  spangle  India's  fields  on  show'ry  nights, — '" 

Far  as  their  formidable  gleams  they  .shed, 

The  mighty  tents  of  the  beleaguerer  spread, 

Glimm'ring  along  th'  horizon's  dusky  line, 

And  thence  in  nearer  circles,  till  they  shine 

Among  the  founts  and  groves,  o'er  which  the  town 

In  all  its  arm'd  magnificence  looks  down. 

Yet,  fearless,  from  his  lofty  battlements 

MoKANNA  views  that  multitude  of  tents  ; 

Nay,  smiles  to  think  that,  though  entoil'd,  beset, 

Not  less  than  myriads  dare  to  front  him  yet; — 

That  friendless,  thronelcss,  he  thus  stands  at  bay, 

Ev'n  thus  a  match  for  myriads  such  as  they. 

"  Oh,  for  a  sweep  of  that  dark  Angel's  wing, 

"  Who  brush'd  the  thousands  of  th'  Assyrian  King'" 

"To  darkness  in  a  moment,  that  I  might 

"People  Hell's  chambers  with  yon  host  to-night! 

"  But,  come  what  may,  let  who  will  grasp  the  throne, 

"Caliph  or  Prophet,  JIan  alike  shall  groan; 

"Let  who  will  torture  him,  Priest — Calipli — King — 

"Alike  this  loathsome  world  of  his  shall  ring 

"  With  victims'  shrieks  and  bowlings  of  the  slave, — 

"  Sounds,  that  sliall  glad  me  ev'n  within  my  gi-ave !" 

Thus,  to  himself — but  to  the  scanty  train 

Still  left  around  him,  a  far  different  strain : — 

"  Glorious  Defenders  of  the  sacred  Crown 

"I  bear  from  Heav'n,  whose  light  nor  blood  shail 

drown 
"  Nor  shadow  of  earth  eclipse ; — before  whose  gems 
"  The  paly  pomp  of  this  world's  diadems, 
"The  crown  of  Gerashid,  the  pillar'd  throne 
"Of  Parviz,'"  and  the  heron  crest  that  shone,"^ 
"  Magnificent,  o'er  Ali's  beauteous  eyes,'^' 
"Fade  like  the  stars  when  morn  is  in  the  skies: 
"  Warriors,  rejoice — the  port  to  which  we've  pass'd 
"  O'er  Destiny's  dark  w-ave,  beams  out  at  last ! 
"Vict'ry's  our  own — 'tis  written  in  that  Book 
"  Upon  whose  leaves  none  but  the  angels  look, 
"That  Islam's  sceptre  shall  beneath  the  power 
"Of  her  great  foe  fall  broken  in  that  hour, 
"  When  the  moon's  miglity  orb,  before  all  eyes, 
"From  Neksheb's  Holy  Well  portentously  shall 
rise ! 

"  Now  turn  and  see !" 

They  turn'd,  and,  .as  he  spoke, 
A  sudden  splendor  all  around  them  broke. 
And  they  beheld  an  orb,  ample  and  bright, 
Rise  from  the  Holy  Well,"*  and  cast  its  light 
Round  the  rich  city  and  the  plain  for  miles, — "" 
Flinging  such  radiance  o'er  the  gilded  tiles 
Of  many  a  dome  and  fair-roof'd  imaret. 
As  autumn  suns  shed  round  them  when  trey  set. 
Instant  from  all  who  saw  th'  illusive  sign 
A  murmur  broke — "Miraculous!  divinel" 


22 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


The  Gheber  bow'd,  thinking  his  idol  star 
Had  waked,  and  burst  impatient  through  the  bar 
Of  midnight,  to  inflame  him  to  the  war; 
Wliile  he  of  Moussa's  creed  saw,  in  that  ray, 
The  glorious  Light  which,  in  his  freedom's  day, 
ll.id  rested  on  the  Ark,'"  and  now  again 
Shone  out  to  bless  the  breaking  of  his  cli.iin. 

"To  victory!"  is  at  once  the  cry  of  all — 
Nor  stands  Mok.a.x.va  loit'ring  at  that  call ; 
But  instant  the  huge  g.ates  are  flung  aside. 
And  forth,  like  a  diminutive  mountain-tide 
Into  the  boundless  sea,  they  speed  their  course 
Right  on  into  the  Moslem's  mighty  force. 
The  watclimen  of  the  camp, — who,  in  their  rounds, 
H.id  paused,  and  ev'n  forgot  the  punctual  sounds 
Of  the   small   drum    with   which   they  count   the 

night,'"' 
To  gaze  upon  that  supernatural  light, — 
Now  sink  beneath  an  unexpected  arm. 
And  in  a  death-groan  give  their  last  alarm. 
"On  for  the  lamps,  that  liglit  yon  lofty  screen,'" 
"  Xor  blunt  your  blades  witli  m.issacre  so  mean  ; 
"  There  rests  the  CALiPit — speed — one  lucky  lance 
"  ^^ay  now  achieve  mankind's  deliverance." 
Desp'rate  the  die — sucb  as  they  only  cast, 
Who  venture  for  a  world,  .ind  stake  their  last. 
Rut  Fate's  no  longer  with  him — blade  for  blade 
Springs  up  to  meet  them  through  the  giimm'ring 

shade, 
And,  as  the  clash  is  heard,  new  legions  soon 
Pour  to  the  spot,  like  bees  of  Kauzf.1!Oon'" 
To  the  shrill  timbrel's  summons, — till,  at  length. 
The  mighty  camp  swarms  out  in  all  its  strength. 
And  back  to  NnusHnn's  gates,  covering  the  plain 
With   random   slaughter,  drives   the   adventurous 

train ; 
Among  the  last  of  whom  the  Silver  Veil 
Is  seen  glitt'ring  at  times,  like  the  white  sail 
Of  Rome  toss'd  vessel,  on  n  stormy  niglit, 
Catching  the  tempest's  momentary  light! 

And  hath  not  this  brought  the  proud  spirit  low? 
Nor  da^h'd  his  brow,  nor  chcekM  his  daring?    No. 
Though  half  the  wretches,  whom  at  night  he  led 
To  thrones  and  vict'ry,  lie  disgniced  and  dead. 
Yet  morning  hears  liiin  with  unshrinking  crest, 
Still  vaunt  of  thrones,  and  vict'ry  to  the  rest ; — 
And  they  believe  him! — oh,  the  lover  may 
Distrust  that  look  which  steals  his  soul  away; — 
The  batie  niav  cease  to  think  that  it  can  play 
With  Heaven's  rainbow; — alehymists  may  doubt 
The  shining  gold  their  crucible  gives  out ; 
But  Faith,  fanatic  Failh,  once  wedded  fast 
To  -x-mc  dear  faUehood,  hugs  it  to  the  last. 


And  well  th'  Impostor  knew  all  lures  .and  arts. 
Th.at  Lucifer  e'er  tnught  to  tangle  hearts; 
Nor,  'mid  these  hist  bold  workings  of  his  plot 
Against  men's  souls,  is  Zelica  forgot. 
II  1-fated  Zelica  !  had  reason  been 
Awake,  through  half  the  horrors  thou  hast  seen. 
Thou  never  couldst  have  borne  it — Death  had  coma 
At  once,  and  taken  thy  wrung  spirit  home. 
But  'twas  not  so — a  torpor,  a  suspense 
Of  thought,  .almost  of  life,  came  o'er  the  intense 
And  passionate  struggles  of  that  fearful  night. 
When  her  last  hope  of  peace  and  he.av'n  took  flight 
And  though,  at  times,  a  gleam  of  frenzy  broke, — 
As  through  some  dull  volcano's  vale  of  smoke 
Ominous  flashings  now  and  then  will  start. 
Which  show  the  fire's  still  busy  at  its  heart ; 
Yet  was  she  mostly  wrapt  in  solemn  gloom, — 
Not  such  .as  Azim's,  brooding  o'er  its  doom. 
And  calm  without,  as  is  the  brow  of  death. 
While  l)iisy  worms  are  gnawing  underneath — 
But  in  a  blank  and  pulsele-ss  torpor,  free 
From  Ihouglit  or  pain,  a  seai'd-up  apatliy, 
Which  left  her  oft,  with  sean-e  one  living  thrill, 
The  cold,  pale  victim  of  her  tort'rer's  will. 

Again,  as  in  Merou,  he  had  her  deck'd 
Gorgeously  out,  the  Priestess  of  the  sect; 
.•\nd  led  her  glitt'ring  forth  before  the  eyes 
Of  his  rude  train,  as  to  a  saerilice, — 
Pallid  as  she,  the  young,  devoted  Bride 
Of  the  lierce  Nile,  when,  deck'd  in  all  the  prido 
Of  nuptial  pomp,  she  sinks  into  his  tide."" 
And  while  the  wretched  maid  hung  down  her  head 
And  stood,  as  one  just  risen  from  the  dead, 
Amid  th.at  gazing  crowd,  the  fiend  would  tell 
His  credulous  slaves  it  was  some  charm  or  spell 
Possess'd  her  now, — and  from  that  darken'd  tranco 
Should  dawn  ere  long  their  Faith's  deliverance. 
Or  if,  at  times,  goaded  by  guilty  shame, 
Iler  soul  was  roused,  and  words  of  wildness  came, 
Instant  the  bold  blasphemer  would  translate 
Her  ravings  into  oracles  of  fate, 
Would  hail  Ileav'n's  signals  in  her  flasiiing  eyes, 
And  call  her  shrieks  the  language  of  the  skies! 

But  vain  at  length  his  .arts — despair  is  seen 
Galh'ring  around;  and  famine  comes  to  glean 
All  th.at  the  sword  hath  left  unreap'd: — in  vain 
At  morn  and  eve  across  the  northern  plain 
He  looks  iinpalient  for  the  promised  spears 
Of  the  wild  Hordes  and  Tautafi  mountiiiuecrfl  ; 
They  come  not — while  his  fierce  heleagucrers  pouf 
Kngines  of  havoc  in,  unknown  bel'ore."' 
And  horrible  ns  new;'" — ^jiveliu't,  that  fly 
Knwrcathed  with  smokv  flames  through  the  dark  sky 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


23 


And  red-hot  ijlobes,  that,  opening  as  they  mount, 
Discliargc,  as  from  a  kindled  Naplitha  fount,'" 
Show'rs  of  consuminjf  fire  o'er  all  below  ; 
Looking',  as  through  th'  illumined  night  they  go, 
Mite  those  w  iUl  birds'"  that  by  the  Magians  oft. 
At  fe.stivals  of  fire,  were  sent  aloft 
into  the  air,  with  ijlazing  figots  tied 
To  their  huge  wings,  scatt'ring  combustion  wide. 
All  night  the  groans  of  wretches  who  expire. 
In  agony,  beneath  these  darts  of  fire, 
Ring  through  the  city — while,  descending  o'er 
Its  shrines  and  domes  and  streets  of  sycamore, — 
Its  lone  bazaars,  with  their  bright  cloths  of  gold, 
Since  the  last  peaceful  pageant  left  unroU'd, — 
Its  beauteous  marble  Ijaths,  whose  idle  jets 
Now  gush  with  blood, — and  its  tall  minarets, 
That  late  have  stood  up  in  the  evening  glare 
Of  the  red  sun,  unhallow'd  by  a  prayer; — 
O'er  each,  in  turn,  the  dreadful  flame-bolts  fall, 
And  death  and  conllagration  throughout  all 
The  desolate  city  hold  high  festival ! 

MoKANNA  sees  the  world  is  his  no  more; — 
One  sting  at  parting,  and  his  grasp  is  o'er. 
"What!   drooping  now?" — thus,  with  unblushing 

check, 
He  hails  the  few,  who  yet  can  hear  him  speak. 
Of  all  those  famish'd  slaves  around  him  lying. 
And  by  the  light  of  blazing  temples  dying ; — 
"  What ! — drooping  now  ? — now,  when  at  length  we 

press 
"Home  o'er  the  very  threshold  of  success; 
"  When  Alla  from  our  ranks  hath  tliinn'd  away 
"  Tliose  grosser  branches,  that  kept  out  his  ray 
"Of  favor  from  us,  and  we  stand  at  length 
"Heirs  of  his  light  and  children  of  his  strength, 
"  The  chosen  few,  who  shall  survive  the  fall 
"  Of  Kings  and  Thrones,'  triumphant  over  all ! 
"  Have  you  then  lost,  weak  murm'rers  as  you  are, 
"  All  faith  in  him,  who  was  your  Light,  your  Star? 
"Have  you  forgot  the  eye  of  glory,  hid 
"Beneath  this  Veil,  the  flashing  of  whose  lid 
"Could,  like  a  sun-stroke  of  the  desert,  wither 
"Millions  of  such  as  yonder  Chief  brings  hither? 
"Long   have   its  ligbtnings  slept — too   long — but 

now 
"  All  earth  shall  feel  th'  unveiling  of  this  brow ! 
"  To-night — yes,  sainted  men  !  this  very  night, 
"  I  bid  you  all  to  a  fair  festal  rite, 
"Where — having  deep  refresh'd  each  weary  limb 
"With  viands,  such  as  feast  Heav'n's  cherubim, 
"  And  kindled  up  your  souls,  now  sunk  and  dim, 
"  With  that  pure  wine  the  Dark-eyed  Maids  above 
"Keep,  seal'd  with  precious  musk,  for  those  they 

love,—'" 


"  I  will  myself  uncurtain  in  your  sight 
"The  wonders  of  this  brow's  inefl'able  light; 
"  Then  lead  you  forth,  and  with  a  wink  disperse 
"  Yon  myriads,  howling  through  the  universe!" 

Eager  they  listen — while  each  accent  darts 
New  life  into  their  cliili'd  and  hope-sick  hearts; 
Such  trcach'rous  life  as  the  cool  draught  suppliea 
To  him  upon  the  stake,  who  drinks  and  dies !  ' 

Wildly  Ihcy  point  their  lances  to  tlie  light 
Of  the  fast-sinking  sun,  and  shout  "To-niglit!" — 
"To-night,"  their  Chief  re-echoes  in  a  voice 
Of  fiend-like  mock'ry  that  bids  hell  rejoice. 
Deluded  victims  ! — never  hath  this  earth  \ 

Seen  mourning  half  so  mournful  as  their  mirth.      \ 
Here,  to  the  few,  whose  iron  frames  had  stood 
This  racking  waste  of  famine  and  of  blood. 
Faint,  dying  wretches  clung,  from  whom  the  shou» 
Of  triumph  like  a  maniac's  laugh  broke  out: — 
There,  others,  lighted  by  the  smould'ring  fire, 
Danced,  like  wan  ghosts  about  a  funeral  pyre. 
Among  the  dead  and  dying,  strew'd  around; — 
While  some  pale  wretch  look'd  on,  and  from  his 

wound 
Plucking  the  fiery  dart  by  which  he  bled. 
In  ghastly  transport  waved  it  o'er  his  head! 

'Twas  more  than  midnight  now — a  fearful  pause 
Had  follow'd  the  long  shouts,  the  wild  applause, 
That  lately  from  those  Royal  Gardens  burst, 
Where  the  Veil'd  demon  held  his  feast  accursed, 
When  Zelica — alas,  poor  ruin'd  heart, 
In  ev'ry  horror  doom'd  to  bear  its  part! — 
Was  bidden  to  the  banquet  by  a  slave, 
Who,  while  his  quiv'ring  lip  the  summons  gave, 
Grew  black,  as  though  the  shadows  of  the  grave 
Compass'd  him  round,  and,  ere  he  could  repeat 
His  message  through,  fell  lifeless  at  her  f';et! 
Shudd'ring  she  went — a  soul-felt  pang  of  fear, 
A  presage  tiiat  her  own  dark  doom  was  near. 
Roused  ev'ry  feeling,  and  brought  Reason  back 
Once  more,  to  writhe  her  last  upon  the  rack. 
All  round  scem'd  tranquil — cv'n  the  foe  had  ceased. 
As  if  aware  of  that  demoniac  feast. 
His  fiery  bolts;  and  though  the  heav'ns  look'd  red, 
'Twas  but  some  distant  conflagration's  spread. 
But  hark — she  stops — she  listens — dreadful  tone ! 
'Tis  lier  Tormentor's  laugh — and  now,  a  groan, 
A  long  death-groan  comes  with  it: — can  this  be 
The  place  of  mirth,  the  bower  of  revelry? 
She  enters— Holy  Ai.la,  what  a  sight 
Was  there  before  her!     By  the  glimm'nng  light 
Of  the  pale  dawn,  mi.x'd  with  the  flare  of  brands 
That   round   lay   burning,    dropp'd    from    lifeless 
hands. 


24 


MOOEE'S  WOKKS. 


She  saw  tlu)  board,  in  splendid  mockery  spread, 
Rich  censers  breathing — garlands  overhead — 
The  urns,  the  cups,   from   which   they   late   had 

quaff'd 
All    gold   and    gems,    but — what    had    been    the 

draught '' 
Oh  I  who  need  ask,  that  saw  those  livid  guests, 
M'ith  their  swoU'n  heads  sunk  black'niug  on  their 

breasts, 
Or  looking  pale  to  Heav'n  with  glassy  glare, 
As  if  they  sought  but  saw  no  mercy  there; 
As  if  they  felt,  though  poison  rack'd  them  through. 
Remorse  the  deadlier  torment  of  the  two! 
While  some,  the  bravest,  hardiest  in  the  train 
Of  their  false  Chief,  who  on  the  battle-plain 
Would  have  met  death  with  transport  by  his  side. 
Here  mute  and  helpless  gasp'd; — but,  as  they  died, 
Look'd  horrible  vengeance  with   their   eyes'  last 

strain. 
And  clench'd  the  slack'ning  hand  at  him  in  vain. 

Dreadful  it  was  to  see  the  ghastly  stare, 
The  stony  look  of  horror  and  despair. 
Which  some  of  these  expiring  victims  cast 
Upon  their  souls'  tormentor  to  the  last; — 
Upon  that  mocking  Fiend,  whose  veil,  now  raised, 
Shpw'd  them,  as  in  death's  agony  they  gazed. 
Not   the   long   promised   light,   the   brow,   whoso 

beaming 
Was  to  come  forth,  all  conqu'ring,  all  redeeming. 
Hut  features  horribler  than  Hell  e'er  traced 
On  its  own  brood ; — no  Demon  of  the  Waste,'" 
No  churchyard  Ghole,  caught  ling'ring  in  the  light 
Of  the  blest  sun,  e'er  blasted  human  sight 
With  lineaments  so  foul,  so  fierce  as  those 
Tir  Impostor  now,  in  grinning  mock'ry,  shows: — 
"There,  ye  wise  Saints,  behold  your  Light,  your 

Star— 
"  Ye  would  be  dupes  and  victims,  and  ye  are. 
"  Is  it  enough  ?  or  must  I,  while  a  thrill 
"  Lives  in  your  sapient  bosoms,  cheat  you  still  ? 
'Swear  that  the  burning  death  ye  feel  within 
'Is  but  the  trance  with  which  Hcav'n's  joys  begin; 
•*  That  this  fdul  visjige,  foul  as  e'er  disgraced 
"  Ev'ii  monstrous  man,  is — after  God's  own  taste  ; 
"  And  that — but  see  I — ere  I  have  half-way  said 
"  My  greetings  through,  th'  uncourtcous  souls  are 

fled. 
"Farcwpll,  sweet  spirits!  not  in  vain  ye  die, 
••  If  I',nt,is  loves  you  half  so  well  as  I. — 
"Ila,  my  young  bride! — 'lis  well — take  Ihou  Ihy 

seat ; 
"  Nny  come — no  itliudd'ring — didst  thou  never  meet 
■•The  Dead   before T — thoy  graced   our   wedding, 

ftwoot : 


"  And  these,  my  guests  to-night,  have  brimm'd  so 

true 
"  Tlieir  parting  cups,  that  Ihou  shall  pledge  one  too. 
"  But — how  is  this  ? — all  empty  1  all  drunk  upl 
"  Hot  lips  have  been  before  thee  in  the  cup, 
"  Young  bride — yet  stay — one  precious  drop  re- 
mains, 
"Enough  to  warm  a  gentle  Priestess'  veins; — 
"Here,  drink — and  should  thy  lover's  conqu'ring 

arras 
"Speed  hither,  ere  thy  lip  lose  all  its  charms, 
"  Give  him  but  half  this  venom  in  thy  kiss, 
"And  I'll  forgive  my  haughty  rival's  bliss! 

"  For  inc — I  too  must  die — but  not  like  these 
"  Vilo,  rankling  things,  to  fester  in  the  breeze; 
"To  have  this  brow  in  ruffian  triumph  shown, 
"  With  all  de.ith's  grimness  added  to  its  own, 
"And  rot  to  dust  beneath  the  taunting  eyes 
"Of  slaves,  exclaiming,  'There  his  Godship  lies!' 
"  No — cursed  race — since  first  my  soul  drew  breath, 
"  They've  been  my  dupes,  and  shall  be  ev'n  in  death. 
"Thou  sce'st  yon  cistern  in  the  shade — 'lis  fill'd 
"  Willi  burning  drugs,  for  this  last  iiourdistill'd: — "' 
"There  will  I  plunge  me  in  that  liquid  Harae — 
"Fit  balh  to  lave  a  dying  Prophet's  fr.anie  I — 
"There  perish,  all — ere  pulse  of  thine  shall  fail — 
"  Nor  leave  one  limb  to  tell  mankind  the  tale. 
"So  shrill  my  votaries,  wheresoe'er  they  ra"e, 
"Proclaim    that    llcav'n    took    back    the    Saint    it 

gave : — 
"  That  I've  but  vanisli'd  from  this  earth  awhile, 
"To  come  again,  with  bright,  unshrouded  smile! 
"So  shall  they  build  me  altars  in  their  zeal, 
"  Where  knaves  shall  minister,and  fools  shall  knee) ; 
"  Where  Faith  may  mutter  o'er  her  mystic  spell, 
"Written  in  blood — and  Uigotry  m.ay  swell 
"The  sail  ho  spreads  for  Heav'n  with  blasts  tVom 

hell ! 
"  So  shall  my  banner,  through  long  ages,  bo 
"The  rallying  sign  of  fraud  and  anarchy; — 
"  Kings  yet  unborn  shall  rue  JIok.vnna's  name, 
"  And.  tlioU!,'li  I  die,  my  spirit,  slill  the  same, 
"Shall  walk  abroad  in  all  llio  slcu'iny  strife, 
"And  guilt,  and  blood,  Ih.at  were  its  bliss  in  life. 
"  But,  hark  I  their  balt'ring  engine  shakes  the  wall— 
"Why,  lei  it  .shake — thus  I  can  bravo  them  nil. 
"  No  trace  of  me  shall  greet  them,  when  they  come, 
"And  I  can  trust  thy  faith,  for — thou'lt  be  dumb. 
"  Now  ni.'irk  how  readily  .i  wretch  like  me, 
"  In  one  bold  pluii^'e  eoinincnces  Dcily '" 

He  sprung  and  sunk,  as  the  last  words  wer« 
said — 
Quirk  closed  the  burnina  w.ntcrs  o'or  his  head. 


LALLA  llOOKH. 


25 


And  Zelica  was  left — witliiii  the  ring 

Of  those  wide  walln  the  only  living  thing; 

The  only  wretched  one,  still  enrsed  with  brc:ith, 

In  all  that  frighti'nl  wilderness  of  death! 

JMore  like  some  bloodless  ghost — such  as,  they  tell, 

In  the  Lone  Cities  of  the  Silent'"  dwell. 

And  there,  unseen  of  all  but  Alla,  sit    ■ 

Each  by  its  own  pale  carcass,  watching  it. 

Ijut  morn  is  up,  and  a  fresh  warftn'e  stirs 
Throughout  the  camp  of  the  bcleaguercrs. 
Their  globes  of  fire  (the  dread  arlill'ry  lent 
By  Greece  to  conqu'ring  Maiiadi)  are  spent ; 
And  now  the  scorpion's  shaft,  the  quarry  sent 
From  bigh  balistas,  and  the  shielded  throng 
Of  soldiers  swinging  the  huge  ram  along, 
All  speak  th'  impatient  Islamite's  intent 
To  try,  at  length,  if  tower  and  battlement 
And  bastion'd  wall  be  not  less  hard  to  win, 
Less  tough  to  break  down  than  the  hearts  within. 
Fir.st  ill  impatience  and  in  toil  is  he. 
The  burning  Azm — oh  !  could  he  but  sec 
Th'  Impostor  once  alive  within  his  grasp. 
Not  the  gaunt  lion's  hug,  nor  boa's  clasp. 
Could  match  that  gripe  of  vengeance,  or  keep  p.acc 
With  the  fell  heartiness  of  Hate's  embrace! 

Loud  rings  the  pond'rous  ram  against  the  walls; 
Now  shake  the  ramp.arts,  now  a  buttress  falls. 
But    still   no    breach — "Once    more,  one    mighty 

swing 
"  Of  all  your  beams,  together  thundering !" 
There — the  wall  shakes — the  shouting  troops  e.\ult, 
"Quick,  quick  discharge  your  weightiest  catapult 
"Right  on  that  spot,  and  Neksheb  is  onr  own!" 
'Tis  done — the  battlements  come  crashing  down, 
And  the  huge  wall,  by  that  stroke  riv'n  in  two. 
Yawning,  like  some  old  crater,  rent  anew, 
Shows  the  dim,  desolate  city  smoking  through. 
But  strange !  no  signs  of  life — naught  living  seen 
Above,  below — what  can  this  stillness  mean? 
A  minute's  pause  suspends  all  hearts  and  eyes — 
"In  through  the  breach,"  impetuous  AziM  cries; 
But  the  cool  Caliph,  fearful  of  some  wile 
In  this  blank  stillness,  checks  the  troops  awhile, — 
Just  then,  a  figure,  with  slow  step,  advanced 
Forth  from  the  ruin'd  walls,  and,  as  there  glanced 
A  sunbeam  over  it,  all  eyes  could  see 
The  well-known  Silver  Veil !— "'Tis  He,  'tis  He, 
"Mokanna,  and  alone!"  they  shout  around; 
Young  AziM  from  his  steed  springs  to  the  ground — 
"  3Iine,  Holy  Caliph  !  mine,"  he  cries,  "  the  task 
"  To  crush  yon  daring  wretch — ^"tis  all  I  ask." 
Eager  he  darts  to  meet  the  demon  foe. 
Who  still  across  wide  heans  of  ruin  slow 
vor..  II  — 4 


And  falteringly  conies,  till  tliey  are  near; 
Then,  with  a  bound,  rushes  on  Azni's  spear, 
And,  casting  oil"  the  Veil  in  falling,  shows — 
Oh  !— 'tis  his  Zelica  s  life-blood  that  flows! 

"I  meant  not,  Azi.M,"  soothingly  she  said. 
As  on  his  trembling  arm  she  lean'd  her  head. 
And,  looking  in  his  face,  saw  anguish  there 
Beyond  all  wounds  the  quiv'ring  llesh  can  bear — 
'■  I  ine.ant  not  llinu  shouldst  have  the  pain  of  this : — • 
"Though  deatli,  with  thee  thus  tasted,  is  a  bliss 
"Thou   wouldst   not   rob   me  of,   didst  thou  but 

know, 
"  How  oft  I've  pray'd  to  God  I  might  die  so ! 
"  But  the  Fiend's  venom  was  too  scant  and  slow  ;— 
"To  linger  on  were  madd'ning — and  I  thought 
"  If  once  that  Veil — n.iy,  look  not  on  it — caught 
"The  eyes  of  your  fierce  soldiery,  I  should  be 
"  Struck  by  a  thousand  death-darts  instantly. 
"  But  this  is  sweeter — oh !  believe  me,  yes — 
"  I  would  not  change  this  sad,  but  dear  caress, 
"This  death  within  thy  arms  I  would  not  give 
"For  the  most  smiling  life  the  happiest  live! 
"  All,  that  stood  dark  and  drear  before  the  eye 
"  Of  my  str.ay'd  soul,  is  passing  swiftly  by  ; 
"  A  light  comes  o'er  me  from  those  looks  of  lovtj, 
"  Like  the  first  dawn  of  mercy  from  above ; 
"  And  if  thy  lips  but  tell  me  I'm  forgiv'n, 
"Angels  will  echo  the  blest  words  in  Ileav'n! 
"  But  live,  my  AziiW ; — oh !  to  call  thee  mine 
"Thus  once  again!  my  Aziiw — dream  divine! 
"Live,  if  thoH  ever  lov'dst  me,  if  to  meet 
"  Thy  Zelica  hereafter  would  be  sweet, 
"Oh,  live  to  pray  for  her — to  bend  the  knee 
"  Morning  and  night  before  that  Deity, 
"  To  whom  pure  lips  and  hearts  without  a  stain, 
"  As  thine  are,  AziJi,  never  breathed  in  vain, — 
"  And  pray  that  He  may  pardon  her, — may  take 
"  Compassion  on  her  soul  for  thy  dear  sake, 
"And,  naught  rememb'ring  but  her  love  to  thee, 
"  Make  her  all  thine,  all  His,  etern.ally  ! 
"Go  to  those  hnppy  fields  where  first  we  twined 
"Our  youthful  hearts  together — every  wind 
"That  meets  thee  there,  fresh  from  the  well-known 

flow'rs, 
"  Will  bring  the  sweetness  of  those  innocent  hours 
"  Back  to  thy  soul,  and  thou  mayst  feel  again 
"  For  thy  poor  Zelica  as  thou  didst  then. 
"  So  shall  thy  orisons,  like  dew  that  flies 
"  To  Heav'n  upon  the  morning's  .sunshine,  rise 
"With  all  love's  earliest  ardor  to  the  skies! 
"  And  should  they — but,  .alas,  luy  senses  fail — 
"Oh  for  one  minute! — should  thy  prayers  prevail — 
"If  pardon'd  souls  nray,  from  th.at  World  of  Blis.s. 
"  Reveal  their  joy  to  those  they  love  in  tliis — 


26 


MOORE'S  ^VOEKS. 


■*ni  come  to  tlice — in   some   sweet  dream — and 

tell— 
"Oil  Heav'n — I  die — do;ir  love!  farewell,  farewell." 

Time  fleeted — years  on  years  had  pass'd  away, 
And  few  of  those  who,  on  that  mournful  day, 
Had  stood,  with  pity  in  their  eyes,  to  see 
The  maiden's  death,  and  the  youth's  agony, 
Were  living  still — when,  by  a  rustic  grave. 
Beside  the  swift  Amoo's  transparent  wave, 
An  aged  man,  who  liad  grown  aged  tliere 
By  that  lone  grave,  morning  and  niglit  in  pravcr, 
For  the  last  time   knelt  down — and,  tlioiigh  the 

shade 
Of  death  hung  dark'ning  over  him,  there  plav'd 
A  gleam  of  rapture  on  his  eye  and  cheek. 
That  brightcn'd  even  Death — like  the  last  streak 
Of  intense  glory  on  th'  horizon's  brim, 
When  night  o'er  all  the  rest  hangs  chill  and  dim. 
His  soul  had  seen  a  Vision,  while  he  slept; 
She,  for  whose  spirit  he  had  pray'd  and  wept 
So  many  years,  had  come  to  him,  all  dress'd 
In  angel  smiles,  and  told  him  she  was  blest! 
For  tills  the  old  man   breathed  his   thanks,  and 

died.— 
And  there,  upon  the  banks  of  that  loved  tide. 
He  .and  his  Zelica  sleep  side  by  side. 


The  story  of  the  Veiled  Projihet  of  Khorass;in 
being  ended,  they  were  now  doomed  to  hear 
Fadladeen's  criticisms  \ipon  it.  A  series  of  dis- 
appointments and  accidents  had  occurred  to  Ihis 
learned  Chamberlain  during  the  journey.  In  the 
first  place,  those  couriers  stationed,  as  in  the  reign 
of  Shah  Jehan,  between  Delhi  and  the  Western 
toast  of  India,  to  secure  a  constant  supply  of 
mangoes  for  the  Royal  T.iblo,  had,  by  some  cruel 
irregularity,  failed  in  their  duty  ;  and  to  eat  any 
mangoes  but  those  of  JIazagong  was,  of  course, 
impossible.'"  In  the  next  place,  the  elephant, 
l.adcn  with  his  fine  'antique  porcelain,'"  had,  in  an 
unusual  fit  of  liveliness,  shattered  the  whole  set  to 
pieces: — an  irrei)arable  loss,  as  many  of  the  vessels 
were  so  exquisitely  old,  as  to  nave  been  used 
under  the  Emperors  Van  and  Chun,  who  reigned 
many  ngcs  before  the  dynasly  of  Tang.  His 
Koran,  too,  supposed  to  be  the  identical  copy 
Ijclwccn  the  leaves  of  which  Slahonict's  favorite 
pigeon  ii«ed  to  nestle,  had  been  mislaid  by  his 
Koran-bearer  three  whole  days;  not  without  much 
•pirituni  iilarni  to  Fadladeen,  who,  lliough  profess- 
ing to  hold  wiih  other  loy;d  anil  orthodox  Mns- 
■uloioriit,  that  nnlvalion  could  only  be  found  in  the 


Koran,  was  strongly  suspected  of  believing  in  his 
he.irt,  that  it  could  only  be  found  in  his  own 
parlicularcopy  of  it.  When  to  all  these  grievances 
is  added  the  obstinacy  of  the  cooks,  in  putting  the 
pepper  of  Canara  into  his  dishes  in.'^tcad  of  the 
cinnamon  of  Screndib,  we  may  easily  suppose  that 
ho  came  to  the  task  of  criticism  with,  at  le.ast,  a 
sufficient  degree  of  irritability  for  the  purpose. 

'■In  order,"  said  he,  importantly  swinging  about 
his  ch.aplet  of  pearls,  "  to  convey  with  clearness  my 
opinion  of  the  story  this  young  man  has  related, 
it  is  necessary  to  take  a  review  of  all  the  stories 
that  have  ever " — "  My  good  Fadladeex  !"  ex- 
claimed the  Princess,  interrupting  him,  "  we  really 
do  not  deserve  that  you  should  give  yourself  so 
much  trouble.  Your  opinion  of  the  poem  we  have 
just  heard,  will,  I  have  no  doubt,  be  abundantly 
edifying,  without  any  further  waste  of  your  valuable 
erudition." — "If  that  be  all,"  replied  the  critic, — 
evidently  mortified  at  not  being  allowed  to  show 
how  much  ho  knew  about  every  thing,  but  the 
subject  immediately  before  him — "if  that  be  all 
that  is  required,  the  matter  is  easily  dispatched." 
He  then  proceeded  to  analyze  the  poem,  in  that 
strain  (so  well  known  to  the  unfortunate  bard.3 
of  Delhi)  whose  censures  wi-re  an  infliction  from 
which  few  recovered,  and  whose  very  praises  were 
like  the  honey  extracted  from  the  bitter  flowers  of 
the  aloe.  The  chief  personages  of  the  story  were, 
if  he  rightly  understood  lheni,an  ill-favored  gentle- 
man, with  a  veil  over  his  t'ace  ; — a  young  lady,  whose 
reason  went  and  came,  .according  as  it  suited  the 
poet's  convenience  to  be  sensible  or  otherwise  ; — 
and  a  youth  in  one  of  those  hideous  Bucharian 
bonnets,  who  took  the  aforesaid  gentleman  in  a 
veil  for  a  Divinity.  "  Fiom  such  materials,"  said 
he,  "  what  can  be  expected? — after  rivalling  each 
other  in  long  speeches  and  absurdities,  through 
Slime  Ihousaiuls  of  lines  as  indigestible  as  the 
filberts  of  Berdaa,  our  fViend  in  the  veil  jumps 
into  a  tub  of  aquafortis;  the  young  lady  dies  in  a 
set  speech,  whoso  only  recommendation  is  that  it 
is  her  last ;  and  the  lover  lives  on  to  a  good 
old  ago,  for  the  laudable  purpose  of  seeing  her 
ghost,  which  at  last  he  hajipily  ;;ccomplishes,  and 
expires.  This,  yon  will  allow,  is  a  fair  sinnmary  of 
the  slory;  and  if  Nasser,  llie  .Arabian  merchant, 
told  no  bellcr,  our  Holy  Prophet  (lo  whom  be  nil 
honor  and  glory  I)  had  no  need  to  be  jealous  of  hia 
abilities  for  story-telling.'" 

With  respect  lo  the  style,  it  was  worlhy  of  Iho 
matter; — it  had  nol  even  those  ]>olilic  conlrivanccs 
of  structure,  whioh  make  up  for  ll.o  c  mimonncHo 


LALLA  ROOKIT. 


27 


of  tho  thoughts  by  the  peculiarity  of  the  manner, 
nor  that  stately  poetical  phraseology  by  whicli 
sentiments  mean  in  tiiemselves,  like  the  black- 
smith's'" apron  converted  into  a  banner,  are  so 
easily  gilt  and  embroidered  info  consequence. 
Then,  as  to  the  versification,  it  was,  to  say  no 
worse  of  it,  execrable  :  it  had  neither  the  copious 
flow  of  Ferdosi,  the  sweetness  of  Hafez,  nor  the 
sententious  march  of  Sadi;  but  appeared  to  him, 
in  the  uneasy  heaviness  of  its  movements,  to  have 
been  modelled  upon  the  gait  of  a  very  tired 
dromedary.  Tiio  licenses,  too,  in  which  it  in- 
dulged, were  unpardonable  ; — for  instance  this  line, 
and  the  poem  abounded  with  such; — 

Like  the  faint,  exquisite  music  of  a  dream  I 

"  What  critic  that  can  count,"  said  Fadladeen, 
"  and  has  his  full  complement  of  fingers  to  count 
withal,  would  tolerate  for  an  insl:int  such  syllabic 
superfluities  2" — He  hci-e  looked  round,  and  dis- 
eovei-ed  that  most  of  his  audience  were  asleep; 
while  the  glimmering  lamps  seemed  inclined  to 
follow  their  example.  It  became  necessary,  there- 
fore, however  painful  to  himself,  to  put  an  end  to 
his  valuable  animadversions  for  the  present,  and 
he  accordingly  concluded,  with  an  air  of  dignified 
eandoi',  thus : — "  Notwithstanding  the  observations 
which  I  have  thought  it  my  duty  to  make,  it  is  by 
no  means  my  wish  to  discourage  the  young  man  : 
— so  far  from  it,  indeed,  that  if  he  will  but  totally 
alter  his  style  of  writing  and  thinking,  I  have  very 
little  doubt  that  I  shall  be  vastly  pleased  whh 
him." 

Som*!  days  elapsed,  after  this  harangue  of  the 
Great  Chamberlain,  before  Lalla  Rookh  could 
venture  to  a.sk  for  another  story.  The  youth  was 
still  a  welcome  guest  in  the  pavilion — to  one  heart, 
pei'haps,  loo  daugei'ously  welcome ; — but  all  men- 
tion of  poetry  was,  as  if  by  common  consent, 
avoided.  Though  none  of  the  party  had  much 
respect  for  Fadladeen,  yet  his  censui-es,  thus 
magisterially  delivei'ed,  evidently  made  an  impres- 
sion on  them  all.  The  Poet,  himself,  to  whom 
criticism  w.as  quite  a  new  operation,  (being  wholly 
unknown  in  that  Paradise  of  the  Indies,  Cashmere.) 
felt  the  shock  as  it  is  genei-ally  felt  at  first,  till  use 
has  made  it  more  tolerable  to  the  patient ; — the 
Ladies  began  to  suspect  that  they  ought  not  to  be 
oleased,  and  seemed  to  conclude  that  there  must 
have  been  much  good  sense  in  what  Fadladeen 
said,  from  its  having  set  them  all  so  soundly  to 
sleep ; — while  the  self-complacent  Chamberlain  was 
.eft  to  triumph  in  the  idea  of  luaving,  for  the 
hundred  and  fiftieth  time  in  his  life,  extinguished  a 


Poet.  Lalla  Rookh  alone — and  Love  knew  wny 
— persisted  in  being  delighted  with  all  she  had 
heai'd,  and  in  resolving  to  hear  more  as  speedily  as 
possible.  Her  manner,  however,  of  first  returning 
to  the  subject  was  unlucky.  It  was  while  fhi^y 
rested  dui-ing  the  heat  of  noon  near  a  fountain,  on 
which  some  hand  had  rudely  traced  those  well-known 
words  from  the  Garden  of  Sadi, — "  Many,  like  me, 
have  viewed  this  fountain,  but  they  are  gone,  and 
their  eyes  are  closed  for  ever !" — that  she  took  oc- 
casion, from  the  melancholy  beauty  of  this  p.assage, 
to  dwell  upon  -the  charms  of  poeti-y  in  general. 
"  It  is  true,"  she  s.aid,  "  few  poets  can  imitate  that 
sublime  bird,  which  flies  always  in  the  air,  and 
never  touches  the  earth :'" — it  is  only  once  in 
many  ages  a  Genius  appears,  whose  words,  like 
those  on  the  Written  Mountain,  last  for  ever:'" — 
but  still  there  are  .some,  as  delightful,  perhaps, 
though  not  so  wondei'ful,  who,  if  not  stai's  over  our 
head,  are  at  least  flowers  along  our  path,  and  whose 
sweetness  of  the  moment  we  ought  gratefully  to  in- 
hale, without  calling  upon  them  for  a  brightness  and  a 
durability  beyond  their  nature.  In  short,"  continued 
she,  blushing,  as  if  conscious  of  being  caught  in  an 
oration,  "  it  is  quite  cruel  that  a  poet  cannot  wander 
through  his  regions  of  enchantment,  without  having 
a  critic  for  ever,  like  llie  old  Man  of  the  Sea,  upon 
his  b.ick !'" — Fadladeen,  it  was  plain,  took  this 
last  luckless  allusion  to  himself,  and  would  treasure 
it  up  in  his  mind  as  a  whetstone  for  his  next  criti- 
cism. A  sudden  silence  ensued  ;  and  the  Princess, 
glancing  a  look  at  Feramoez,  .saw  plainly  she 
must  wait  for  a  more  courageous  moment. 

But  the  glories  of  Nature,  and  her  wild,  fi'agrant 
all's,  playing  freshly  over  the  current  of  youthful 
spirits,  will  soon  heal  even  deeper  wounds  than  the 
dull  Fadladeens  of  this  world  can  inflict.  In  an 
evening  or  two  after,  they  came  to  the  small  Valley 
of  Gardens,  which  had  been  planted  by  order  of  tho 
Emperor,  for  his  favorite  sister  Roehinara,  during 
their  progress  to  Cashmere,  some  years  before; 
and  never  was  there  a  more  sparkling  assemblage 
of  sweets,  since  the  Gulzar-e-Irem,  or  Rose-bower 
of  Irem.  Every  precious  flower  was  there  to  be 
found,  that  poetry,  or  love,  or  religion,  has  ever 
consecrated ;  from  the  dark  hyacinth,  to  which 
Hafez  compares  his  mistress's  hair,'"  to  the  Ccima- 
latd,  by  whose  rosy  blossoms  the  heaven  of  Indra 
is  scented.'"  As  they  sat  in  the  cool  fragrance  of 
this  delicious  spot,  and  Lalla  RooifH  remarked 
that  she  could  fancy  it  the  abode  of  that  Flower- 
loving  Nymph  whom  they  worship  in  the  temples 
of  Kathay,"'  or  of  one  of  those  Peris,  those  beauti- 
ful  creatures  of  the  air,  who  live  upon  perfumes, 


28 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


and  to  whom  a  plaie  like  iliis  might  make  some 
amends  for  the  Paradise  they  have  lost,— tlic  young 
Poet,  in  wliose  eyes  she  appeared,  while  she  spoke, 
to  be  one  of  the  bright  spiritual  creatures  slie  was 
describing,  said  hesitatingly  that  he  remembered  a 
Story  of  a  Peri,  which,  if  the  Princess  had  no 
objection,  he  would  venture  to  relate.  "  It  is,"  said 
he,  with  an  appealing  look  to  Fadl-^deen,  ''in  a 
lighter  and  humbler  str.ain  than  the  other;"  then, 
striking  a  few  careless  but  melancholy  chords  on 
his  kitar,  he  thus  began: — 


PARADISE   AND  THE  PERI. 

OsE  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood,  disconsolate; 
And  as  she  listen'd  to  the  Springs 

Of  Life  within,  like  music  flowing. 
And  caught  tlie  light  upon  her  wings 

Through  the  half-open  port.al  glowing, 
She  wept  to  think  her  recreant  race 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place! 

'•  How  happy,"  c.xclaim'd  this  (^lild  of  ;ur, 
"  Are  the  holy  Spirits  who  wander  tlierc, 

"  Mid  flowers  that  never  shall  fade  or  fall ; 
"  Though  mine  arc  the  gardens  of  earth  and  sea, 
"  And  the  stars  themselves  li.ave  (lowers  for  me, 

"One  blossom  of  Heaven  out-blooms  them  all  I 

"  Though  sunny  the  Lake  of  cool  Cashmere, 
"  With  its  plane-tree  Isle  reflected  clear,"" 

"And  sweetly  the  founts  of  that  Valley  fall; 
"  Though  bright  are  the  w.atcrs  of  Sixg-su-iiay, 
"And  the  golden  floods  that  thitherward  stray,'" 
"  Yet — oil,  'lis  only  the  Blest  can  say 

"  How  the  waters  of  Heaven  outshine  them  all ! 

"Go,  wing  thy  flight  from  star  to  star, 
"From  world  to  luminous  world,  as  far 

"As  the  universe  spreads  its  flaming  w.-iU: 
"Take  all  the  pleasures  of  all  the  spheres, 
"And  multiply  aicli  through  endless  years, 

"One  minute  of  Heaven  is  worth  them  alll" 

The  glorious  Angel,  who  was  kee|)ing 
The  (f.itcs  of  Light,  beheld  her  weeping  ; 
And,  ns  lie  nearer  drew  .ind  listen'd 
To  her  H.-id  song,  a  tear-drop  glistcn'd 
Wi'ihiii  hit  cyelldH,  like  the  spray 

From  Kilen's  fountain,  when  it  liuH 
On  the  blue  flow'r,  which — Uramins  )*.iy — 

BloomH  nowhere  but  in  Parudisc.'" 


"Nymph  of  a  f'lir  but  erring  line!" 
Gently  he  said — ■■  One  hope  is  thine. 
"  'Tis  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate, 

'•  The  Peri  yet  may  beforgivn 
"  Who  brings  to  this  Eternal  gale 

"  The  Gift  that  is  most  dear  to  Heav'n  ! 
'•  Go,  seek  it,  and  redeem  thy  sin — 
"  'Tis  sweet  to  let  the  pardon'd  in." 

Rapidly  as  comets  run 

To  th'  embraces  of  the  Sun ; — 

Fleeter  than  the  starry  brands 

Flung  at  night  from  angel  hands'" 

At  those  dark  and  daring  sprites 

Who  would  climb  th'  empyreal  heights, 

Down  the  blue  vault  the  Peri  flies. 

And,  lighted  earthward  by  a  glance 
That  just  then  broke  from  morning's  eyes 

Hung  hov'ring  o'er  our  world's  c.xp.ansB 

But  whither  shall  the  Spirit  go 

To  find  this  gift  for  Heav'n  ! — "I  know 

"The  wealth,"  .she  cries,  "of  every  urn, 

"In  which  unnumbcr'd  rubies  burn, 

"Beneath  the  pillars  of  Chilminar;'" 

"I  know  where  the  Isles  of  Perfume  are,'*' 

"  Many  a  fathom  down  in  the  sea, 

"To  the  south  of  sun-bright  Arabv;"" 

"I  know,  too,  where  the  Genii  hid 

"The  jewell'd  cup  of  their  King  Jamshid."* 

"  With  Life's  cli.\ir  sparkling  higli — 

"  But  gifts  like  these  arc  not  for  the  sky. 

"  \Vhere  w.as  there  ever  a  gem  that  shone 

"  Like  the  steps  of  Alla's  wonderful  Throne ' 

"  And  the  Drops  of  Lire.^oh !  what  would  thev  !>• 

"In  the  boundless  Deep  of  Eternity'" 

While  thus  she  mused,  her  pininns  fann'd 
The  air  of  that  sweet  Indian  land. 
Whose  nir  is  balm ;  whose  ocean  spreads 
O'er  coral  rocks,  and  amber  beds ;" ' 
Whose  momitains,  pregnant  by  the  beam 
Of  the  warm  sun,  with  diamonds  Iccm; 
Whose  rivulets  are  like  rich  briiles. 
Lovely,  with  gold  beneath  their  tides; 
Whoso  sandal  groves  and  bow'rs  of  spico 
Might  bo  a  Peri's  Paradise! 
But  crimson  now  her  rivers  ran 

Willi  human  blood — the  smill  of  death 
Came  reeking  from  those  spicy  bow'rs, 
And  man,  the  sncrilico  of  man, 

Mingled  his  laini  with  cv'ry  breath 
Upwaflcd  from  th'  innocent  llow'rs. 
Land  of  the  Sun !  what  foot  invades 
Thy  Pagods  and  thy  pillar'd  shades — '*• 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


29 


Thy  cavern  shriiies,  and  Idol  hIoiics, 

Tliy  Jloiiarclis  and  their  lliousand  Tlirones?'" 

'Tia  He  of  Gazna"° — fierce  in  wrath 

He  comeH,  and  India's  diadems 
Lie  scatter'd  in  liis  ruinous  path. — 

His  bloodliounds  lie  adorns  witli  gems, 
Torn  from  tlie  violated  ncelis 

Of  many  a  young  and  loved  Snltana;'" 
Maidens,  williin  their  pure  Zenana, 
Priests  in  tlie  very  fane  ho  slaughters, 
And  chokes  up  with  the  glitt'ring  wrecks     . 
Of  golden  shrines  the  sacred  waters! 

Downward  the  Peri  turns  lier  gaze. 
And,  tlirough  the  war-field's  bloody  hazo 
BclioUls  a  youthful  warrior  stand. 

Alone  beside  his  native  river, — 
The  red  blade  broken  in  his  hand, 

And  the  last  arrow  in  his  quiver. 
"Live,"  said  the  Coniiu'ror,  "  live  to  share 
"  The  trophies  and  tlie  crowns  I  bearl" 
Silent  tliat  youthful  warrior  stood — 
Silent  he  pointed  to  the  Hood 
All  crimson  with  his  country's  blood. 
Then  sent  his  last  remaining  dart, 
For  answer,  to  th'  Invader's  heart. 

False  flew  flie  shaft,  though  pointed  well; 
The  Tyrant  lived,  the  Hero  fell!— 
Yet  uiark'd  the  Peri  where  he  lay. 

And,  when  the  rush  of  war  was  past. 
Swiftly  descending  on  a  ray 

Of  morning  light,  she  caught  the  last — 
Last  glorious  drop  his  heart  had  shed, 
Before  its  free-born  spirit  fled ! 

"Be  this,''  she  cried,  as  she  wing'd  her  flight, 
"  My  welcome  gift  at  the  Gates  of  Light. 
"  Though  foul  are  the  drops  that  oft  distil 

"  On  the  field  of  warfare,  blood  like  this, 

"  For  Liberty  shed,  so  holy  is,'" 
"  It  would  not  stain  the  purest  rill, 

"  That  sparkles  among  the  Bowers  of  Bliss! 
"  Oh,  if  there  be,  on  this  earthly  sphere, 
"  A  boon,  an  offering  Heav'n  holds  dear, 
"  'Tis  the  last  libation  Liberty  draws 
"From  the  heart  that  bleeds  and  breaks  in  her 


"  Sweet,"  said  the  Angel,  as  she  gave 
The  gift  into  his  radiant  hand, 

"  Sweet  is  our  welcome  of  the  Brave 
"  Who  die  thus  for  their  native  Land. — • 

"  But  see — alas ! — the  crystal  bar 

"Of  Eden  moves  not — holier  far 


"  Than  ev'n  this  drop  the  boon  must  be, 
"  That  opes  the  Gates  of  Heav'n  for  thee!" 

Her  first  fond  hope  of  Eden  blighted, 

Now  among  Afhic's  lunar  Mountains,"* 
Far  to  the  South,  the  Peri  lighted  ; 

And  sleek'd  her  plumage  at  the  fountains 
Of  that  Egyptian  tide — whose  birth 
Is  liidden  from  the  sons  of  earth 
Deep  in  those  solitary  woods. 
Where  oft  the  Genii  of  the  Floods 
Dance  round  the  cradle  of  their  Nile, 
And  hail  the  new-born  Giant's  smile."' 
Thence  over  Egypt's  ])almy  groves, 

Her  grots,  and  sepulchres  of  Kings,"* 
The  exiled  Spirit  sighing'  roves; 
And  now  hangs  list'ning  to  the  doves 
In  warm  Rosetta's  vale'" — now  loves 

To  watch  the  moonlight  on  the  wings 
Of  the  white  pelicans  that  break 
The  azure  calm  of  Mceris'  Lake.'" 
'Twas  a  fair  scene — a  Land  more  bright 

Never  did  mortal  eye  behold ! 
Who  could  have  thought,  that  saw  this  night 

Those  valleys  and  their  fruits  of  gold 
Basking  in  Heav'n's  serenest  light ; — 
Those  groups  of  lovely  date-trees  bending 

Languidly  their  leaf-crown'd  heads. 
Like  youthful  maids,  when  sleep  descending 

Warns  them  to  their  silken  beds; — •'•' 
Those  virgin  lilies,  all  the  night 

Bathing  their  beauties  in  the  lake. 
That  they  may  rise  more  fresh  and  bright, 

When  their  beloved  Sun's  awake; — 
Those  ruin'd  shrines  and  tow'rs  that  seem 
The  relics  of  a  splendid  dream; 

Amid  whose  fairy  loneliness 
Naught  but  the  lapwing's  cry  is  heard. 
Naught  seen  but  (when  the  shadows,  flitting 
Fast  from  the  moon,  unsheath  its  gleam) 
Some  purple-wing'd  Sultana"'  sitting 

Upon  a  column,  motionless 
And  glitt'ring  like  an  Idol  bird ! — 
Who  could  have  thought,  that  there,  ev'n  tiiere, 
Amid  those  scenes  so  still  and  fair. 

The  Demon  of  the  Plague  hath  cast 

From  his  hot  wing  a  deadlier  blast. 
More  mortal  far  than  ever  came 
From  the  red  Desert's  sands  of  flame ! 
So  quick,  that  ev'iy  living  thing 
Of  human  shape,  toueh'd  by  his  \\ing, 

Like  plants,  where  the  Simoom  hath  pass'd, 
At  once  falls  black  and  withering! 
The  sun  went  d  jwn  on  many  a  brow 

Which,  full  of  bloom  and  freshness  then, 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Is  rankling  in  the  pest-house  now, 

Freshly  perfumed  by  many  a  brand 

And  ne'er  will  feel  that  sun  again. 

Of  the  sweet  wood  from  India's  land. 

.\iid,  o!i  I  to  see  tli'  unburied  heaps 

Were  pure  as  she  whose  brow  they  fannd. 

On  whieii  the  lonely  moonlight  sleeps.^ 

The  very  vultures  turn  away, 

But  see — who  yonder  comes  by  stealth,"" 

And  sicken  at  so  foul  a  prey  ! 

This  melancholy  bow'r  to  seek. 

Only  the  fierce  hyjena  stalks'" 

Like  a  young  envoy,  sent  by  Health, 

Throughout  the  city's  desolate  walks'" 

With  rosy  gifts  upon  her  cheek  ? 

At  midnight,  and  his  carnage  plies: — 

'Tis  slie — far  off,  through  moonlight  dim, 

Woe  to  the  half-dead  wretch,  who  meets 

He  knew  his  own  betrothed  bride. 

The  glaring  of  those  large  blue  eyes'" 

Slie,  who  would  ratlier  die  with  him. 

Amid  the  darkness  of  the  street.? ! 

Than  live  to  gain  the  world  beside ! — 

Her  arms  arc  round  her  lover  now, 

"  Poor  race  of  men !"  said  the  pitying  Spirit, 

His  livid  cheek  to  hers  she  presses, 

"Dearly  ye  p.ay  for  your  primal  Fall — 

And  dips,  to  bind  his  burning  brow. 

J    "  Some  flow'rcts  of  EJen  ye  still  inherit, 

In  the  cool  Like  her  loosen'd  tiesses. 

"  But  the  trail  of  the  Serpent  is  over  tliein  .all !" 

All!  oneo,  how  little  did  lie  think 

She  wept — the  air  grew  pure  and  clear 

An  hour  would  come,  when  he  should  shrink 

Around  her,  as  the  briglit  drops  ran; 

With  horror  from  that  dear  embrace, 

For  there's  a  magic  in  each  tear, 

Those  gentle  arms,  that  were  to  him 

Such  kindly  Spirits  weep  for  man! 

Holy  as  is  the  cradling  place 

Of  Eden's  infant  cherubim! 

Just  then  beneath  some  onuigo  trees. 

And  now  he  yields — now  turns  .away, 

Whose  fruit  and  blossoms  in  the  breeze 

Shudd'ring  as  if  the  venom  lay 

Were  wantoning  together,  free, 

All  in  those  prolTer'd  lips  alone — 

Like  age  at  play  with  infancy — 

Those  lips  that,  then  so  fearless  grown. 

Beneath  that  fresh  and  springing  bower. 

Never  until  that  instant  came 

Close  by  the  Lake,  she  heard  the  moan 

Near  his  unask'd  or  without  shame. 

Of  one  who,  at  lliis  silent  hour, 

"Oh!  let  me  only  breathe  the  air. 

Had  thither  slol'n  to  die  alone. 

"  The  blessed  air,  that's  breathed  by  thee, 

One  who  in  life  where'er  he  moved. 

"  And,  whellier  on  its  wings  it  bear. 

Drew  after  him  the  hearts  of  many; 

"Healing  or  death,  'tis  sweet  to  me! 

Yet  now,  as  though  he  ne'er  were  loved. 

"  There — drink  my  tear.s,  while  yet  they  fall— 

Dies  here  unseen,  unwept  by  any! 

"  Would  that  my  bosom's  blood  were  balm, 

None  to  watch  near  him — none  to  sl.'ike 

"  And,  well  thou  know'st,  I'd  shed  it  all. 

Tlie  fire  that  in  his  bosom  lies, 

"  To  give  thy  brow  one  minute's  calm. 

With  ev'n  a  sprinkle  from  that  lake. 

"Nay,  turn  not  from  ine  that  dear  face — 

Which  shines  so  cool  before  his  eyes. 

"  .\m  I  not  thine — thy  own  loved  bride — 

No  voice,  well  known  llirongh  many  a  dav, 

"The  one,  the  chosen  one,  whose  place 

To  speak  the  last,  the  parting  word. 

"  In  life  or  death  is  by  thy  side? 

Which,  when  nil  other  sounds  decay. 

"  Think'st  thou  that  she,  whose  only  light. 

Is  still  like  distant  music  heard; — 

"  In  this  dim  world,  from  thee  hath  shone. 

That  lender  farewell  on  the  shore 

"Could  bear  the  long,  the  cheerless  iiighl, 

Of  this  rude  world,  when  all  is  o'er. 

"Tliat  must  be  hers  when  thou  art  gon(  ' 

Which  cheers  lh(^  spirit,  ere  its  bark 

"That  I  can  live,  and  let  thee  go. 

Puts  oft' into  the  unknown  Dark. 

"  Who  art  my  life  itself! — No,  no — 

"  When  the  stem  dies,  the  leal  that  grew 

DeKcrtcd  youth !  one  thought  nione 

"Out  of  its  heart  must  perish  too! 

Shed  joy  around  bin  houI  in  death — 

"Then  turn  to  me,  my  own  love,  turn, 

That  she,  whom  he  for  years  had  known, 

"  Before,  like  thee,  I  faile  and  burn  ; 

And  loveil,  and  might  have  call'd  his  own, 

"Cling  to  these  ye(  cool  lips,  and  share 

W.-m  sale  from  Iliis  foul  midnight's  breath, — 

"The  last  pure  life  that  lingers  there!" 

Safe  in  licr  father's  princely  halls, 

She  fails — she  Kinks — as  dies  the  lamp 

WhiTu  llic  cool  airs  from  fountain  falU, 

In  charncl  airs,  or  cavern-ilamp, 

LALLA  EOOKH. 


31 


So  quiclily  do  lii»  baleful  sighs, 
Quench  all  l!ic  sweet  light  of  her  eyes. 
One  struggle — and  his  pain  is  past — 

Her  lover  is  no  longer  living! 
One  kiss  the  maiden  gives,  one  last, 

Lonn;  kiss,  which  she  expires  in  giving! 

"  Sleep,"  said  the  Peri,  as  softly  she  stole 
The  farewell  sigh  of  that  vanishing  soul. 
As  (rue  as  e'er  vvarni'd  a  woman's  breast — 
"Sleep  on,  in  visions  of  odor  rest, 
"  In  balmier  airs  then  ever  yet  stirr'd 
"  Th'  enchanted  pile  of  that  lonely  bird, 
"  Who  sings  at  the  last  his  own  death-lay,"* 
"And  in  music  and  perfume  dies  away !" 
Thus  saying,  from  her  lips  she  spread 

Unearthly  breathings  through  the  place. 
And  shook  her  sparkling  wreath,  and  slied 

Such  lustre  o'er  each  paly  fiice. 
That  like  two  lovely  saints  they  seem'd. 

Upon  the  eve  of  doomsday  taken 
From  their  dim  graves,  in  odor  sleeping ; 
While  that  benevolent  Peri  bcam'd 
Like  their  good  angel,  eahnly  keeping 

Watch  o'er  them  till  their  souls  would  waken. 

But  raorn  is  blushing  in  the  sky; 

Again  the  Peri  soars  above. 
Bearing  to  Heav'n  that  precious  sigh 

Of  pure,  self-sacrificing  love. 
High  throbb'd  her  heart,  with  hope  elate, 

Tir  Klysian  palm  she  soon  shall  win. 
For  the  bright  Spirit  at  the  gale 

Smiled  as  she  gave  that  ofi'Ving  in; 
And  she  already  hears  the  trees 

Of  Eden,  with  their  crystal  bells 
Ringing  in  that  ambrosial  breeze 

That  from  the  throne  of  Alla  swells ; 
And  she  can  see  the  starry  bowls 

That  lie  around  that  lucid  lake. 
Upon  whose  banks  admitted  Souls 

Their  first  sweet  draught  of  glory  take !'" 

But,  ah  I  ev'n  Peris'  hopes  are  vain — 

Again  the  Fates  forbade,  again 

Th'  immortal  barrier  closed — "  Not  yet," 

The  Angel  said,  as,  with  regret. 

He  shut  from  her  that  gUmpse  of  glory — 

"True  was  the  maiden,  and  her  story, 

"  Written  in  light  o'er  Ali.a's  licad, 

"By  seraph  eyes  shall  long  bo  read. 

"  But.  Peri,  see — the  crystal  bar 

"Of  Eden  moves  not — holier  far 

"Than  ev'n  this  sigh  the  boon  must  be 

"That  opes  the  Gates  of  Heav'n  for  thee." 


Now,  upon  SifP.iA's  land  of  roses'" 
Softly  the  light  of  Eve  reposes, 
And,  like  a  glory,  the  broad  sun 
Hangs  over  .sainted  Leranon  ; 
Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  tow'rs, 

And  whitens  with  eternal  sleet, 
While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flowrs, 

Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet. 

To  one,  who  look'd  from  upper  air 

O'er  all  th'  enchanted  regions  there, 

How  beauteous  must  have  been  the  gloW 

The  life,  the  sparkling  from  below! 

Fair  gardens,  shining  streams,  with  ranks 

Of  golden  melons  on  their  banks. 

More  golden  w-here  the  sun-light  falls;— 

Gay  lizards,  glitt'ring  on  the  walls'" 

Of  ruin'd  shrines,  busy  and  bright 

As  they  were  all  alive  with  light ; 

And,  yet  more  splendid,  numerous  Hocks 

Of  pigeons,  settling  on  the  rocks. 

With  their  rieh  restless  wings,  that  gleam 

Variously  in  the  crimson  beam 

Of  the  warm  West, — as  if  inlaid 

With  brilliants  from  the  mine,  or  made 

Of  tearless  rainbows,  such  as  span 

Th'  unclouded  skies  of  Peristan. 

And  then  the  mingling  sounds  that  come, 

Of  shepherd's  ancient  reed,""  with  hum 

Of  the  wild  bees  of  Palestine,'"'' 

Banqueting  through  the  flow'ry  vales; 
And,  Jordan,  those  sweet  banks  of  thine, 

And  woods,  so  full  of  nightingales."" 

But  naught  can  charm  the  luckless  Peri; 
Her  soul  is  sad — her  wings  are  weary — 
Joyless  she  sees  the  Sun  look  down 
On  that  great  Temple,  once  his  own,'" 
Wliose  lonely  columns  stand  sublime. 

Flinging  their  shadows  from  on  high. 
Like  dials,  which  the  wizard.  Time, 

Had  raised  to  count  his  ages  by ! 
Yet  haply  there  may  lie  conceal'd 

Beneath  those  Chambers  of  the  Sun, 
Some  amulet  of  gems,  anneal'd 
In  upper  fires,  some  tablet  seal'd 

With  the  great  name  of  Solo:iion, 

Which,  spell'd  by  her  illumined  eyes. 
May  teach  her  where,  beneath  the  moon 
In  earth  or  ocean,  lies  the  boon, 
The  charm,  that  can  restore  so  soon 

An  erring  Spirit  to  the  skies. 

Cheer'd  by  this  hope  she  bends  her  thhher; 
Still  laughs  the  radiant  eyt  of  Heaven, 


32 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Xor  liave  tlie  golden  bowers  of  Even 

Just,  lighted  on  th.at  flow'ry  plain, 

In  the  rich  West  begun  to  wither ; — 

And  seeking  for  its  home  ag.un. 

When,  o'er  the  vale  of  Balbec  mnging 

Oil  I  'twas  a  sight — that  Ileav'n — that  child — 

Slowly,  she  sees  .1  child  at  play, 

A  scene,  which  might  have  well  beguiled 

Among  tlie  rosy  wild-flow'rs  singing, 

Ev'n  haughty  Eblis  of  a  sigh 

As  rosy  and  as  wild  as  they ; 

For  glories  lost  and  peace  gone  by! 

Chasing,  with  eager  hands  and  eyes, 

The  beautiful  blue  damsel-tiies,'" 

And  how  felt  lie,  the  wretched  Man 

That  fluttered  round  the  jasmine  stems. 

Reclining  there — while  memory  ran 

Like  winged  flow'rs  or  flying  gems : — 

O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife, 

And,  near  the  boy,  who  tired  with  play 

Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  life, 

Now  nestling  'mid  the  roses  lay. 

Nor  found  one  sunny  resting-place, 

She  saw  a  wearied  man  dismount 

^      Nor  brought  him  back  one  Branch  of  grace. 

From  bis  hot  steed,  and  on  the  brink 

;     "There  was  a  time,"  he  said,  in  mild. 

Of  a  small  imaret's  rustic  fount'" 

Ilcart-humbled  tones — "thou  blessed  child! 

Impatient  fling  him  down  to  drink. 

"  When,  young  and  haply  pure  as  thou. 

Then  swift  his  haggard  brow  he  turn'd 

"I  look'd  and  pray'd  like  thee — ^but  now" — 

To  the  fair  child,  who  fearless  sat. 

He  hung  his  head — each  nobler  aim. 

Though  never  yet  hath  day-beam  burn'd 

And  hope,  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 

Upon  a  brow  more  fierce  than  that, — 

From  boyhood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Sullenly  fierce — a  mixture  dire. 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept — he  wept' 

Like  thunder-clouds,  of  gloom  and  fire; 

Blest  tears  of  soul-felt  penitence! 

In  which  the  Peri's  eye  could  read 

In  whose  benign,  redeeming  flow 

Dark  tales  of  many  a  ruthless  deed ; 

Is  felt  the  first,  the  only  sense. 

The  ruin'd  maid — the  shrine  profaned — • 

Of  guiltless  joy  that  guilt  can  know. 

Oaths  broken — and  the  threshold  stain'd 

With  blood  of  guests! — there  written,  all, 

"  There's  a  drop,"  said  Ihc  Pi;i;i,  '•  that  down  froa 

Black  as  the  damning  drops  that  fall 

the  moon 

From  the  denouncing  Angel's  pen, 

"Falls  through  the  wilhering  airs  of  .Tunc 

Ere  Mercy  weeps  them  out  again. 

"  Upon  Envri's  land,"'  of  so  healing  a  pow'r. 

"So  balmy  a  virtue,  that  ev'n  in  the  hour 

Yet  tranquil  now  thai  man  of  crime 

"  That  drop  descends,  contagion  dies. 

(As  if  the  balmy  evening  time 

"And  lieallh  reanimates  earth  and  skies! — 

Soflen'd  his  spirit)  look'd  and  lay. 

"Oh,  is  it  not  thus,  thou  man  of  sin, 

Watching  the  rosy  infant's  play : — 

"The  precious  tears  of  repentance  fall? 

Though  still,  whene'er  his  eye  by  chance 

"Though  foul  thy  fiery  plagues  within, 

Fell  on  the  boy's,  its  lurid  glance 

"One  heavenly  drop  hath  dispcll'd  them  all!" 

Met  that  unclouded,  joyous  gaze, 

Ah  torches,  that  have  burn'd  all  night 

And  now — behold  him  kneeling  there 

Through  some  impure  and  godless  rite. 

By  the  child's  side,  in  humble  pray'r. 

Encounter  morning's  glorious  rays. 

While  Ihe  same  sunbeam  sliincs  upon 

The  guilty  atid  the  guiltless  one. 

But,  hnrk !  the  vesper  c.nlls  to  pr.iy'r, 

And  hynins  of  joy  proclaim  through  IIc.iv'ii 

As  slow  the  orb  of  daylight  sets, 

The  triiim]ih  of  a  Soul  Forgiv'n  ! 

Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air, 

From  Syhia's  tliousand  minarets! 

'Twas  when  the  golden  orb  h.ad  set. 

The  boy  has  started  from  the  bed 

While  on  their  knees  they  llnger'd  yot. 

Of  flow'rs,  w  here  he  h.ad  laid  his  he.id, 

There  fell  a  light  more  lovely  far 

And  down  upon  the  fragrant  sod 

Than  ever  came  frcun  sun  or  star. 

Kneels'"  with  his  forehead  to  the  south, 

Upon  the  tear  thai,  warm  and  meek. 

Lisping  th'  eternal  name  of  God 

Dew'd  that  repentant  sinner's  cheek. 

From  Purity's  own  cherub  mouth, 

To  mortal  eye  this  light  might  seem 

And  looking,  while  his  hands  and  eyes 

A  northern  flash  or  meteor  beam — 

Arc  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 

But  well  th'  enraptured  Peiii  knew 

Like  a  stray  bubo  of  Paradise, 

'Twas  a  bright  sinilo  tlio  Angel  tlirew 

LiALLA  ROOKH. 


33 


From  Heaven's  gate,  to  liail  that  tear 
Her  liarbiiiger  of  {,'lory  near! 

"Joy,  joy  for  ever!  my  task  is  done — 
"  Tlie  gates  are  pass'd,  and  Heav'n  is  won ! 
"  Oil !  am  I  not  liappy  ?  I  am,  I  am — 

"  To  tlice,  sweet  Eden !  liow  darlt  and  sad 
"Are  the  diamond  turrets  of  Siiadutciam,'"" 

"  And  the  fragrant  bowers  of  Amberabad  ! 

"Farewell,  ye  odors  of  Earth,  that  die 
"  Passing  away  like  a  lover's  sigh ; — 
"  My  feast  is  now  of  the  Tooba  Tree,'" 
"  Whose  scent  is  the  breath  of  Eternity  ! 

"Farewell,  ye  vanishing  flowers,  that  shone 
"  In  my  fairy  wreatli,  so  bright  and  brief; — 

"Oh!    what   are   the   brightest   that   e'er   have 
blown, 

"To  the  lote-tree,  springing  by  Alla's  throne,'" 
"  Wliose  flowers  have  a  soul  in  every  leaf. 

"  Joy,  joy  for  ever  1 — my  task  is  done — 

"  The  Gates  are  pass'd,  and  Heav'n  is  won  !" 


"And  this,"  said  the  Great  Chamberlain,  "is 
poetry  !  this  flimsy  manufiicture  of  the  brain,  which, 
in  comparison  with  the  lofty  and  durable  monu- 
ments of  genius,  is  as  the  gold  fdigrcc-work  of 
Zamara  beside  the  eternal  architecture  of  Egypt !" 
After  this  gorgeous  sentence,  which,  with  a  few 
more  of  the  same  kind,  Fadladeen  kept  by  him 
for  rare  and  important  occasions,  he  proceeded  to 
the  anatomy  of  the  short  poem  just  recited.  The 
lax  and  easy  kind  of  metre  in  which  it  was  written 
ought  to  be  denounced,  he  said,  as  one  of  the 
leading  causes  of  the  .alarming  growth  of  poetry  in 
our  times.  If  some  check  were  not  given  to  this 
lawless  facility,  we  should  soon  be  overrun  by  a 
race  of  bards  as  numerous  and  as  shallow  as  the 
hundred  and  twenty  thousand  Streams  of  Basra."' 
They  who  succeeded  in  tliis  style  deserved  chas- 
tisement for  their  very  success  ; — as  warriors  have 
been  punislied,  even  after  gaining  a  victory,  because 
they  had  taken  the  liberty  of  gaining  it  in  an  ir- 
regular or  unest.ablished  manner.  What,  then,  was 
to  be  said  to  those  who  failed  ?  to  those  who  pre- 
sumed, as  in  the  present  lamentable  instance,  to 
imitate  the  license  and  ease  of  the  bolder  sons  of 
song,  without  any  of  tliat  grace  or  vigor  which  gave 
a  dignity  even  to  negligence ; — who,  like  them, 
flung  the  jereed""  carelessly,  but  not,  like  them,  to 
the  mark ; — "  and  who,"  said  he,  raising  his  voice  to 
«\cilo  a  proper  degree  of  wakefulness  in  his  hearers, 

VOL.  11. — 5 


"  contrive  to  appear  heavy  and  constr.ained  in  tlie 
midst  of  all  tlie  latitude  they  .-dhjw  themselves,  like 
one  of  those  young  p.agans  that  dance  before  the 
Princess,  who  is  ingenious  enough  to  move  as  if 
her  limbs  were  fettered,  in  a  pair  of  the  lightest 
and  loosest  drawers  of  Masulipatam  !" 

It  was  but  little  suitable,  he  continued,  to  the 
grave  march  of  criticism  to  follow  lliis  fantastical 
Peri,  of  whom  they  h.ad  just  heard,  through  all  her. 
flights  and  adventures  between  earth  and  heaven  ; 
but  he  could  not  help  adverting  to  the  puerile  con- 
ceitedness  of  the  Three  Gifts  which  she  is  supposed 
to  carry  to  the  skies, — a  drop  of  blood,  forsooth,  a 
sigh,  and  a  tear !  How  the  first  of  these  articles 
Wiis  delivered  into  the  Angel's  "  radiant  hand"  he 
professed  himself  at  a  loss  to  discover;  and  as  to 
the  safe  carriage  of  tlie  sigh  and  the  tear,  such 
Peris  and  such  poets  were  beings  by  far  too  in- 
comprehensible for  hini  even  to  guess  how  they 
managed  such  matters.  "  But,  in  short,"  said  he, 
"  it  is  a  waste  of  time  and  patience  to  dwell  longor 
upon  a  thing  so  incurably  frivolous, — puny  even 
among  its  own  puny  race,  and  such  as  only  tha 
Banyan  Hospital""  for  Sick  Insects  should  under- 
take." 

In  v.ain  did  Lalla  RooKit  try  to  soften  this  in- 
e.vor.able  critic  ;  in  vain  did  she  resort  to  her  most 
eloquent  common-places, — reminding  him  that  poets 
were  a  timid  and  sensitive  race,  whose  sweetness 
was  not  to  be  drawn  forth,  like  that  of  the  fragrant 
grass  near  the  Ganges,  by  crushing  and  trampling 
upon  them ;'" — that  severity  often  extinguished 
every  chance  of  the  perfection  which  it  demanded ; 
and  th.it,  after  .all,  perfection  was  like  the  Mountain 
of  the  Talisman, — no  one  had  ever  yet  reached  its 
summit.^""  Neither  these  gentle  axioms,  nor  the 
still  gentler  looks  witii  which  they  were  inculcated, 
could  lower  for  one  instant  the  elevation  of  Fad- 
ladeen's  eyebrows,  or  ch.irni  him  into  any  thing 
like  encouragement,  or  even  toleration,  of  her  poet. 
Toleration,  indeed,  w.as  not  among  tlie  weaknesses 
of  Fadladicen: — he  carried  tlie  same  spirit  into 
matters  of  poetry  and  of  religion,  and,  though  litUe 
versed  in  tlie  beauties  and  sublimities  of  either,  was 
a  perfect  master  of  the  art  of  persecution  in  both. 
His  zeal  was  the  same,  too,  in  either  pursuit ; 
whether  the  g.arae  before  him  was  p.agans  or  poet- 
asters,— worshippers  of  cows,  or  writers  of  epics. 

They  h.id  now  .arrived  at  the  splendid  city  of 
Lahore,  whose  mausoleums  and  shrines,  magnifi- 
cent and  numberless,  where  Death  appeared  to 
share  equal  honors  with  Heaven,  would  havd  pow- 


34 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


erfully  affected  the  heart  and  itnaginalion  of  Lalla 
RooKH,  if  feelings  more  of  this  earth  had  not  taken 
entire  possession  of  her  already.  She  w.".8  here 
intt  by  niessengcr.*,  dispatched  from  Cashmere,  who 
informed  her  that  the  King  Ii.id  arrived  in  the 
Valley,  and  was  himself  superintending  the  sump- 
cuous  preparations  that  were  then  making  in  tlie 
Saloons  of  the  Shalimar  for  her  reception.  The 
chill  she  felt  on  receiving  this  intelligence, — which 
to  a  bride  whose  heart  was  free  and  liglit  would 
h.ive  brought  only  images  of  affection  and  pleasure, 
— convinced  her  that  her  peace  was  gone  for  ever, 
and  that  she  was  in  love,  irretrievably  in  love,  with 
young  Fekamokz.  The  veil  had  fallen  off  in  which 
this  passion  at  first  disguises  itself,  and  to  know 
that  she  loved  was  now  as  painful  as  to  love  uitli- 
oul  knowing  it  had  been  delicious.  Feramorz, 
too, — what  misery  would  be  his,  if  the  sweet  hours 
of  intercourse  so  imprudently  allowed  them  should 
have  stolen  into  his  heart  the  same  fatal  fascina- 
tion as  into  hers; — if,  notwithstanding  her  rank, 
and  the  modest  hom.ige  he  always  paid  to  it,  even 
he  should  have  yielded  to  the  influence  of  those 
long  and  happy  interviews,  where  music,  poetry,  the 
delightful  scenes  of  nature, — all  had  temled  to  bring 
llieir  hearts  close  together,  and  to  waken  by  every 
means  that  too  ready  passion,  which  often,  like  the 
young  of  the  desert-bird,  is  warmed  into  life  by  the 
eyes  alone!""  She  saw  but  one  way  to  preserve 
herself  from  being  culpable  as  well  as  unhappy, 
and  this,  however  painful,  she  w.is  resolved  to  adopt. 
Feramorz  must  no  more  be  admitted  to  her  pres- 
ence. To  have  strayed  so  far  into  the  dangerous 
labyrinth  w.is  wrong,  but  to  linger  in  it,  while  the 
clew  was  yet  in  her  hand,  would  be  criminal. 
Though  the  heart  she  had  to  offer  to  the  King  of 
Bucharia  might  be  cold  and  broken,  it  should  iit 
least  be  pure;  and  she  must  only  endeavor  to  for- 
get the  short  dream  of  happiness  she  had  enjoyed, 
— like  that  Arabian  shepherd,  wlio,  in  wandering 
into  the  wilderness,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Gardens 
of  Irim,  and  then  lost  them  again  for  ever!'-"' 

The  arrival  of  the  young  Bride  iit  Lahore  was 
celebrated  in  the  most  enthusiastic  maimer.  The 
Il.njas  and  Omr.is  in  her  train,  who  had  kept  at  a 
oertain  distance  during  the  journey,  and  never  en- 
camped nearer  to  llic  Princess  than  was  Htrictly 
necessary  for  her  safeguard,  here  rodo  in  splendid 
cnvalcndc  through  the  city,  and  distributed  the 
most  coHlly  presents  to  the  crowd.  Kngines  were 
erected  in  nil  the  sr|Hnre»,  which  cast  forth  showers 
of  confectionary  among  the  people;  while  the 
•  rlisanH,  in  clinriots"'  ad  )rned  with  tinsel  and  flying 
ktreamnrv,  oxhibitcd  Iho  bnd(;<n  of  their  respective 


trades  through  the  streets.  Such  brilliant  displays 
of  life  and  pageantry  among  the  palaces,  and  domes, 
and  gilded  minarets  of  Lahore,  made  the  city  alio- 
gether  like  a  place  of  enchantment ; — partimilarly 
on  the  day  when  Lalla  Rookh  set  out  again  upon 
her  journey,  when  she  was  accompanied  to  the 
gate  by  all  the  fairest  and  richest  of  the  nobility, 
and  rode  along  between  ranks  of  beautiful  boys 
and  girls,  who  kept  waving  over  their  heads  plates 
of  gold  and  silver  flowers,""  and  then  threw  them 
around  to  be  gathered  by  the  populace. 

For  many  d.nys  after  their  departure  from  La 
hore,  a  considerable  degree  of  gloom  hung  over  the 
whole  party.  Lalla  Rookii,  who  had  intended  to 
m.ake  illness  her  excuse  for  not  admitting  the 
young  minstrel,  as  usual,  to  the  pavilion,  soon 
found  tliat  to  feign  indisposition  was  unnecessary; 
— Fadladee.n  felt  the  loss  of  tlie  good  road  they 
had  hitherto  travelled,  and  was  very  near  cursing 
Jehan-Guirc  (of  blessed  memory!)  for  not  having 
continued  his  delectable  alley  of  trees,'"  at  least  as 
far  as  the  mountains  of  Cashmere ; — while  the 
Ladies,  who  had  nothing  now  to  do  all  day  but  to 
be  fanned  by  peacock's  feathers  and  listen  to  Fad- 
ladeen,  seemed  heartily  weary  of  the  life  they  led, 
and,  in  spite  of  all  the  Great  Chamberlain's  criti- 
cisms, were  so  t.istcless  as  to  wish  for  the  poet 
again.  One  evening,  as  they  were  proceeding  to 
their  place  of  rest  for  the  night,  the  Princess,  who, 
for  the  freer  enjoyment  of  the  air,  had  mounted  her 
favorite  Arabian  palfrey,  in  passing  by  a  small 
grove  heard  the  notes  of  a  lute  from  within  its 
leaves,  and  a  voice,  which  she  but  too  well  kne'.v 
singing  the  following  words: — 

Tell  me  not  of  joys  above, 
If  that  world  can  give  no  bliss, 

Truer,  happier  than  the  Love 

VVIiich  enslaves  our  souls  in  this. 

Tell  me  not  of  Houris'  eyes; — 
Far  from  me  their  d:ingerous  glow, 

If  those  looks  that  light  the  skies 
Wound  like  some  that  burn  below. 

Who,  that  feels  what  Love  is  here. 
All  its  falsehood — all  its  pain — 

Would,  for  ev'n  Klysium's  sphere. 
Risk  the  fatal  dream  again  ? 

Who,  that  midst  n  desert's  heat 

Sees  the  w.nters  fade  nway, 
Would  not  rather  die  tliau  incot 

Streams  ogain  as  false  ad  thovt 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


35 


Thp  tone  of  inclMiiclioly  (li.>fianee  in  wliich  tliose 
words  were  nttorcd,  went  to  IjAlla  Rookh's  Iic.irt; 
— anil,  as  she  reUictantly  rode  on,  she  could  not 
lielp  feeling  it  to  be  a  sad  but  still  sweet  certainty, 
that  I'"eramorz  was  fo  tlie  full  as  enamored  and 
inisc-iablo  as  herself. 

The  place  where  they  eneamped  that  cveninn^ 
was  file  first  delightful  spot  tlicy  had  come  to  since 
they  left  Lahore.  On  one  side  of  them  was  a  grove 
fuR  of  small  Hindoo  temples,  and  planted  with  the 
niost  graceful  trees  of  the  East;  where  the  tam.a- 
rind,  the  cassia,  and  the  sillsen  plantains  of  Ceylon 
were  mingled  in  rich  contrast  with  the  high  fan- 
like foliage  of  the  Palmyra, — that  favorite  tree  of 
the  Inxurious  bird  that  lights  up  the  chambers  of 
its  nest  with  fire-flios.""'  In  the  middle  of  the  lawn 
where  the  p;ivilion  stood  there  was  a  tank  sur- 
rounded by  small  mango-trees,  on  the  clear  cold 
waters  of  which  flo.ated  multitudes  of  the  beautiful 
red  lotus  ;""  while  at  a  distance  .stood  the  ruins  of 
a  strange  and  awful-looking  tower,  which  seemed 
old  enough  to  have  been  the  temple  of  some 
religion  no  longer  known,  and  which  spoke  the 
voice  of  desolation  in  the  midst  of  all  that  bloom 
and  loveliness.  This  singul.ir  ruin  excited  the 
wonder  and  conjectures  of  all.  Lalla  Rookh 
guessed  in  vain,  and  the  all-pretending  Fadlabeen, 
who  had  never  till  this  journey  been  beyond  the 
precincts  of  Delhi,  was  proceeding  most  learnedly 
to  show  that  he  knew  nothing  whatever  .about  the 
matter,  when  one  of  the  Ladies  suggested  that 
perhaps  Feramorz  could  satisfy  their  curiosity. 
They  were  now  appro.aching  his  n.ative  mountains, 
and  this  tower  might  perh.aps  be  a  relic  of  some  of 
those  dark  superstitions,  which  h.id  prevailed  in 
that  country  before  the  light  of  Islam  dawned  upon 
it.  The  Chamberlain,  who  usu.illy  preferred  Ids 
own  ignorance  to  the  best  knowledge  that  any  one 
else  could  give  him,  was  by  no  means  ple.ased  w'ith 
this  officious  reference ;  and  tlie  Princess,  too,  was 
about  to  interpose  a  faint  word  of  objection,  but, 
before  either  of  them  could  speak,  a  slave  was  dis- 
p.itched  for  Feramorz,  who,  in  a  vcrv  few  minutes, 
made  his  appearance  before  them — looking  so  pale 
and  unh.nppy  in  Lalla  Rookh's  eyes,  that  she  re- 
pented already  of  her  cruelty  in  having  so  long 
excluded  him. 

Th.at  venerable  tower,  he  told  them,  was  the  re, 
m.ains  of  .an  ancient  Fire-Temple,  built  by  those 
Cihebers  or  Persi.ans  of  the  old  religion,  who,  many 
hundred  years  since,  had  fled  hither  from  their 
Arab  eon([uerors,"'  preferring  liberty  and  their  al- 
tars in  a  l?re:gn  land  to  the  altornative  of  apgstacy 


or  persecution  in  their  own.  It  was  impossible, 
he  added,  not  to  feel  interested  in  th"  many  glorious 
but  unsuccessful  struggles,  which  liad  been  made 
by  these  origin.il  natives  of  Persia  to  cast  off  the 
yoke  of  their  bigoted  conquerors.  Like  their  own 
Fire  in  the  Burning  Field  at  Bakou,'"  when  sup- 
pressed in  one  place,  they  had  but  broken  out  with, 
fresh  flame  in  another ;  and,  as  a  native  of  Casli- 
merc,  of  that  fair  and  Holy  Valley,  which  had  in 
the  same  manner  become  the  prey  of  strangers,'" 
and  seen  her  ancient  shrines  and  nalirv  princes 
swept  away  before  tlie  march  of  her  intolerant  in- 
vaders, lie  felt  a  sympathy,  he  owned,  with  the 
suflerings  of  the  persecuted  Ghebers,  which  every 
monument  like  this  before  them  but  tended  more 
powerfully  to  awaken. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Feramorz  had  ever 
ventured  upon  so  much  prose  before  Fadladees, 
and  it  may  easily  be  conceived  what  effect  such 
prose  as  this  must  have  produced  upon  th.it  most 
orthodox  and  most  pagan-hating  personage.  He 
sat  for  some  minutes  agh.ast,  ejaculating  only  at 
intervals,  "Bigoted  conquerors! — sympathy  with 
Fire-worshippers!"-" — while  Feramorz,  happy  to 
take  advantage  of  this  almost  speechless  horror  of 
the  Ch.imberlain,  proceeded  to  S'ly  that  he  knew  a 
melancholy  story,  connected  with  the  events  of  one 
of  those  struggles  of  the  brave  Fire-worshipptrs 
against  their  Arab  masters,  which,  if  the  evening 
w.as  not  too  far  .advanced,  he  should  have  much 
pleasure  in  being  allowed  to  relate  to  the  Princess. 
It  was  impossible  for  Lalla  Rookh  to  refuse ; — 
he  had  never  before  looked  half  so  anim.ated  ;  and 
when  he  spoke  of  the  Holy  Valley  his  eyes  had 
sparkled,  she  thought,  like  the  talismanic  characters 
on  the  cimeter  of  Solomon.  Her  consent  was 
therefore  most  re.adily  granted;  .and  while  Fad. 
LADEEN  s.at  in  unspeakable  dism.ay,  expecting 
treason  and  abomination  in  every  line,  the  poet 
thus  began  his  story  of  the  Fiic-worshippers:-^ 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

'Tis  moonlight  over  O.man's  Sea  f' 

Her  banks  of  pearl  and  p.alniy  isles 
Bask  in  fhe  night-beam  beauteousl}', 

And  her  blue  waters  sleep  in  smiles, 
'Tis  moonlight  in  Harmozia's""  walls, 
.And  throngh  her  Emir's  porphyry  halls. 
Where,  some  hours  since,  was  heard  the  swe  l 
Of  trumpet  and  the  clash  of  zel,'" 
Bidding  the  bright-eyed  sun  farewell :— 


36 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


The  peaceful  sun,  whom  better  suits 

Yet  has  she  hearts,  mid  all  this  ill. 

The  music  of  the  bulbul's  nest, 

O'er  all  this  wreck  high  buoyant  still 

Or  the  li|jht  touch  of  lovers'  lutes, 

With  hope  and  vengeance ; — hearts  that  yet — 

To  sing  him  to  his  golden  rest. 

Like  gems,  in  darkness,  issuing  r.iys 

All  hush"d — there's  not  a  breeze  in  motion  ; 

They've  treasured  from  the  sun  that's  set,— 

The  shore  is  silent  as  the  ocean. 

Beam  all  the  light  of  long-lost  days! 

If  zephyrs  come,  so  light  they  come, 

And  swords  she  hatl),  nor  weak  nor  slow 

Nor  leaf  is  stirr'd  nor  wave  is  driven; 

To  second  .ill  such  hearts  can  dare; 

The  wind-tower  on  the  Emir's  dome"" 

As  he  sliall  know,  wellj  de.irly  know. 

Can  hardly  win  a  breath  from  heaven. 

Who  sleeps  in  moonlight  lu.x'ry  there. 

Tranquil  as  if  his  spirit  lay 

Ev'n  he,  that  tyrant  .\rab,  sleeps 

Becalm'd  in  Heav'n's  approving  ray. 

Calm,  while  a  nation  round  him  weeps; 

Sleep  on — for  purer  eyes  than  thine 

VV'hile  curses  load  the  air  he  breathes. 

Those  w.aves  are  hush'd,  those  planets  shine  ; 

And  falchions  from  unnurabcr'd  she.ith» 

Sleep  on,  and  be  thy  rest  unmoved 

Are  starting  to  avenge  the  shame 

By  the  white  moonbeam's  dazzling  power  }— 

His  race  hath  brouglit  on  Iran's""  name. 

None  but  the  loving  and  the  loved 

Hard,  heartless  Chief,  unmoved  alike 

Sliould  be  awake  at  this  sweet  hour. 

Mid  eyes  that  weep,  and  swords  that  strike; — 

One  of  that  saintly,  murd'rous  brood, 

And  see — where,  high  above  those  rocks 

To  carnatjfc  and  tlie  Koran  giv'n, 

That  o'er  the  deep  their  shadows  fling, 

Who  tliink  through  unbelievers'  blood 

Yon  turret  stands; — where  ebon  locks, 

Lies  their  direetest  path  to  lieav'n ; — 

As  glossy  as  a  heron's  wing 

One,  who  will  pause  and  kneel  unshod 

Upon  the  turban  of  a  king,'"' 

In  the  warm  blood  his  hand  hath  pour'd. 

Hang  from  the  lattice,  long  and  wild, — 

To  mutter  o'er  some  text  of  God 

'Tis  she,  that  Emir's  blooming  child. 

Engraven  on  his  recking  sword; — '"* 

All  truth,  and  tenderness,  and  grace, 

Nay,  who  can  coolly  note  the  line, 

Though  born  of  siieli  ungentle  race; — 

The  letter  of  those  words  divine, 

An  image  of  Youth's  radiant  Fountain 

To  which  his  blade,  with  searching  art, 

Springing  in  a  desolate  mountain  !'" 

Had  sunk  into  its  victim's  heart! 

Just  Alla  !  wliat  must  be  thy  look. 

Oh  what  a  pure  and  sacred  thing 

When  such  a  wretch  before  thee  stands 

Is  Beauty,  curtain'd  from  the  sight 

Unblushing,  with  thy  Sacred  Book, — 

Of  the  gross  world,  illumining 

Turning  the  leaves  with  blood-stain'd  hands, 

One  only  mansion  with  her  light! 

And  wresting  from  its  page  sublime 

Unseen  by  man's  disturbing  eye, — 

His  creed  of  lust,  and  hale,  and  crime; — 

The  (low'r  that  blooms  beneath  the  sea 

Ev'n  as  those  bees  of  Trebizoxd, 

Too  deep  for  sunbeams,  doth  not  lie 

Which,  from  the  sunniest  flow'rs  tliat  glad 

Hid  in  more  chaste  obscurity. 

With  their  pure  smile  the  gardens  round. 

So,  IIiNDA,  liave  thy  face  and  mind. 

Dniw  venom  forth  tliat  drives  men  m.ad.'" 

Like  holy  myst'ries,  lain  enshrined. 

.\nd  oh,  what  transport  for  a  lover 

Never  did  tierce  ."VKAniA  send 

To  lift  the  veil  that  shades  them  o'er! — 

A  satrap  forth  more  dircly  great; 

Like  those  who,  all  at  once,  discover 

Never  was  Iran  doom'd  to  bend 

In  the  lone  deep  some  fairy  shore. 

ncncath  a  yoke  of  deadlier  weight. 

Where  mortal  never  trod  before, 

Ilcr  throne  h.id  fall'n — her  pride  was  crush'd — 

And  sleep  and  wake  in  .scented  airs 

Her  sons  were  willing  slaves,  nor  blush'd, 

No  lip  had  ever  breathed  but  theirs. 

In  their  own  land, — no  more  their  own, — 

To  crouch  beneath  n  stranger's  throne. 

Beautiful  arc  the  maids  that  gliile. 

Hit  low'rs,  wliero  Mitiira  once  had  burn'd. 

On  summer-eves,  through  Yemen's"*  daleii 

To  AloHlem  Hhrlnos — oh  Mhame! — were  turn'd, 

And  bright  the  glancing  looks  they  hide 

Where  hlavcs,  converted  by  llio  sword, 

Bcliind  their  litters'  roseate  veils; — 

Their  mean,  apottale  worship  pour'd, 

And  brides,  as  delicate  and  fair 

And  cursed  the  fjiitli  their  sires  adored. 

Ah  the  while  jasmine  llow'rs  they  wcai, 

LJiLLA  llOOKH. 


a? 


Hath  Yemen  in  her  blissful  clime, 

Who,  lull'd  in  cool  kiosk  or  bow'r,"' 
Before  their  mirror's  count  the  timc,''^' 

And  1,'row  still  lovelier  every  hour. 
But  never  yet  hath  biide  or  maid. 

In  Araby's  gay  Haram  smiled, 
Whose  boasted  brightness  would  not  fade 

Before  Al  Hassan's  blooming  child. 

Ijight  as  the  angel  shapes  that  bless 
An  infant's  dream,  yet  not  the  less 
Rich  in  all  woman's  loveliness  ; — 
With  eyes  so  pure,  that  from  their  my 
Dark  Vice  would  turn  abash'd  away. 
Blinded  like  serpents,  when  they  gaze 
Upon  the  em'rald's  virgin  blaze ; — ''" 
Yet  fiU'd  with  all  youth's  sweet  desires, 
Mingling  the  meek  and  vestal  fires 
Of  other  worlds  with  all  the  bliss. 
The  fond,  weak  tenderness  of  this : 
A  soul,  too,  more  than  h.alf  divine, 

Where,  through  some  sh.ades  of  earthly  feel- 
ing, 
Religion's  soflen'd  glories  shine, 

Like  light  through  summer  foliage  stealing, 
Shedding  a  glow  of  such  mild  hue, 
So  warm,  and  yet  so  shadowy  too, 
As  makes  the  very  darkness  there 
iMore  beautiful  than  light  elsewhere. 

Such  is  the  maid  who,  at  this  hour. 

Hath  risen  from  licr  restless  sleep. 
And  sits  alone  in  that  high  bow'r, 

W.itching  the  still  and  shining  deep. 
Ah !  'twas  not  thus, — with  tearful  eyes 

And  beating  heart, — she  used  to  gaze 
On  the  magnificent  earth  and  skies, 

In  her  own  land,  in  happier  days. 
Why  looks  she  now  so  anxious  down 
Among  those  rocks,  whose  rugged  frown 

Blackens  the  mirror  of  the  deep  ? 
Whom  waits  she  .all  this  lonely  night  ? 

Too  rough  the  rocks,  too  bold  the  steep, 
For  man  to  scale  that  turret's  height! — 

So  decm'd  .at  least  her  thoughtful  sire. 

When  high,  to  catch  the  cool  night-air, 
After  the  day-be.im's  with'ring  fire,"'' 

He  built  her  bow'r  of  freshness  there, 
-And  had  it  deck'd  with  costliest  skill. 

And  fondly  thought  it  safe  as  fair: — 
Think,  reverend  dreamer!  think  so  still. 

Nor  wake  to  learu  what  Love  can  dare ; — 
Love,  all-defying  Love,  who  sees 
No  charm  in  ti-ophies  won  with  ease ; — 


Whose  rarest,  dearest  fruits  of  bliss 
Are  pluck'd  on  Danger's  precipice  ! 
Bolder  than  they,  who  dare  not  dive 

For  pearls,  but  when  the  sea's  at  reot, 
Love,  in  the  tempest  most  alive. 

Hath  ever  held  that  pearl  the  best 
He  finds  beneath  the  stormiest  water. 
Yes — Aeaby's  unrivall'd  daughter, 
Though  high  tliat  tow'r,  that  rock-w.ay  rude, 

There's  one  who,  but  to  kiss  thy  check. 
Would  climb  th'  untrodden  solitude. 

Of  Ararat's  tremendous  peak,"' 
And  think  its  steeps,  though  dark  and  dread, 
He.av'n's  pathways,  if  to  thee  they  led  ! 
Ev'n  now  thou  seest  the  flashing  spray, 
Th.at  lights  his  oar's  impatient  w.iy ; 
Ev'n  now  thou  hear'st  the  sudden  shod 
Of  his  swift  bark  against  the  rock, 
And  strctchcst  down  thy  arms  of  snow. 
As  if  to  lift  him  from  below  ! 
Like  her  to  whom,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  bridegroom,  with  his  locks  of  light,'*' 
Came,  in  the  flush  of  love  and  pride, 
And  scaled  the  terrace  of  his  bride  ; — 
When,  as  she  saw  him  rashly  spring. 
And  midw.ay  up  in  danger  cling. 
She  flung  him  down  her  long  black  hair, 
E.xclaiming,  breathless,  "  There,  love,  there !" 
And  scarce  did  manlier  nerve  uphold 

The  hero  Zal  in  th.at  fond  hour, 
Than  wings  the  youth  who,  fleet  and  bold. 

Now  climbs  the  rocks  to  Hinda's  bower. 
See — light  as  up  their  granite  steeps 

The  rock-goats  of  Arabia  clamber,'" 
Fearless  from  crag  to  crag  he  leaps. 

And  now  is  in  the  maiden's  chamber. 

She  loves — but  knows  not  whom  she  loves, 

Nor  what  his  race,  nor  whence  ho  came  ;— 
Like  one  who  meets,  in  Indian  groves, 

Some  beauteous  bird  without  a  name. 
Brought  by  the  last  ambrosial  breeze. 
From  isles  in  th'  undiscover'd  seas. 
To  show  his  plumage  for  a  d.ay 
To  wond'ring  eyes,  and  wing  away ! 
Will  he  thus  fly — her  nameless  lover? 

Alla  forbid !  'twas  by  a  moon 
As  fair  as  this,  while  singing  over 

Some  ditty  to  her  soft  Kanoon,"" 
Alone,  at  this  same  witching  hour. 

She  first  beheld  his  radiant  eyes 
Gleam  through  the  lattice  of  the  bow'r. 

Where  nightly  now  they  mix  their  sighs 
And  thought  some  spirit  of  the  air 
f For  what  could  waft  a  mortal  there  ?) 


88 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Was  pausing  on  his  moonlight  way 

To  listen  to  her  lonely  lay ! 

Tsis  f:iney  neVr  hith  left  her  mind: 

_\ii(l — though,  when  terror's  swoon  h;id  pass'd, 
She  saw  a  youth,  of  mort;il  kind, 

Before  her  in  obeisance  cast, — 
Vet  often  since,  when  he  hath  spoken 
Strange,  awful  words, — and  gleams  have  broken 
From  his  dark  eyes,  too  hriglit  to  bear, 

Oh !  she  hitfi  fear'd  her  soul  was  giv'n 
To  some  unliallow'd  child  of  air, 

Some  erring  Spirit  cast  from  heav'n, 
Like  those  angelic  youths  of  old. 
Who  burn'd  for  maids  of  mortal  mould, 
Bewildur'd  left  the  glorious  skies, 
And  lost  tlieir  heav'n  for  woman's  eyes. 
Fond  girl !  nor  fiend  nor  augel  he 
Who  woos  thy  young  simpMcify  ; 
But  one  of  eartli's  impassion'd  sons, 

As  warm  in  love,  as  fierce  in  ire, 
As  the  best  heart  whose  current  runs 

Full  of  the  Day  God's  living  fire. 

But  qucnch'd  to-night  that  ardor  seems, 

And  p:ile  his  cheek,  .and  sunk  his  brow; — 
Never  before,  but  in  her  dreams, 

Had  she  beheld  him  pale  as  now : 
And  those  were  dreams  of  troubled  sleep, 
From  which  'twas  joy  to  wake  and  weep; 
Visions,  that  will  not  be  forgot. 

But  sadden  every  waking  scene. 
Like  warning  ghosts,  that  leave  the  spot 

All  wilher'd  where  they  once  have  been. 

"  How  sweetly,"  said  the  trembling  maid, 
Of  her  own  gentle  voice  afraid. 
So  long  had  they  in  silence  stood. 
Looking  upon  that  tranquil  flood — 
'•  How  sweetly  docs  the  moonbeam  smile 
"To-night  upon  yon  leafy  isle! 
"  Oft,  in  my  fancy'.s  wanderings, 
"I've  wisli'd  that  little  isle  h.ad  wings, 
"  And  we,  w  ithin  its  fairy  bow'rs, 

"  Were  wafted  (ifi"to  seas  unknown, 
"  Where  not  a  pulse  should  be.it  but  ours, 

"  .\nd  we  might  live,  love,  die  alone! 
'  Var  from  the  cruel  and  the  cold, — 

"  Where  the  bright  eyos  of  angels  only 
"Should  como  around  us,  to  behold 

••  .\  [laradisc  so  pure  and  lonely. 
"Would  this  be  world  enough  for  Ihec?" — 
I'l.iyful  sill'  turn'd,  that  he  mli.'ht  sec 

Tlie  p.issiii;;  Miiii|<>  her  cheek  put  on  ; 
But  when  nlie  mnrk'd  how  mournfully 

Hl«  cycH  met  hers,  that  umilo  wag  gone ; 


And,  bursting  into  heart-felt  tears, 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  '•  my  hourly  fears, 

"  Jly  dreams  have  boded  all  too  right ! — 

"  We  part — for  ever  part — to-night ! 

"I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  last — 

"  'Twas  bright,  'twas  heav'nly,  but  'tis  past 

"Oh!  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 

"  I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay; 
"I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flow'r, 

"  But  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away. 
"  I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle, 

"To  glad  me  with  its  soft  blaek  eye, 
"  But  when  it  came  to  know  nie  well, 

"  And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die ! 
"  Now  too — the  joy  most  like  divine 

"Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew, 
"To  see  thee,  hear  tlice,  call  thee  mine, — 

"Oh  misery!  must  I  lose  thai  tool 
"Yet  go — on  peril's  brink  we  meet; 

"  Those  frightful  rocks — that  treach'rous  swi- 
"  No,  never  come  again — though  sweet, 

"  Though  heav'n,  it  may  be  death  to  thee. 
"Farewell — and  blessings  on  thy  wav, 

"Where'er  thou  goest,  beloved  stranger! 
"  Better  to  sit  and  watch  that  ray, 
"  And  think  thee  safe,  though  far  aw.iy, 

"  Than  have  thee  near  me,  and  in  danger !" 
"Danger! — oh,  tempt  me  not  to  boast" — 
The  youth  cxclaim'd — "  thou  little  know'st 
"  Wh.at  he  can  brave,  who,  born  and  nursed 
"  In  Danger's  paths,  has  dared  her  worst ; 
"Upon  whose  car  the  signal-word 

"Of  strife  and  death  is  hourly  breaking; 
"  Who  sleeps  with  head  upon  the  sword 

"His  fcver'd  hand  must  gr.asp  in  waking. 
"  Danger !" — 

"  Say  on — thou  fear'st  not  then, 
"  And  we  m.ay  meet — ofl  meet  again'" 

"Oh!  look  not  so — bcnealh  the  skies 
"  I  now  fear  nothing  but  those  eyes. 
"If  aught  on  earth  could  charm  or  force 
"  My  spirit  from  its  destined  course, — 
"If  aught  could  make  this  soul  forget 
"  The  bond  to  which  its  seal  is  set, 
"'Twould  be  those  eyes; — they,  only  they, 
"Could  melt  that  sacred  seal  away! 
"  But  no — 'tis  fixed — my  awful  doom 
"  Is  fix'd — on  this  side  of  the  tomb 
"  Wc  meet  no  more  ; — why,  why  did  Ilcav'ii 
"Mingle  two  louls  that  earth  has  riv'n. 
"  Has  rent  asunder  wide  as  ours? 
"Oh,  .\rab  maid,  as  soon  the  I'ow<^rs 
"Of  Light  and  Darkness  may  combine, 
"  As  I  be  linli'd  with  thco  or  thine  I 


LALLA  KOOKn. 


39 


"Thy  F:illicr " 

"  Rusli'd  to  my  prey — thou  know'st  the  rest — 

"Holy  Alla  save 

"I  climb'd  the  gory  vulture's  nest, 

'•Ills  gniy  l]e:i<l  tVdin  limt  lii^'litiiiiijj  irlaiice! 

"And  found  a  trembling  dove  within; — 

"Tluiii  l<iio\v'.st  liiiii  not — lie  loves  the  bravo  ; 

"Thine,  thine  the  victory — thine  the  sin — 

"  Nor  lives  there  uiulei-  Heaven's  expanse 

"If  Love  hath  made  one  thought  his  own. 

"One  who  would  prize,  would  worship  thee 

"  That  Vengeance  claims  first — last — alone ! 

"And  thy  bold  spirit,  more  than  he. 

"  Oh !  had  we  never,  never  met. 

"Oft  when,  in  childhood,  I  have  play'd 

"  Or  could  this  heart  ev'n  now  forget 

"  With  the  bright  falchion  by  his  side. 

"How  link'd,  how  bless'd  we  might  h.ave  been 

"I've  heard  him  swear  his  lisping  maid 

"Had  fate  not  frown'd  so  dark  between  ! 

"In  time  should  be  a  warrior's  bride. 

"  Hadst  thou  been  born  a  Persian  maid. 

"And  still,  whene'er  at  Haram  hours. 

"  In  neighboring  valleys  had  we  dwelt. 

"  I  take  liini  cool  sherbets  and  flow'rs, 

"  Through  the  same  fields  in  childhood  plty'd, 

"He  tells  me,  when  in  playful  mood. 

"At  the  same  kindling  altar  knelt, — 

"  A  hero  shall  my  bridegroom  be. 

"Then,  then,  while  all  those  nameless  ties, 

"  Since  maids  are  best  in  battle  woo'd, 

"In  which  the  charm  of  Country  lies. 

"And  won  with  shouts  of  victory! 

"  Had  round  our  hearts  been  hourly  spun. 

"  Nay,  turn  not  from  me — thou  alone 

"Till  Iran's  cause  and  thine  were  one; 

"  Art  form'd  to  make  both  hearts  thy  own. 

"  While  in  thy  lute's  awak'ning  sigh 

"  Go — ^join  his  sacred  ranks — thou  know'st 

"I  heard  the  voice  of  days  gone  by. 

"Th'  unholy  strife  these  Persians  wage: — 

"  And  saw,  in  every  smile  of  thine, 

"Good   Ileav'n,   that   frown! — even   now   thou 

"Returning  hours  of  glory  shine; — 

glow'st 

"  While  the  wroiig'd  Spirit  of  our  Land 

"  With  more  than  mortal  warrior's  rage. 

"  Lived,  look'd,  and  spoke  her  wrongs  tlirough 

"Haste  to  the  camp  by  morning's  light. 

thee, — 

"  And,  when  that  sword  is  raised  in  fight. 

"God!  who  could  then  this  sword  withstand? 

"Oh  still  remember.  Love  and  I 

"Its  very  flash  were  victory  ! 

"  Ueneath  its  shadow  trembling  lie  ! 

"  But  now — estranged,  divorced  for  ever, 

"One  vict'ry  o'er  those  Slaves  of  Fire, 

"  Far  as  the  grasp  of  Fate  can  sever; 

"  Those  impious  Gliebers,  whom  my  sire 

"Our  only  ties  what  love  has  wove, — 

"  Abhors " 

"In  faith,  friends,  country,  sunder'd  wide; 

'■  Hold,  hold — thy  words  are  death — " 

"  And  then,  then  only,  true  to  love. 

The  stranger  cried,  as  wild  he  flung 

"  When  false  to  all  th.at's  dear  beside! 

His  mantle  back,  and  show'd  beneath 

"Thy  father  Iran's  deadliest  foe — 

The  Glieber  belt  th.at  round  him  clung. — '" 

"  Thyself,  perhaps,  ev'n  now — but  no — 

"  Here,  maiden,  look — weep — blush  to  see 

"Hate  never  look'd  so  lovely  yet! 

"All  that  thy  sire  abhors  in  mo! 

"No — sacred  to  thy  soul  will  be 

"Ves — /am  of  that  impious  r.ace. 

"The  land  of  him  who  could  forget 

"Those  Slaves  of  Fire  who,  morn  and  even, 

"  All  but  that  bleeding  land  for  thee. 

"Hail  their  Creator's  dwelling-place 

"  When  other  eyes  shall  sec,  unmoved, 

"  Among  the  living  lights  of  he.aven  f" 

"Her  widows  mourn,  her  warriors  fall, 

"  Yes — /am  of  that  outcast  few, 

"  Thou'lt  think  how  well  one  Gheber  loved, 

"  To  Iran  and  to  vengeance  true. 

"And  for  his  sake  thou'lt  weep  for  .all! 

"  Who  curse  the  hour  your  Arabs  came 

"But  look " 

"To  desolale  our  slirines  of  flame. 

With  sudden  start  lie  turn'd 

"And  swear,  before  God's  burning  eye, 

And  pointed  to  the  distant  wave. 

"To  break  our  country's  chains,  or  die! 

Where  lights,  like  charnel  meteors,  burn'd. 

"Thy  bigot  sire, — nay,  tremble  not, — 

Bluely,  as  o'er  some  seaman's  grave: 

"  He,  who  gave  birth  to  those  dear  eyes, 

And  fiery  d.arts,  at  interv.als,^'' 

"  With  me  is  sacred  ,is  the  spot 

Flew  up  .all  sparkling  from  the  m.ain. 

"  From  which  our  fires  of  worship  rise ! 

As  if  e.ach  star  that  nightly  falls. 

"  But  know— 'twas  he  I  sought  that  night. 

Were  shooting  back  to  heav'n  again. 

'•  When,  from  my  watch-boat  on  the  se.a, 

■'  f  caught  this  turret's  glinmi'ring  light, 

"My  signal  lights! — I  must  aw.ay — 

"  And  up  the  rude  rocks  desp'rately 

"  Both,  both  are  ruin'd,  if  I  stay. 

40 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


"  Tarewell — sweet  life  I  thou  cling'st  in  vain — 

"  Now,  VengCiince,  I  am  tliine  again !" 

Fiercely  he  broke  away,  nor  stopp'd, 

Nor  look'd — but  from  the  lattice  dropp'd 

Down  mid  the  pointed  crags  beneath, 

As  if  he  fled  from  love  to  death. 

While  pale  and  mute  young  Hinda  stood. 

Nor  moved,  till  in  the  silent  flood 

A  momentary  plunge  below 

Startled  her  from  her  trance  of  woe; — 

Shrieking  she  to  the  lattice  flew, 

"  I  come — I  come — if  in  that  tide 
'•  Thou  sleep'st  to-night,  I'll  sleep  there  too, 

'•  In  deatli's  cold  wedlock,  by  thy  side. 
•  Oh  I  I  would  ask  no  happier  bed 

"Than  the  cliill  wave  my  love  lies  under: — 
'  Sweeter  to  rest  together  de.id, 

"Far  sweeter,  than  to  live  asunder!'' 
But  no — their  hour  is  not  yet  come — 

Again  she  sees  his  pinnace  fly. 
Wafting  him  fleetly  to  his  home. 

Where'er  that  ill-starr'd  home  may  lie; 
And  calm  and  smooth  it  seem'd  to  win 

Its  moonlight  way  before  the  wind, 
As  if  it  bore  all  peace  within, 

Nor  left  one  breaking  heart  behind ! 


The  Princess,  whose  heart  was  sad  enough 
iilrcady,  could  have  wished  that  Feramorz  liad 
:liosen  a  less  melancholy  story ;  as  it  is  only  to 
the.  happy  that  tears  are  a  luxury.  Her  hadies, 
however,  were  by  no  means  sorry  that  love  was 
once  more  the  Poet's  theme ;  for,  whenever  he 
spoke  of  love,  they  said,  his  voice  was  as  sweet  as 
if  he  had  chewed  the  leaves  of  that  enchanted  tree, 
which  grows  over  the  tomb  of  the  musician,  Tan- 


Their  ro.id  all  the  morning  had  lain  through  n 
very  dreary  country; — through  valleys,  covered 
with  a  low  bushy  jungle,  where,  in  more  than  one 
place,  the  awful  signal  of  the  bamboo  stafl","'  with 
the  while  flag  at  its  top,  reminded  the  traveller  that, 
in  that  very  spot,  the  tiger  had  made  some  human 
creature  his  victim.  It  was,  therefore,  with  nnich 
pleasure  that  they  arrived  at  sunset  in  a  .safe  and 
lovely  glen,  and  encamped  under  one  of  those  holy 
trees,  whose  smooth  columns  and  spreading  roofs 
teem  to  destine  them  for  natural  temples  of  religion. 
Ileiienlli  this  spacious  shade,  some  pious  hands  had 
creeled  a  row  of  pillars  ornamenled  willi  Ihe  most 
heauliful  |ioreelain,"'  which  now  supplied  the  use 
of  mirrors  to  the  young  maidcnii,  aH  tlicy  adjusted 


their  hair  in  descending  from  the  palankeens.  Here, 
while,  as  usual,  the  Princess  sat  listening  an.xiously 
with  Fadladeen  in  one  of  his  loftiest  moods  of 
criticism  by  her  side,  the  young  Poet,  leaning 
ag.iinst  a  branch  of  the  tree,  thus  continued  hia 
story : — 


The  morn  hath  risen  clear  and  calm. 

And  o'er  the  Green  Sea""  p.ilely  shines. 
Revealing  Bahrein's""  groves  of  palm, 

And  lighting  Kishjia's"'"  amber  vines. 
Fresh  smell  the  shores  of  Araby, 
While  breezes  from  the  Indian  Sea 
Blow  round  SelamaV"  sainted  cape. 

And  curl  the  shining  flood  beneath, — 
Whose  waves  are  rich  with  many  a  grape. 

And  coco.a-nut  and  flow'ry  wreath. 
Which  pious  .seamen,  .as  they  pass'd, 
Had  tow'rd  that  holy  headland  cast — 
Oblations  to  the  Genii  there 
For  gentle  skies  and  breezes  fair ! 
The  nightingale  now  bends  her  flight'" 
From  the  high  trees,  where  all  the  night 

She  sung  so  sweet,  with  none  to  listen ; 
And  hides  her  from  the  morning  st.ar 

Where  tliiekels  of  pomegranate  glisten 
In  the  clear  dawn, — bespangled  o'er 

Willi  dew,  whose  night-drops  would  not  slaic 
The  best  and  brightest  cimeter'" 
That  ever  youthful  Sultan  wore 

On  the  first  morning  of  his  reign. 

And  see — the  Sini  himself! — on  wings 
Of  glory  up  the  East  he  springs. 
Angel  of  Light!  who  from  the  time 
Those  heavens  beg.an  their  march  sublime, 
Hath  first  of  all  the  starry  choir 
Trod  in  his  Maker's  steps  of  fire! 

Where  are  Ihe  days,  thou  wondrous  spherCi 
When  Iran,  like  a  sunflow'r,  turn'd 
To  meet  that  eye  where'er  it  burn'd  ! — 

When,  from  the  banks  of  Bendemeer 
To  the  nut-groves  of  SAiMAiiCAND, 
Thy  temples  flamed  o'er  all  the  land? 

Where  are  Ihey  !  ask  Ihe  shades  of  them 
Who  on  Cadkssia's'"  bloody  pl.iins, 

Saw  fierce  invaders  phiek  Ihe  gem 

From  Iran's  broken  diadem, 

And  bind  her  ancient  faith  in  chains:— 

Ask  the  poor  exile,  cast  alono 

On  foreign  shores,  unloved,  unknown, 

Beyond  the  Cji.spiau's  Iron  Ciales,'" 
Or  on  the  snowy  Mossian  mouitlaiiis, 


.  a -J '.-ioru  Fry  &.  Company.PuMiahers.SewTi-.rV- 


LALLA  llOOKH. 


41 


Far  from  his  beauteous  land  of  dates, 
Her  jasMiiiic  bow'rs  and  sunny  fountains: 

Yet  liappier  so  than  if  lie  trod 

His  own  be.oved,  but  blighted,  sod, 

Beneath  a  despot  stranger's  nod ! — 

Oh,  he  would  rather  houseless  roam 
Where  Freedom  and  his  God  may  lead, 

Than  be  the  sleekest  slave  at  homo 

That  crouches  to  the  conqu'ror's  creed! 

Is  Iran's  pride  then  gone  for  ever, 

Quench'd  with  the  flame  in  Mithka's  caves  ? — 
No — she  has  sons,  that  never — never — 
Will  stoop  to  be  the  Moslem's  slaves. 
While  heav'n  has  light  or  earth  has  graves; — 
Spirits  of  fire,  that  brood  not  long, 
But  flash  resentment  back  for  wrong ; 
And  hearts  where,  slow  but  deep,  the  seeds 
Of  vengeance  ripen  into  deeds. 
Till,  in  some  treach'rous  hour  of  calm. 
They  burst,  like  Zeilan's  giant  palm,'" 
Whose  buds  fly  open  with  a  sound 
That  shakes  the  pigmy  forests  round  I 

Yes,  Emik!  he,  who  scaled  that  tow'r. 
And,  had  he  reach'd  thy  slumb'ring  breast, 

Had  taught  thee,  in  a  Ghober's  pow'r 
How  safe  ev'n  tyrant  heads  may  rest — 

Is  one  of  many,  brave  as  he. 

Who  loathe  thy  haughty  race  and  thee ; 

Who,  though  they  know  the  strife  is  vain. 

Who,  though  they  know  the  riven  chain 

Snaps  but  to  enter  in  the  heart 

Of  him  who  rends  its  links  apart. 

Yet  dare  the  issue, — bless'd  to  be 

Ev'n  for  one  bleeding  moment  free, 

And  die  in  pangs  of  liberty ! 

Thou  know'st  them  well — 'tis  some  moons  since 
Thy  turban'd  troops  and  blood-red  flags. 

Thou  satrap  of  a  bigot  Prince, 

Have  swarm'd  among  these  Green  Sea  crags ; 

Yet  here,  ev'n  here,  a  sacred  band 

Ay,  in  the  portal  of  that  land 

Thou,  Arab,  dar'st  to  call  thy  own, 

Their  spears  across  thy  path  have  thrown ; 

Here — ere  the  winds  half  wing'd  thee  o'er — 

Rebellion  braved  thee  from  the  shore. 

Rebellion !  foul,  dishonoring  word, 

Whose  wrongful  blight  so  oft  has  stain'd 

The  holiest  cause  that  tongue  or  sword 
Of  mortal  ever  lost  or  gain'd. 

How  many  a  spirit,  born  to  bless. 

Hath  sunk  beneath  that  with'ring  name^ 
VOL   u. — C 


Whom  but  a  day's,  an  hour's  success 

Had  wafted  to  eternal  fame! 
As  exhalations,  when  they  burst 
From  the  warm  earth,  if  chili'd  at  first. 
If  check'd  in  soaring  from  the  plain, 
Darken  to  fogs  and  sink  again ; — 
But,  if  they  onee  triumphant  spread 
Their  wings  above  the  mountain-head. 
Become  enthroned  in  upper  air. 
And  turn  to  sun-bright  glories  there! 

And  who  is  he,  that  wields  the  might 

Of  Fieedora  on  the  Green  Sea  brink. 
Before  whose  sabre's  dazzling  light"' 

The  eyes  of  Yemen's  warriors  wink  ? 
Who  comes,  embower'd  in  the  spears 
Of  Kerjian's  hardy  mountaineers? — 
Those  mountaineers  that  truest,  last. 

Cling  to  their  country's  ancient  rites, 
As  if  that  God,  whose  eyelids  cast 

Their  closing  gleam  on  Iran's  heights, 
Among  her  snowy  mountains  threw 
The  last  light  of  his  worship  too ! 

'Tis  Hafed — name  of  fear,  whose  sound 
Chills  like  the  mutt'ring  of  a  charm !— ■ 
Shout  but  that  awful  name  around, 

And  palsy  shakes  the  manliest  arm. 
'Tis  Hafed,  most  accursed  and  dire 
(So  rank'd  by  Moslem  hate  and  ire) 
Of  all  the  rebel  Sons  of  Fire  ; 
Of  whose  malign,  tremendous  power 
The  Arabs,  at  their  mid-watch  hour. 
Such  tales  of  fearful  wonder  tell. 
That  each  afirighted  sentinel 
Pulls  down  his  cowl  upon  his  eyes. 
Lest  Hafed  in  the  midst  should  rise! 

A  man,  they  say,  of  monstrous  birth, 
A  mingled  race  of  flame  and  earth, 
Sprung  from  those  old,  enchanted  kings,** 

Who  in  their  fairy  helms,  of  yore, 
A  feather  from  the  mystic  wings 

Of  the  Siraoorgh  resistless  wore; 
And  gifted  by  the  Fiends  of  Fire, 
Who  groan'd  to  see  their  shrines  e.xpire, 
Witli  charms  that,  all  in  vain  withstood. 
Would  drown  the  Koran's  light  in  blood  I 

Such  were  the  tales,  that  won  belief, 
And  such  the  coloring  Fancy  gave 

To  a  young,  warm,  and  dauntless  Chief,— 
One  who,  no  more  than  mortal  brave. 

Fought  for  the  land  his  soul  adored, 
For  happy  homes  and  altars  free. 


42 


MOOEE'S  U'ORKS. 


ILs  only  talisman,  tlie  sword, 

His  only  spell-word,  Liberty  ! 
One  of  that  ancien*  hero  line, 
Alunj  whose  glorious  current  shine 
Names,  that  have  sanctified  their  blood ;     . 
As  Lebanov's  small  mountain-flood 
Is  render'd  holy  by  the  ranks 
Of  sainted  cedars  on  its  banks.-" 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  crouch  the  knee 
Tamely  to  Moslem  tyranny ; 
'Twas  not  for  him,  whose  soul  was  cast 
In  the  bright  mould  of  ages  past. 
Whose  melancholy  spirit,  fed 
With  all  the  glories  of  the  dead, 
Though  framed  for  Ikax's  happiest  years, 
Was  born  among  her  chains  and  tears ! — 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  swell  the  crowd 
Of  slavish  heads,  that  shrinking  bow'd 
Before  the  Jloslem,  as  he  pass'd, 
like  shrubs  beneath  the  poison-blast — • 
No — f;ir  he  fled — indignant  fled 

The  pageant  of  his  country's  shame  ; 
While  every  tear  her  children  shed 

Fell  on  his  soul  like  drops  of  flame ; 
And,  as  a  lover  hails  the  dawn 

Of  a  first  smile,  so  welcomed  ho 
The  sparkle  of  the  first  sword  drawn 

For  vengeance  and  for  liberty 

Hut  vain  was  valor — vain  the  flow'i 
Of  Kerman,  in  that  deathful  hour. 
Against  Al  Hassan's  whelming  pow'r, — 
In  vain  they  met  him,  helm  to  helm. 
Upon  the  threshold  of  that  realm 
lie  came  in  bigot  pomp  to  sway. 
And  with  their  corpses  block'd  his  way — 
In  vain — for  every  lance  they  raised, 
Thousands  around  the  conqueror  blaz.ed ; 
For  every  arm  that  lined  their  shore, 
Myriads  of  slaves  were  wafted  o'er, — 
A  bloody,  bold,  and  countless  crowd. 
Before  whose  swarm  as  last  they  bow'd 
As  dates  beneath  the  locust  cloud. 

There  stood — but  one  short  league  away 
From  old  IIakmozia's  sultry  bay — 
A  rocky  mountain,  o'er  the  Sea 
Of  Oman  beetling  awfully  ;'" 
.\  Inst  and  solitary  link 

Of  those  stupendous  chains  that  ro.icli 
From  the  broad  Caspian's  reedy  brink 

Down  winding  to  the  Green  Sea  beach. 
Around  its  base  the  bare  rocks  stood, 
Like  naked  giants,  in  the  flood, 

A«  if  to  guard  the  Gulf  ivcrotH; 


While,  on  its  peak,  that  braved  the  sky, 
A  ruin'd  Temple  lower'd,  so  high 

That  oft  the  sleejiing  albatross"" 
Struck  the  wild  ruins  with  her  wing. 
And  from  her  cloud-rock'd  slumbering 
Started — to  find  man's  dwelling  there) 
In  her  own  silent  fields  of  air! 
Beneath,  terrific  caverns  gave 
Dark  welcome  to  each  stormy  wave 
That  dash'd,  liko  midnight  revellers,  in; — 
And  such  the  strange,  mysterious  din 
At  times  througliout  those  caverns  roU'd,^ 
And  such  the  fearful  wonders  told 
Of  restless  sprites  iniprison'd  there, 
Tliat  bold  were  Sloslem,  who  would  dare. 
At  twilight  hour,  to  steer  his  skiff 
Beneath  the  Gheber's  lonely  clifT."" 
On  the  land  side,  those  tow'rs  sublime, 
That  scem'd  above  the  grasp  of  Time, 
Were  sever'd  from  tire  haunts  of  men 
By  a  wide,  deep,  and  wizard  glen. 
So  fathomless,  so  full  of  gloom, 

No  eye  could  pierce  the  void  between : 
It  seem'd  a  place  where  Gholes  might  come 
With  their  foul  banquets  from  the  tomb, 

And  in  its  caverns  feed  unseen. 
Like  distant  thunder,  from  below. 

The  sound  of  many  torrents  came. 
Too  deep  for  eye  or  ear  to  know 
If 'twere  the  sea's  imprison'd  flow, 

Or  floods  of  cvcr-rcstless  flame. 
For,  each  ravine,  ca<'h  rocky  spire 
Of  that  vast  mountain  stood  on  fire ;"' 
And,  though  for  ever  past  the  days 
When  God  was  worshipji'd  in  the  blaze 
That  from  its  lofty  altar  shone, — 
Though  fled  the  priests,  the  vot'ries  gone, 
Still  did  the  mighty  flame  burn  on,'" 
Through  chance  and  change,  through  good  and  ill. 
Like  its  own  God's  eternal  will. 
Deep,  constant,  bright,  unqnenchablo! 

Thither  the  vanqnish'd  IlAFEn  led 

His  little  army's  last  remains; — 
"  Welcome,  terrific  glen  !"  he  said, 
"Thy  gloom,  that  Eblis'  self  might  dread, 

"Is  Henv'n  to  him  who  flies  from  chains!" 
O'er  a  dark,  narrow  bridgeway,  known 
To  him  and  to  his  Chiefs  nlono. 
They  cross'd  the  chasm  and  gain'd  the  toweis,— • 
"This  home,"  he  cried,  "at  least  is  ours; — 
"  Here  wo  may  bleed,  unmock'd  by  hymns 

"  Of  Moslem  triumph  o'er  our  lie;id  ; 
"Hero  wo  may  fall,  nor  leave  our  limbs 

"To  qiiiver  to  the  Moslem's  (road. 


LALLA  ROOKU. 


43 


"  Stretch'd  on  this  rock,  while  vultures'  bcalcs 
"  Are  whetted  on  our  yet  warm  cheeks, 
"  Here — linppy  that  no  tyrant's  eye 
"Gloats  on  our  torments — we  may  die!" — 

'Twas  night  when  to  tliose  towers  they  came, 

And  gloomily  the  fitful  flame, 

That  from  the  ruin'd  altar  broke. 

Glared  on  his  features,  as  he  spoke : — 

"  'Tis  o'er — what  men  could  do,  we've  done — 

"  If  Iran  will  look  tamely  on, 

"  And  see  her  priests,  her  warriors  driv'n 

"Before  a  sensual  bigot's  nod, 
"A  wretch  who  shrines  his  lust  in  heav'n, 

"  And  makes  a  pander  of  his  God ; 
"If  her  proud  sons,  her  high-born  souls, 

"Men,  in  whose  veins — oh  last  disgrace! 
"The  blood  of  Zal  and  Rustam""  rolls,— 

"  If  they  icill  court  this  upstart  race, 
"  And  turn  from  JIithp-a's  ancient  ray, 
"To  kpeel  at  shrines  of  yesterday; 
"  If  they  tcill  crouch  to  Iran's  foes, 

"  Why,  let  them — till  the  land's  despair 
"  Cries  out  to  Heav'n,  and  bondage  grows 

"Too  vile  for  ev'n  the  vile  to  bear! 
"Til!  shame  at  last,  long  hidden,  burns 
"Their  inmost  core,  and  conscience  turns 
"Each  coward  tear  the  slave  lets  fall 
"Back  on  his  heart  in  drops  of  gall. 

"  But  here,  at  least,  are  arms  iinchain'd, 
"  And  souls  that  thraldom  never  stain'd  ; — 

"  This  spot,  at  least,  no  foot  of  slave 
"  Or  satrap  ever  yet  profaned  ; 

"  And  tliough  but  few — though  fast  the  wave 
"Of  life  is  ebbing  from  our  veins, 
"  Enough  for  vengeance  still  remains. 
"  As  panthers,  after  set  of  sun, 
"Rush  from  the  roots  of  Lebanon 
"  Across  the  dark-sea  robber's  way,"" 
"We'll  bound  upon  our  startled  prey; 
"And  when  some  hearts  that  proudest  swell 
"  Have  felt  our  falchion's  last  farewell ; 
"  When  Hope's  expiring  throb  is  o'er, 
"  And  ev'n  Despair  can  prompt  no  more, 
"This  spot  shall  be  the  sacred  grave 
"  Of  the  last  few  who,  vainly  brave, 
"  Dio  for  the  land  they  cannot  save !" 

His  Chiefs  stood  round — each  shining  blade 

Upon  the  broken  altar  laid — 

And  though  so  wild  and  desolate 

Those  courts,  where  once  the  Jlighty  sate; 

Nor  longer  on  those  mould'ring  tow'rs 

Wfts  seen  the  feast  of  fruits  and  flow'rs, 


With  wliich  of  old  the  Magi  fed 

The  waiKl'ring  Spirits  of  their  dead;"" 

Though  neither  priest  nor  rites  were  there, 

Nor  charmed  leaf  of  pure  pomegranate  f" 
Nor  hymn,  nor  censer's  fragrant  air. 

Nor  symbol  of  their  worshipp'd  planet  ;"* 
Yet  the  same  God  that  heard  their  sires 
Heard  them,  while  on  that  altar's  fires 
They  swore'""  the  latest,  holiest  deed 
Of  the  few  hearts,  still  left  to  bleed. 
Should  be,  in  Iran's  injured  name. 
To  die  upon  that  Mount  of  Flame — 
The  last  of  all  her  patriot  line. 
Before  her  last  unframpled  Shrine  ! 

Brave,  suff'ring  souls  I  tliey  little  knew 
How  many  a  tear  their  injuries  drew 
From  one  meek  maid,  one  gentle  foe, 
Whom  love  first  touch'd  with  others'  woe — 
Whose  life,  as  free  from  thought  as  sin, 
Slept  like  a  lake,  till  Love  threw  in 
His  talisman,  and  woke  the  tide. 
And  spread  its  trembling  circles  wide. 

Once,  Emir  !  thy  unheeding  child. 

Mid  all  this  havoc,  bloom'd  and  smiled, — 

Tranquil  as  on  some  battle-plain 

The  Persian  lily  shines  and  tow'rs,"" 
Before  the  combat's  redd'ning  stain 

Hath  fall'n  upon  her  golden  flow'rs. 
Light-hearted  maid,  unawed,  unmoved, 
While  Heav'n  but  spared  the  sire  she  loved. 
Once  at  thy  evening  tales  of  blood 
Unlist'ning  and  aloof  she  stood — 
And  oft,  when  thou  hast  paced  along 

Thy  Haram  halls  with  furious  heat, 
Hast  thou  not  cursed  her  cheerful  song, 

That  came  across  thee,  calm  and  sweet. 
Like  lutes  of  angels,  touch'd  so  near 
Hell's  confines,  that  the  damn'd  can  hear! 

Far  other  feelings  Love  hath  brought — 

Her  soul  all  flame,  her  brow  all  sadness. 
She  now  has  but  the  one  dear  thought. 

And  thinks  that  o'er,  almost  to  madness ! 
Oft  doth  her  sinking  heart  recall 
His  words — "  for  rny  sake  weep  for  all ;" 
And  bitterly,  as  day  on  day 

Of  rebel  carnage  fast  succeeds. 
She  weeps  a  lover  snatch'd  away 

In  ev'ry  Gheber  wretch  that  bleeds. 
There's  not  a  sabre  meets  her  eyt 

But  with  his  life-blood  seems  to  swim; 
There's  not  an  arrow  wings  the  sky, 

But  fancy  turns  its  point  to  him. 


44 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


No  more  she  brings  with  footstep  light 
Ai.  Hassan's  falchion  for  the  fight ; 
\ud — had  he  look'd  with  clearer  siglit, 
Had  not  the  mist-,  that  ever  rise 
From  a  foul  spirit,  diram'd  his  eyes — 
He  would  have  mark'd  her  sluidd'ring  frame, 
\V!ien  from  the  field  of  blood  he  came. 
The  falt'ring  speech — the  look  estranged — 
Voice,  step,  and  life,  and  beauty  changed — 
Ve  would  have  mark'd  all  this,  and  known 
Such  change  is  wrought  by  Love  alone ! 

Ah !  not  the  Love,  tliat  should  have  bless'd 
So  young,  so  innocent  a  breast ; 
Not  the  pure,  open,  prosp'rous  Love, 
That,  pledged  on  earth  and  seal'd  above, 
firovvs  in  the  world's  approving  eyes, 

In  friendsliip's  smile  and  home's  caress, 
Tollecting  all  the  heart's  sweet  ties 

Into  one  knot  of  happiness  ! 

No,  IIiNDA,  no, — thy  fatal  flame 

Is  nursed  in  silence,  sorrow,  shame ; — 

A  passion,  without  hope  or  pleasure, 
In  thy  soul's  darkness  buried  deep. 

It  lies  like  some  ill-gotten  treasure, — 
Some  idol,  without  shrine  or  name, 
O'rr  which  its  pale-eyed  vol'riea  keep 
Unholy  watch,  while  others  sleep. 

Seven  nights  have  darkeu'd  0.man's  Sea, 

Since  last,  beneath  the  moonlight  ray, 
She  saw  his  light  oar  rapidly 

Hurry  her  Gheber's  bark  a«ay, — 
.\nd  still  she  goes,  at  midnight  hour. 
To  weep  alone  in  that  high  bow'r, 
AnJ  watch,  and  look  along  the  deep 
Fg(  iiiin  whose  smiles  first  made  her  weep  ;— 
But  watching,  weeping,  all  was  vain, 
Shu  never  saw  his  bark  again. 
The  owlet's  solitary  cry. 
The  night-hawk,  flitting  darkly  by. 

And  oft  the  hateful  carrion  bird, 
Heavily  ll.ipping  his  clogg'd  wing. 
Which  reek'd  with  that  day's  banquetiiig — 

Was  all  she  saw,  was  ijl  she  heard. 

"lis  the  ci^lilh  morn — Al  Hassan's  brow 

Is  brightcn'd  with  unusual  joy — 
What  mighty  mischief  glads  him  now. 

Who  never  timiles  but  (o  destroy? 
The  Hparklo  upon  H^kkf.nd's  Sen, 
When  toss'il  at  midnight  furiously,'" 
TflU  iiol  of  wreck  and  ruin  nigh, 
More  mircly  timn  llinl  nmiling  eye! 


"  Up,  daughter,  up — the  KernaV"'  breath 
"  Has  blown  a  blast  would  waken  death, 
"And  yet  thou  sleep'st — up,  child,  and  see 
"  This  blessed  day  for  Heaven  and  me, 
"A  day  more  rich  in  Pagan  blood 
"  Than  ever  flash'd  o'er  Oman's  flood. 
"  Before  another  dawn  shall  shine, 
"His  head — he.arl — limbs — will  all  be  mine' 
"  This  very  night  his  blood  shall  steep 
"  These  hands  all  over  ere  I  sleep  I" — 

'•His  blood!"  she  faintlv  screamVl — her  mi..  . 
Still  singling  one  from  all  m.ankind — 
"  Yes — spite  of  his  ravines  and  tow'rs, 
"Hafed,  my  child,  this  night  is  ours. 
"  Thanks  to  all-conqu'ring  treachery, 

"  Without  whose  aid  the  links  accursed, 
"  That  bind  these  impious  slaves,  would  be 

"  Too  strong  for  Alla's  self  to  burst ! 
"  That  rebel  fiend,  whose  blade  has  spread 
"My  p.ath  with  piles  of  Moslem  dead, 
"Whose  baffling  spells  had  .almost  driv'n 
"  Back  from  their  course  the  Swords  of  Heav'iv 
"  This  night,  with  all  his  band,  shall  know 
"  How  deep  an  Arab's  steel  can  go, 
"  When  God  and  Vengeance  -speed  the  blow. 
"And — Prophet!  by  that  holy  wreath 
"Thou  wor'st  on  Onou's  field  of  death,'" 
"I  swear,  for  ev'ry  sob  that  parts 
"In  .nnguish  from  these  heathen  hearts, 
"A  gem  from  Persia's  plunder'd  mines 
"Shall  glitter  on  thy  Shrine  of  Slirines. 

"But,  ha! — she  sinks — tliat  look  so  wild — 
"Those  livid  lips — my  child,  my  child, 
"This  life  of  blood  befits  not  lliec, 
"And  thou  must  back  to  Ai!Ai;v. 

"  Ne'er  had  I  risk'd  thy  timid  set 
"  In  scenes  that  man  himself  might  dread, 
"  Had  I  not  hoped  our  ev'ry  tre.td 

"Would  be  on  prostrate  Persian  necks — 
"Cursed  race,  they  olVer  swords  instead! 
"  But  cheer  thee,  maid, — the  wind  that  now 
"Is  blowing  o'er  thy  feverish  brow, 
"To-day  shall  waft  thee  from  the  shore; 
"  And,  ere  n  drop  of  this  night's  goro 
"  Have  lime  to  chill  in  yonder  tow'rs, 
"Thou'lt  hce  thy  owji  sweet  .\rab  bow'rs!" 

His  bloody  boast  was  all  loo  true; 
There  Inrk'd  one  wretch  among  the  few 
Whom  Hafed'.s  eagle  eye  could  count 
Around  him  on  that  Fiery  Mount, — 
One  miscreant,  who  for  gold  bclray'd 
The  pathway  through  the  valley's  ah.ido 


LALLA  KOOKH. 


45 


To  <hose  liigh  tow'r?i,  wliKre  Freedom  stood 

In  her  last  liold  of  flame  ami  blood. 

Left  on  the  field  last  dreadful  ni^'ht, 

When,  sallying  from  their  Sacred  height, 

The  Ghsbers  fought  hope's  farewell  fight. 

He  lay — but  died  not  with  the  brave  ; 

That  sun,  which  should  have  gilt  his  grave, 

Saw  him  a  traitor  and  a  slave; — 

And,  while  the  few,  who  thence  return'd 

To  their  high  rocky  fortress,  mourn'd 

For  him  among  the  matchless  dead 

They  left  behind  on  glory's  bed, 

He  lived,  and,  in  the  face  of  morn, 

Kaugh'd  them,  and  Faith,  and  Heav'n  to  scorn. 

Oh  for  a  tongue  to  curse  the  slave. 

Whose  treason,  like  a  deadly  blight. 
Comes  o'er  the  councils  of  the  brave, 

And  blasts  them  in  their  hour  of  might! 
May  Life's  unblessed  cup  for  him 
Be  drugg'd  with  treacli'ries  to  llie  brim, — 
With  hope.s,  that  but  allure  to  fly. 

With  joys,  that  vanish  while  he  sips, 
Like  Dead  Sea  fruits,  that  tempt  the  eye. 

But  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lips ! "" 
His  country's  curse,  his  children's  shame, 
Outeast  of  virtue,  peace,  and  fame, 
May  he,  at  last,  with  lips  of  flame 
On  the  p.irch'd  desert  thirsting  die, — 
Wiile  lakes,  that  sh.one  in  mockery  nigh,^°" 
Are  fading  oil",  imtouch'd,  untasted. 
Like  the  once  glorious  hopes  he  blasted! 
And,  when  from  earth  his  spirit  flies, 

Just  Prophet,  let  the  damn'd-one  dwell 
Full  in  the  sight  of  Paradise, 

Beholding  heav'n,  and  feeling  hell! 


Lalla  Rookh  had,  the  night  before,  been  visited 
by  a  dream  which,  in  spite  of  the  impending  fate 
of  poor  Hafed,  made  her  heart  more  than  usually 
cheerful  during  the  morning,  and  gave  her  cheeks 
all  the  freshened  animation  of  a  flower  that  the  Bid- 
musk  has  just  passed  over.""'  She  fancied  that  she 
was  sailing  on  that  Eastern  Ocean,  where  the  sea- 
gipsies,  who  live  for  ever  on  the  water,^'''  enjoy  a 
perpetual  summer  in  wandering  from  isle  to  isle, 
when  she  saw  a  small  gilded  bark  approaching  her. 
It  was  like  one  of  those  boats  which  the  Maldivian 
islanders  send  adrift,  at  the  mercy  of  winds  and 
waves,  loaded  with  perfumes,  flowers,  and  odorifer- 
ous wood,  as  an  otTering  to  the  Spirit  whom  they 
call  King  of  the  Sea.  At  first,  this  little  bark  ap- 
peared to  be  empty,  but,  on  coming-  nearer 


She  had  proceeded  thus  far  m  relating  the  dream 
to  her  Ladies,  when  FiiUAMoiiz  apjjcared  at  the  door 
of  the  pavilion.  In  his  presence,  of  course,  every 
thing  eke  was  forgotten,  and  the  continuance  of  the 
story  was  instantly  requested  by  all.  Fresh  wood 
of  aloes  was  set  to  burn  in  the  cassolets: — the  vio- 
let sherbets^"'  were  hastily  handed  round,  .and  after 
a  short  prelude  on  his  lute,  in  the  pathetic  measure 
of  Nava,"°  wliich  is  always  used  to  express  the 
lamentations  of  absent  lovers,  the  Poet  tlius  con- 
tinued:— 


The  day  is  low'ring — stilly  black 
Sleeps  the  grim  wave,  while  heav'n's  rack. 
Dispersed  and  wild,  'twixt  earth  and  sky 
Hangs  like  a  shatter'd  canopy. 
There's  not  a  cloud  in  that  blue  plain 

But  tells  of  storm  to  come  or  past; — 
Here,  flying  loosely  as  the  mane 

Of  a  young  war-horse  in  the  blast ; — 
There,  roU'd  in  masses  dark  and  swelling 
As  proud  to  be  the  thunder's  dwelling! 
While  some,  already  burst  and  riv'n, 
Seem  melting  down  the  verge  of  heav'n ; 
As  though  the  infant  storm  had  rent 

The  mighty  womb  that  gave  him  birth. 
And,  having  swept  the  firmament. 

Was  now  in  fierce  career  for  earth. 

On  earth  'twas  yet  all  ealm  around, 
A  pulseless  silence,  dread,  profound. 
More  awful  than  the  tempest's  sound. 
The  diver  steer'd  for  Ormus'  bowers. 
And  moor'd  his  skiff  till  calmer  hours; 
The  sea-birJs,  with  portentous  screech. 
Flew  fast  to  land ; — upon  the  beach 
The  pilot  oft  had  paused,  wnth  glance 
Turn'd  upward  to  that  wild  expanse  ;— 
And  all  was  boding,  drear,  and  dark 
As  her  own  soul,  when  Hixda's  bark 
Went  slowly  from  the  Persian  shore,— 
No  music  timed  her  parting  oar,''- 
Nor  friends  upon  the  less'ning  strand 
Linger'd,  to  wave  the  unseen  hand. 

Or  speak  the  farewell,  heard  no  more  ;— 
But  lone,  unheeded,  from  the  bay 
The  vessel  takes  its  mournful  way. 
Like  some  ill-destined  bark  tliat  steers 
In  silence  through  the  Gate  of  Tears.°" 

And  where  was  stern  Al  Hassan  then  ? 

Could  not  that  saintly  scourge  of  men 
From  bloodshed  and  devotion  spare 
One  minute  for  a  farewell  there' 


46 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


No — close  within,  in  changeful  fits 

"  Thy  Paradise  itself  were  dim 

Of  cursing  nnd  of  pray'r,  he  sits 

"  And  joyless,  if  not  shared  with  him !" 

In  savage  loneliness  to  brood 

Her  hands  were  clasp'd — her  eyes  upturn'd 

Ui)on  the  coming  night  of  blood, — • 

Dropping  their  tears  like  moonlight  rain  ; 

With  tliat  keen,  second-scent  of  death, 

And,  though  her  lip,  fond  raver  I  burn'd 

By  which  the  vulture  snuffs  his  food 

With  words  of  passion,  bold,  profane, 

In  the  still  warm  and  linng  breath!"' 

Yet  was  there  light  around  her  brow, 

While  o'er  the  wave  his  weeping  daughter 

A  holiness  in  those  dark  eyes. 

Is  wafted  from  these  scenes  of  slaughter, — 

Which    show'd, — though    wand'ring    earthward 

As  a  young  bird  of  Babylox, — "" 

now, — 

Let  loose  to  tell  of  victVy  won, 

Her  spirit's  home  was  in  the  skies. 

Flies  home,  with  wing,  ah !  not  unstain'd 

Y'es — for  a  spirit  pure  as  hers 

By  the  red  hands  that  held  her  chain'd. 

Is  alw.ays  pure,  ev'n  while  it  errs ; 

As  sunshine,  broken  in  tlie  rill. 

And  does  the  long-left  home  she  seeks 

Though  turn'd  astray,  is  sunshine  still! 

Light  up  no  gladness  on  her  cheeks? 

So  wholly  had  her  mind  forgot 

The  flow'rs  she  nursed — the  well-known  groves. 

All  thoughts  but  one,  she  heeded  not 

Where  oft  in  dreams  h'jr  spirit  roves — 

The  rising  storm — the  wave  that  cast 

Once  more  to  see  her  dear  gazelles 

A  moment's  midnight,  as  it  pass'd — 

Come  bounding  with  their  silver  bells  ; 

Nor  heard  the  frequent  shout,  the  tread 

Her  birds'  new  plumage  to  behold. 

Of  gathering  tumult  o'er  her  head — 

And  the  gay,  gleaming  fishes  count, 

Clash'd  swords,  and  tongues  that  seem'd  to  vie 

She  left,  all  filleted  with  gold, 

With  the  rude  riot  of  the  sky. — 

Shooting  around  their  jasper  fount;"' 

Buti  hark  I — that  war-whoop  on  the  deck — 

Her  little  garden  mosque  to  see. 

That  crash,  as  if  each  engine  there. 

And  once  again,  at  evening  hour, 

Mast,  sails,  and  all,  were  gone  to  wreck, 

To  tell  her  ruby  rosary"'° 

Mid  yells  and  stampings  of  despair! 

In  her  own  sweet  acacia  bow'r. — 

Merciful  Heaven  !  what  can  it  be 

Can  these  delights,  that  wait  her  now, 

'Tis  not  the  storm,  though  fearfully 

Call  up  no  sunshine  on  her  brow? 

The  ship  has  shudder'd  as  she  rode 

No, — silent,  from  her  train  apart, — 

O'er  mountain-waves — "  Forgive  me,  God ! 

As  even  now  she  felt  at  heart 

"Forgive  me" — shriek'd  the  maid,  and  knelt, 

The  chill  of  her  approaching  doom, — 

Trembling  all  over — for  she  felt 

She  sits,  all  lovely  in  her  gloom 

As  if  her  judgment-hour  was  near; 

As  n.  pale  Angel  of  the  Grave  : 

W^hile  crouching  round,  half  dead  with  fear. 

And  o'er  the  wide,  tcini)esluous  wave. 

Her  handmaids  clung,  nor  breathed,  nor  stirr'd— 

Looks,  with  a  shudder,  to  those  tow'rs, 

When,  hark  I — a  second  crash — a  third — 

Whera,  in  a  few  short  awful  hours. 

And  now,  as  if  a  bolt  of  thunder 

Blood,  blood,  in  streaming  tides  shall  run. 

Had  riv'n  the  Laboring  planks  asunder, 

Foul  incense  for  to-morrow's  sun! 

The  deck  falls  in — what  horrors  then!' 

Blood,  waves,  and  tackle,  swords  and  men 

"  Where  art  thou,  glorious  stranger!  tliou, 

Come  mix'd  together  through  the  chasm, — 

"So  loved,  BO  lost,  where  art  thou  now? 

Some  wretches  in  their  dying  spasm 

"Foe — Gheber — infidel — whate'er 

Still  fighting  on — and  some  that  call 

"Th'  unhallow'd  name  Ihou'rt  doom'd  to  bear, 

"  For  God  and  Iran  !"  as  they  fall ! 

"  Still  glorious— still  to  this  fond  heart 

"  Dear  as  its  blood,  whnte'er  thou  art ! 

Whoso  was  the  hand  that  tnrnM  away 

"  Yes — Ai.LA,  dreadful  Ai.la  !  yes — 

The  perils  of  th'  infuriate  fray. 

"If  there  be  wrong,  be  crime  in  this, 

And  snalcli'd  hor  breathless  from  beneath 

"  Ix'l  the  black  waves  that  round  us  roll, 

This  wildcrrnent  of  wreck  and  death? 

"  Whelm  me  this  instant,  ere  my  soul, 

She  knew  not — for  a  faiiitness  camo 

"  Forgetting  faith— home— father— all— 

Chill  o'er  licr,  and  her  sinking  frame 

"  Before  its  earthly  Idol  faU, 

Amid  the  ruins  of  that  hour 

"Nor  worHhip  cv'n  Thyself  above  him — 

Lay,  like  a  pale  and  scorched  flow'r, 

"  For,  eh,  «o  wildly  do  I  love  him. 

Beneath  the  red  volcano's  shower. 

LALLA  ROOKH 


47 


But,  oil!  the  sights  and  sounds  of  dread 
That  shoek'd  licr  ere  lior  senses  lied ! 
The  yawning  deelc — the  crowd  tliat  strove 
Upon  the  tott'ring  planks  above — 
The  sail,  whose  fragments,  shiv'ring  o'er 
The  stragglers'  heads,  all  dash'd  with  gore, 
Flutter'd  like  bloody  (lags — the  clash 
Of  sabres,  and  the  lightning's  flash 
Upon  their  blades,  high  tossM  about 
Like  meteor  brands"" — as  if  throughout 

The  elements  one  fury  ran. 
One  gen'ral  rage,  that  left  a  doubt 

Which  was  the  fiercer,  Ileav'n  or  Man  ! 
Once  too — but  no — it  could  not  be — 

'Twas  fancy  all — yet  once  she  thought, 
While  yet  lier  fading  eyes  could  see. 

High  on  the  ruin'd  deck  she  caught 
A  glimpse  of  that  unearthly  form, 

That  glory  of  lier  soul, — even  then, 
Amid  the  whirl  of  wreck  and  storm. 

Shining  above  his  fellow-men. 
As,  on  some  black  and  troublous  iiiglit. 
The  Star  of  Egypt,""  whose  proud  light 
Never  hath  beam'd  on  those  who  rest 
In  (he  White  Islands  of  the  West,"" 
Burns  through  the  storm  with  looks  of  flame 
That  put  Heav'n's  cloudier  eyes  to  shame. 
But  no — 'twas  but  the  minute's  dream — 
A  fiintasy — and  ere  the  scream 
Had  half-way  pass'd  her  pallid  lips, 
A  deathlike  swoon — a  chill  eclipse 
Of  soul  and  sense  its  darkness  spread 
Around  her,  and  she  sunk,  as  dead. 

How  calm,  how  beautiful  comes  on 
The  stilly  hour,  when  storms  are  gone ; 
When  warring  winds  have  died  away. 
And  clouds,  beneath  the  glancing  ray, 
Melt  oft'  and  leave  the  land  and  sea 
Sleeping  in  briglit  tranquillity, — 
Fresh  as  if  Day  again  were  born. 
Again  upon  the  lap  of  Morn ! — 
When  the  light  blossoms,  rudely  torn 
And  scatter'd  at  the  whirlwind's  will, 
Hang  floating  in  the  pure  air  still. 
Filling  it  all  with  precious  balm. 
In  gratitude  for  this  sweet  calm ; — 
And  every  drop  tlio  thunder-show'rs 
Have  left  upon  the  grass  and  flow'rs 
Sparkles,  as  'twere  that  lightning-gem"' 
Whose  liquid  flame  is  born  of  them  ! 
When,  'stead  of  one  unchanging  breeze, 
There  blow  a  thousand  gentle  airs. 
And  each  a  ditT'rent  perfume  bears,— 
As  if  the  loveliest  plants  and  trees 


Had  vassal  breezes  of  their  own 
To  watch  and  wait  on  them  alone. 

And  waft  no  other  breath  than  theirs: 
When  the  blue  waters  rise  and  fall. 
In  sleepy  sunshine  mantling  all; 
And  ev'i\  that  swell  the  tempest  leaves 
Is  like  the  full  and  silent  heaves 
Of  lovers'  hearts,  when  newly  bless'd, 
Too  newly  to  bo  quite  at  rest. 

Such  was  the  golden  hour  that  broke 
Upon  the  world,  when  IIinda  woke 
From  her  long  trance,  and  heard  around 
No  motion  but  the  water's  sound 
Rippling  against  the  vessel's  side. 
As  slow  it  mounted  o'er  the  tide. — 
But  where  is  she  ? — her  eyes  .are  dark, 
Are  wilder'd  still — is  this  the  bark. 
The  same,  that  from  Harmozia's  bay 
Bore  her  at  morn — whose  bloody  way 
The  sea-dog  track'd  ? — no — strange  and  new 
Is  all  th.'it  meets  her  wond'ring  view 
Upon  a  galliot's  deck  she  lies. 

Beneath  no  rich  pavilion's  shade, — 
No  plumes  to  fan  her  sleeping  eyes. 

Nor  jasmine  on  her  pillow  laid. 
But  the  rude  litter,  roughly  spread 
With  war-cloaks,  is  her  homely  bed, 
And  shawl  and  sash,  on  javelins  hung, 
For  awning  o'er  her  head  are  flung. 
Shudd'ring  she  look'd  around — there  lay 

A  group  of  warriors  in  the  sun. 
Resting  their  limbs,  as  for  that  day 

Their  ministry  of  death  were  done. 
Some  gazing  on  the  drowsy  sea, 
Lost  in  unconscious  revery; 
And  some,  who  seem'd  but  ill  to  brook 
That  sluggish  calm,  with  many  a  look 
To  the  slack  sail  impatient  cast. 


Blest  Alla!  who  shall  save  her  now? 

There's  not  inivll  that  warrior  band 
One  Arab  sword,  one  turban'd  brow 

From  her  own  Faithful  Moslem  land. 
Their  garb — the  leathern  bell""  that  wmpa 

Each  yellow  vest"" — that  rebel  hue — 
The  Tart.ar  fleece  upon  their  caps — '"" 

Yos — yes — her  fears  are  all  too  true, 
And  Ileav'n  hath,  in  this  dreadful  hour, 
Abandon'd  her  to  Hafed's  power ; 
Hafed,  the  Gheber! — at  the  thought 

Her  very  heart's  blood  chills  within  ; 
He,  whom  her  soul  was  hourly  taught 

To  loathe,  as  some  foul  fiend  "of  sin. 


48 


MOOKE'S  WORKS. 


Some  minister,  whom  Hell  had  sent, 
To  spre;id  its  bhist,  where'er  he  went, 
And  fling,  a:i  o'er  our  earth  he  trod, 
His  sliadow  bet'.vixt  man  and  God  ! 
And  she  is  now  his  captive, — tlirown 
In  his  fierce  hands,  alive,  alone ; 
His  til'  infuriate  band  she  sees. 
All  infidels — all  enemies! 
What  was  the  daring-  hope  that  then 
Cross'd  her  like  lightning,  as  again, 
Witli  boldness  that  despair  had  lent. 

She  darted  through  that  armed  crowd 
A  look  so  searching,  so  intent, 

That  ev'n  the  sternest  warrior  bow'd 
Abash'd,  when  he  her  glances  cauglit. 
As  if  he  guess'd  whose  form  they  sought. 
But  no — she  sees  him  not — "tis  gone, 
The  vision  that  before  her  shone 
Through  all  the  maze  of  blood  and  storm. 
Is  fled — 'twas  but  a  phantom  form — 
One  of  those  passing,  rainbow  dreams, 
Half  light,  half  shade,  whicli  Fancy's  beams 
Paint  on  the  fleeting  mists  that  roll 
In  trance  or  slumber  round  the  soul. 

But  now  the  baric,  with  livelier  bound, 

Scales  the  blue  w.ive — the  crew's  in  motion, 

The  oars  arc  out,  and  with  light  sound 
Break  the  bright  mirror  of  the  ocean, 

iSealt'riiig  its  brilliant  fragments  round. 

And  now  s!ie  sees — with  horror  sees. 

Their  course  is  tow'rd  that  mountain-hold, — 

Those  tow'rs,  that  make  her  life-blood  freeze, 

IVhcrc  Mecca's  godless  enemies 
Lie,  like  bcleaguer'd  scorpions,  roll'd 
In  their  last  deadly,  venomous  fold  ! 

\inid  the  illumined  land  and  Mood 

.•^unless  that  mighty  mountain  stood; 

<5ave  where,  above  its  awful  head, 

I'herc  shone  a  flaming  cloud,  blood-red, 

\.i  'twere  the  flag  of  destiny 

Hung  out  to  mark  where  death  would  be! 

f  Ii'd  her  I'cwilder'd  mind  the  pow'r 
(>f  t!\oU'.;ht  in  this  terrific  hour, 
Kli3  wi'.i  might  marvel  where  or  how 
Man's  foot  could  scale  that  mountain's  brow, 
Siino  ne'er  had  Arab  heard  or  known 
Of  p.ith  but  through  the  glen  alone. — 
But  every  thought  was  lost  in  fear. 
When,  as  their  bounding  bark  drew  near 
The  craggy  base,  kIic  felt  the  wavcsi 
UurrJ'  them  tow'rd  tlioKC  diHm.al  caves. 
That  from  the  Deep  in  windings  pass 
Uoiioalli  that  Mount's  volcanic  moHs; — 


And  loud  a  voice  on  deck  commands 

To  low'r  tlie  mast  and  light  the  brands! — 

Instantly  o'er  the  dashing  tide 

Within  a  c.ave  n's  mouth  they  glide. 

Gloomy  as  thai  eternal  Porch 

Through  wliich  departed  spirits  go : — 

Not  ev'u  the  flare  of  brand  and  torch 
Its  flick'ring  light  could  further  throw 
Than  the  thick  flood  that  boil'd  below. 

Silent  they  floated — as  if  each 

Sat  breathless,  and  too  awed  for  speech 

In  that  dark  chasm,  where  even  sound 

Seem'd  dark. — so  sullenly  around 

The  goblin  echoes  of  the  cave 

Muttor'd  it  o'er  the'long  black  wave. 

As  'twere  some  secret  of  tlie  grave! 

But  soft — they  pause — the  ciu'rent  turns 
Beneatli  them  from  its  onward  track ; — 

Some  mighty,  unseen  barrier  spurns 
The  vc.ved  tide,  all  foaming,  back, 

And  scarce  the  oars'  redoubled  force 

Can  stem  tlie  eddy's  whiriing  course; 

When,  hark ! — sonic  desp'iatu  foot  has  siming 

Among  the  rocks — the  chain  is  flung — 

The  oars  are  up — tho  grapple  clings. 

And  the  toss'd  bark  in  moorings  swings. 

Just  then,  a  day-beam  through  the  sli.ado 

Broke  tremulous — but,  ere  tlie  maid 

Can  see  from  whence  the  brightness  steals, 

Upon  her  brow  she  sluidd'ring  feels 

A  viewless  hand,  that  promptly  ties 

A  bandage  round  her  burning  eyes ; 

While  the  rude  litter  where  she  lies. 

Uplifted  by  the  warrior  throng, 

O'er  the  steep  rocks  is  borne  along. 

Blest  power  of  sunshine  ! — genial  Day, 
What  balm,  what  life  is  in  thy  ray! 
To  feel  thee  is  such  real  bliss. 
That  had  the  world  no  joy  but  this, 
To  sit  in  sunshine  calm  and  sweet, — 
It  were  a  world  too  exquisite 
For  man  to  leave  it  for  the  gloom, 
The  dee]),  cold  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
Ev'u  IIixDA,  though  she  saw  not  wherg 

Or  whither  wound  the  perilous  road, 
Yet  knew  by  that  awak'ning  air. 

Which  suddenly  around  her  glow'd. 
That  they  had  ris'n  from  d.irkness  then 
And  hreatlied  the  sunny  world  again! 
But  soon  this  b.almy  freHliness  fled — 
For  now  the  steepy  labyrinth  led 
Through  damp  and  gloom — 'mid  crash  of  bougns, 
And  fall  of  loosen'd  crags  that  rouse 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


49 


Tho  Ii'op:ird  from  lii.-j  iiiingry  sleep, 

Who,  sl.irliiij,',  flunks  encli  cim^  a  prey. 
And  loiijr  is  heard,  from  steep  (o  steep, 

Chasing  them  down  tlieir  thmid'rinj,'  way ! 
The  jackal's  cry — the  distant  moan 
Of  tho  liya;na,  tierce  and  lone — 
And  that  eternal  Kadd'ninjj  sound 

Of  torrents  in  the  glen  beneath. 
As  'twere  tlio  ever  dark  Profounil 

Tliat  rolls  beneath  the  Bridge  of  Deafli ! 
All,  all  is  fearful — ev'n  to  see. 

To  gaze  on  those  terrifie  things 
She  now  but  blindly  hears,  would  be 

Relief  to  her  imaginings; 
Since  never  yet  was  sliapo  so  dread. 

But  Fancy,  thus  in  darkness  thrown. 
And  by  such  sounds  of  horror  fed 

Could  frame  more  dreadful  of  her  own. 

But  does  she  dream?  has  Fear  again 

Perplex'd  the  workings  of  her  brain, 

Or  did  a  voice,  all  music,  then 

Come  from  the  gloom,  low  whisp'ring  near — 

"  Tremble  not,  love,  thy  Gheber's  here?" 

She  does  not  dream — all  sense,  all  ear. 

She  drinks  the  words,  "  Thy  Gheber's  here." 

'Twas  his  own  voice — she  could  not  err — 

Throughout  the  breathing  world's  extent 
There  was  but  one  such  voice  for  her, 

So  kind,  so  soft,  so  eloquent  I 
Oh,  sooner  sh.all  the  rose  of  Blay 

Mist.-vke  her  own  sweet  nighting.ale, 
And  to  some  rae.aner  minstrel's  lay 

Open  her  bosom's  glowing  veil,'" 
Than  Love  shall  ever  doubt  a  tone, 
A  breath  of  the  beloved  one  ! 

Though  blest,  'mid  .all  her  ills,  to  think 

She  has  that  one  beloved  ne.ar. 
Whose  smile,  though  met  on  ruin's  brink, 

Hath  power  to  make  even  ruin  dear, — 
Yet  soon  this  gleam  of  rapture,  cross'd 
By  fears  for  him,  is  chilfd  and  lost. 
IIow  shall  the  ruthless  Hafed  brook 
That  one  of  Gheber  blood  should  look. 
With  aught  but  curses  in  his  eye. 
On  her  a  maid  of  Ababt — 
A  Moslem  maid — the  child  of  him, 

Whose  bloody  b.anner's  dire  success 
Ilath  left  their  alt.ars  cold  and  dim. 

And  their  f.iir  land  a  wilderness! 
And,  worse  than  .ill,  that  night  of  blood 

Which  comes  so  fast — Oh !  who  shall  stay 
The  sword,  that  once  hath  t.asted  food 

Of  Persian  hearts,  or  turn  its  w.iy  : 


What  arm  shall  then  the  victiiii  cover, 
Or  from  her  tUther  shield  her  lover  ? 
"Save  him,  my  God!"  she  inly  crie.s — 
"Save  him  this  night — .and  if  thine  eyes 

"  Have  ever  welcomed  with  delight 
"  Tlie  sinner's  tears,  the  sacrifice 

"Of  sinners'  hearts — guard  him  this  night, 
"  And  here,  before  thy  throne,  I  swear 
"  From  my  Iieart's  inmost  core  to  tear 

"  Love,  hope,  remembrance,  though  they  be 
"  Link'd  with  each  quiv'ring  life-string  there, 

"  And  give  it  bleeding  all  to  Thee ! 
"  Let  him  but  live, — the  burning  tear 
"  The  sighs,  so  sinful,  yet  so  dear, 
"  Which  have  been  all  too  much  his  own, 
"  Shall  from  this  hour  be  Heaven's  alone. 
"  Youth  pass'd  in  penitence,  and  .age 
"  In  long  and  painful  pilgrimage, 
"  Sliall  leave  no  traces  of  the  flame 
"That  wastes  me  now — nor  shall  his  name 
"  E'er  bless  my  lips,  but  when  I  pr.ay 
"For  his  dear  spirit,  that  away 
"Casting  from  its  angelic  ray 
"  Th'  eclipse  of  earth,  he,  too,  may  shine 
"  Redeem'd,  all  glorious  and  all  Thine !: 
"  Think — think  what  victory  to  win 
"One  radiant  soul  like  his  from  sin,— 
"  One  wand'ring  st.ar  of  virtue  back 
"  To  its  own  native,  heavenward  track  I 
"  Let  him  but  live,  .and  both  are  Thine, 

"  Together  thine — for,  bless'd  or  cross'c?, 
"Living  or  dead,  his  doom  is  mine, 

"  And,  if  he  perish,  both  are  lost  I" 


The  next  evening  Lalla  RookH  was  entreated 
by  her  Ladies  to  continue  the  relation  of  her  won- 
derful dream  ;  but  the  fearful  interest  th.at  hung 
round  the  fate  of  Hinda  and  her  lover  had  com- 
pletely removed  every  trace  of  it  from  her  mind ;. — 
much  to  the  disappointment  of  a  fair  seer  or  two 
in  her  train,  who  prided  themselves  on  their  skill 
in  interpreting  visions,  and  who  had  already  re- 
marked, as  an  unlucky  omen,  that  the  Princess,  on 
the  very  morning  after  the  dream,  had  worn  a  silk 
dyed  with  the  blossoms  of  the  sorrowful  tree, 
Nilica."' 

Fadladeen,  whose  indign.ation  had  more  th.an 
once  broken  out  during  the  recital  of  some  parts 
of  this  heterodox  poem,  seemed  .at  length  to  have 
made  up  his  mind  to  the  infliction ;  and  took  his 
seat  this  evening  with  .all  the  p.itienco  of  a  m.artyr, 
while  the  Poet  resumed  his  profimo  and  seditious 
story  as  fel''>"-s: — 


50 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


I 


To  tearless  eyes  and  heiH-ts  at  ease 
Tlic  Icafv  shores  and  siin-brig!it  seas 
That  lav  beneatli  that  mountain's  height, 
Had  been  a  fair  enchanting  sight. 
Twas  one  of  those  ambrosial  eves 
A  day  of  storm  so  often  leaves 
At  its  calm  setting — when  tlie  West 
Opens  lier  golden  bowers  of  rest, 
And  a  racist  radiance  from  the  skies 
Shoots  trembling  down,  as  from  tlie  eyes 
Of  some  meek  penitent,  whose  last. 
Bright  hours  atone  for  dark  ones  past. 
And  who.<ie  sweet  tears,  o'er  wrong  forgiv'n, 
Shine,  as  they  fall,  with  liglit  from  heav'n ! 

'Twas  stillness  all — tlie  winds  tliat  late 

Had  rush'd  tlirough  Kef.man's  almond  groves. 
And  shaken  from  her  bow'rs  of  date 

That  cooling  feast  the  traveller  loves,"'* 
Now,  hill'd  to  languor,  scarcely  curl 

The  Green  Sea  wave,  whose  waters  gleam 
Limpid,  as  if  her  mines  of  pearl 

Were  molted  all  to  form  the  stream: 
And  her  fair  islets,  small  and  bright, 

With  their  green  shores  reflected  there, 
Irfiok  like  those  Peri  isles  of  light. 

That  hang  by  spell-work  in  the  air. 

But  vainly  did  tliose  glories  burst 
On  IIisda's  dazzled  eyes,  when  first 
The  bandage  from  her  brow  was  taken, 
And,  pale  and  awed  as  those  who  waken 
In  their  dark  tombs — when,  scowling  near, 
The  Searchers  of  the  Grave'"  appear, — 
She  shudd'ring  turn'd  to  read  her  fate 

In  the  fierce  eyes  that  fiash'd  around ; 
And  saw  those  towers  all  desolate, 

Tliat  o'er  her  head  terrific  frown'd, 
As  if  defying  ev'n  the  smile 
Of  that  soft  heav'n  to  gild  their  pile. 
In  vain  with  mingled  hope  and  fear. 
She  looks  for  him  wliose  voice  so  dear 
Had  come,  like  nmsie,  to  her  ear — 
Strange,  mocking  dream !  again  'tis  fled. 
And  (ill,  the  shoots,  the  pangs  of  dread 
That  through  her  inmost  bosom  run. 

When  voices  from  without  proclaim 
"Hafed,  the  Chief" — and,  one  by  one. 

The  warriors  shout  that  fearful  name! 
He  comes — the  rock  resounds  his  tread — 
llow  shall  slic  dare  to  lift  her  head. 
Or  mi-et  lliosc  eyes  whose  KCorching  glare 
Not  Ykmks's  bohleat  sons  can  bear? 
In  whoHO  red  beam,  Iho  Moslem  tells, 
Such  rank  and  deadly  lustre  dwells, 


As  in  those  hellish  fires  that  light 

The  mandrake's  charnel  leaves  at  night.'" 

How  shall  slie  bear  that  voice's  tone. 

At  whose  loud  battle-cry  alone 

Whole  squadrons  oft  in  p.anic  ran, 

Scatter'd  like  some  vast  caravan. 

When,  stretch'd  at  evening  round  Ihc  wtU, 

They  hear  tlie  tliirsting  tiger's  yell. 

Breathless  siss  stands,  with  eyes  cast  down, 
Shrinking  beneath  the  fiery  frown, 
Which,  fancy  tells  her,  from  th.at  brow 
Is  fl.ashing  o'er  her  fiercely  now : 
And  shudd'ring  as  she  hears  the  tread 

Of  his  retiring  warrior  band. — 
Never  was  pause  so  full  of  dread; 

Till  Hafed  witii  a  trembling  hand 
Took  hers,  and,  leaning  o'er  her,  said, 
"  HiNDA ;" — that  word  was  all  he  spoke. 
And  'twas  enough — the  shriek  that  broke 

From  her  full  bosom,  told  the  rest. — 
Panting  witi;  terror,  joy,  surprise. 
The  maid  but  lifts  her  wond'ring  eyes, 

To  hide  them  on  the  Gliehor's  breast. 
'Tis  he,  'tis  he — the  man  of  blood. 
The  fellest  of  the  Fire-fiend's  brood, 
Hafed,  the  demon  of  the  fight. 
Whose  voice  unnerves,  whose  glances  blight  — 
Is  her  own  loved  Gliober,  mild 
And  glorious  as  when  first  he  smiled 
In  her  lone  tow'r,  and  left  such  beams 
Of  his  pure  eye  to  light  her  dreams. 
That  she  believed  her  bower  had  giv'n 
Rest  to  some  wanderer  from  heav'n  ! 

Jlomenfs  tliere  are,  and  this  was  one 
Snatcird  like  a  minute's  gleam  of  sun 
Amid  the  black  Simoom's  eclipse — 

Or,  like  those  verdant  spots  that  bloom 
Aro\nid  the  crater's  burning  liiis, 

Swcet'ning  the  very  edge  of  doom ! 
The  past— the  future— all  that  Fate 
Can  bring  of  dark  or  desperate: 
Around  sueli  hours,  hut  makes  them  can' 
Inlenser  riidiance  while  they  lasi ! 
Ev'n  he,  this  youth — though  dimm'd  ami  \'»t 
Each  star  of  Hope  that  cheer'd  him  on — 
His  glories  lost — his  cause  betray 'd — 
Iran,  his  dear-loved  country,  made 
A  Land  of  carcasses  and  slaves, 
One  dreary  waslo  of  chains  and  graves!— 
Himself  hut  ling'ring,  dead  at  heart, 

To  see  the  hisl,  long  slruggling  hrealh 
or  I-ilierly's  great  soul  depart. 

Then  lay  him  down  and  share  her  dealJi  - 


LALLA  IIOOKH. 


51 


Ev'n  he,  so  sunl<  in  wrcfclicdness, 

"Hush!  heard'st  (hou  not  the  tramp  of  men 

Witli  (loom  still  ilai-kcr  ^'atli'ring  o'er  liim, 

"  Sounding  from  yonder  fearful  glen? — 

Yet,  in  this  moment's  pure  caress, 

"Perhaps  cv'n  now  they  clin.b  the  wood — 

In  the  mild  eyes  that  shone  before  him, 

"Fly,  fly— though  still  the  West  is  bright, 

Beaming  that  blest  assurance,  worth 

"He'll  come — oh  !  yes — he  wants  thy  blood— 

All  other  transports  known  on  earth, 

"I  know  him — he'll  not  W;iit  for  night!" 

That  he  was  loved — well,  wariidy  loved — 

Oh!  in  this  precioirs  hour  he  proved 

In  terrors  ev'n  to  agony 

How  deep,  how  thoroii^h-i'elt  the  glow 

She  clings  around  the  wond'ring  Chief; — 

Of  rapture,  kindling  out  of  woe  ; — 

"Alas,  poor  wilder'd  maid!  to  me 

How  exquisite  one  single  drop 

"Thou  ow'st  this  raving  trance  of  grief. 

Of  bliss,  thus  sparkling  to  the  top 

"  Lost  as  I  am,  naught  ever  grew 

Of  mis'ry's  cup — how  keenly  quaff \1, 

"Beneath  my  shade  but  perish'd  too — 

Though  death  must  follow  on  the  draught! 

"My  doom  is  like  the  Dead  Sea  air. 

She,  too,  while  gazing  on  those  eyes 

"And  nothing  lives  th.it  enters  there! 

That  sink  into  her  soul  so  deep. 

"  Wiiy  were  our  barks  together  driv'ii 

Forgets  all  fears,  all  miseries. 

"Beneath  this  morning's  furious  heav'n? 

Or  feels  them  like  the  wretch  in  sleep, 

"  Why,  when  I  saw  the  prize  that  chance 

Whom  fancy  cheats  into  a  smile, 

'■  Had  thrown  into  my  desp'rate  arms, — 

Who  dreams  of  joy,  and  sobs  the  while! 

"  When,  casting  but  a  single  glance 

The  mighty  Ruins  where  they  stood, 

"Upon  thy  pale  and  prostrate  charms. 

Upon  the  mount's  high,  rocky  verge, 

"I  vow'd  (though  watching  viewless  o'er 

Lay  open  tow'rds  the  ocean  flood. 

"  Thy  safety  through  that  hour's  alarms) 

Where  lightly  o'er  the  illumined  surge 

"To  meet  th'  unmanning  sight  no  more — 

Many  a  fiiir  bark  that,  all  the  day. 

"  Why  have  I  broke  that  heart-wrung  vow  ? 

Had  lurk'd  in  shelt'ring  creek  or  bay, 

"  Why  weakly,  madly  met  thee  now? — 

Now  bounded  on,  and  gave  their  sails, 

"  Start  not — that  noise  is  but  the  shock 

Yet  dripping,  to  the  ev'ning  gales; 

"Of  torrents  through  yon  valley  hurl'd — • 

Like  eagles,  when  the  storm  is  done, 

"Dread  nothing  here — upon  this  rock 

Spreading  their  wet  wings  in  the  sun. 

"  We  stand  above  the  jarring  world, 

The  beauteous  clouds,  though  daylight  Star 

"  Alike  beyond  its  hope — its  dread — 

Had  sunk  behind  the  hills  of  Lar, 

"  In  gloomy  safety,  like  the  Dead ! 

Were  still  with  ling'ring  glories  bright, — 

"  Or,  could  ev'n  earth  and  hell  unite 

As  if,  to  grace  the  gorgeous  West, 

"  In  league  to  storm  this  Sacred  Height, 

The  Spirit  of  departing  Light 

"Fear  nothing  thou — myself,  to-night. 

That  eve  had  left  his  sunny  vest 

"And  e.ach  o'crlooking  star  that  dwells 

Behind  liini,  ere  he  wing'd  his  flight. 

"Near  God,  will  be  thy  sentinels  ;— 

Ne\-or  «as  scene  so  forni'd  for  love ! 

"And,  ere  to-morrow's  dawn  shall  glow. 

Beneath  them  waves  of  crystal  move 

"  Back  to  thy  sire " 

In  silent  swell — Heav'n  glows  above, 

"  To-morrow ! — no"— 

And  their  pure  hearts,  to  transport  giv'n, 

The  maiden  scream'd — "  thou'lt  never  see 

Swell  like  the  wave,  and  glow  like  Heav'n. 

"  To-morrow's  sun — death,  death  will  be 

"The  night-cry  through  each  reeking  tower. 

But  ah  !  too  soon  tnat  dream  is  past — 

"Unless  we  fly,  ay,  fly  this  hour! 

Again,  iigain  her  fear  returns ; — 

"  Thou  art  betray'd — some  wretch  who  knew 

Night,  dreadful  night,  is  gath'ring  fast. 

"  That  dreadful  glen's  mysterious  clew — 

More  faintly  the  horizon  burns, 

"  Nay,  doubt  not — by  yon  stars,  'tis  true — 

And  every  rosy  tint  that  lay 

"  Hath  sold  thee  to  my  vengeful  sire ; 

On  the  smooth  sea  hath  died  away. 

"This  morning,  with  that  smile  so  dire 

Hastily  to  the  dark'iiing  skies 

"  He  wears  in  joy,  he  told  me  all, 

A  glance  she  casts — then  wildly  cries 

"  And  stamp'u  in  triumph  through  our  hall, 

"  Al  night,  he  said — and,  look,  'tis  near — 

"As  though  thy  heart  alre.idy  beat 

"  Fly,  fly— if  yet  thou  lov'st  me,  fly— 

"  Its  List  life-throb  beneath  his  feet ! 

"Soon  will  his  murd'rous  band  be  here, 

"  Good  Heav'n,  how  little  dream'd  1  then 

"  Ard  I  shall  see  thee  bleed  and  die. — 

"His  Wctim  was  my  own  loved  youth!— 

52 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


u  Ply — send — let  some  one  watcli  the  g-len — 
'■  By  all  my  hopes  of  he.iv'n  'tis  truth !" 

Oh !  coIdiT  than  the  wind  that  freezes 

Founts,  that  but  now  in  sunsliine  phiy'd, 
Is  that  c-onge.iUng  pang  which  seizes 

The  trusting  bosom,  wlien  betnay'd. 
He  felt  it — deeply  felt — and  stood, 
As  if  the  tale  had  froz'n  liis  blood, 

So  'mazed  and  motionless  was  he ; — 
Like  one  whom  sudden  spells  enchant, 
Or  some  mute,  in:u-blc  habitant 

Of  the  still  H:ills  of  Ishmoxie  !  =" 

IJut  soon  the  painful  chill  was  o'er. 
And  his  great  soul,  herself  once  more, 
Look'd  from  his  brow  in  all  tiie  rays 
Of  her  best,  happiest,  grandest  days. 
Never,  in  moment  most  elate. 

Did  tliat  high  spirit  loftier  rise  ; —  - 
Wliile  briglit,  serene,  determinate. 

His  looks  are  lifted  to  the  skies. 
As  if  the  signal  lights  of  Fate 

Were  shining  in  those  awful  eyes ! 
'Tis  come — his  hour  of  martyrdom 
In  Iran's  s.acrcd  cause  is  come ; 
.\nd,  thougli  his  life  hath  pass'd  away, 
Like  lightning  on  a  stormy  day, 
V'et  shall  his  death-hour  leave  a  track 

Of  glory,  permanent  and  bright. 
To  which  the  brave  of  after-times. 
The  sufT'ring  brave,  shall  long  look  b.ack 

With  proud  regret, — and  by  its  liglit 

Watch  tlirough  tlie  houi-s  of  slavery's  night 
For  vengeance  on  tli'  oppressor's  crimes. 
This  rock,  his  monument  alofc, 

Shall  speak  the  tale  to  many  an  age ; 
And  hither  bards  and  heroes  oft 

Shall  come  in  secret  pilgrimage, 
And  bring  their  warrior  sons,  and  tell 
The  wond'ring  boys  wliero  IIafed  fell ; 
And  swear  them  on  those  lone  remains 
Of  Iheir  lost  country's  ancient  fanes, 
Never — while  breath  of  life  shall  live 
Witliin  them — never  to  forgive 
Th'  accursed  race,  whose  ruthless  chain 
Hath  left  on  Iran's  neck  a  stain 
niood,  blood  nlonc  can  clcinso  again ! 

Sifcli  are  the  swelling  thoughts  that  now 
Enthrone  themselves  on  IIafed's  browj 
And  ne'er  did  Saint  of  Issa"'  gazo 

On  I  Ik-  red  wreath,  for  martyrs  twined, 
More  proudly  th.in  the  youth  surveys 

Tlmt  pile,  which  tlirough  the  eloom  behind, 


Half  lighted  by  the  altar's  fire, 
Glimmers — his  destined  funer.al  pyre  ! 
Ileap'd  by  his  own,  his  comrades'  hands, 

Of  ev'ry  wood  of  odorous  breath, 
There,  by  the  Fire-God's  shrine  it  stands, 

Ready  to  fold  in  radiant  death 
The  few  still  left  of  those  who  swore 
To  perish  there,  when  liope  was  o'er — 
The  foTT,  to  whom  that  couch  of  flame. 
Which  rescues  them  from  bonds  and  shame. 
Is  sweet  and  welcome  as  tlie  bed 
For  their  own  infant  Projiliet  spread, 
Wiicn  pitying  Heav'n  to  roses  turn'd 
The  death-dmips  that  bi-nealh  him  biirnM!"" 

Willi  watchfulness  tlie  maid  attends 
His  rapid  glance,  where'er  it  bends — 
Why  shoot  his  eyes  such  awful  beams  ? 
Wliat  plans  lie  now?  what  thinks  or  dreams' 
Alas!  why  stands  he  musing  here. 
When  ev'ry  moment  teems  with  fear  ? 
"  Hafed,  my  own  beloved  Lord," 
She  kneeling  cries — "first,  last  adored! 
"If  in  that  soul  thou'st  ever  felt 

"Half  what  thy  lips  impassion'd  swore, 
"  Here,  on  my  knees  that  never  knelt, 

"  To  any  but  their  God  before, 
"  I  pray  thee,  as  tliou  lov'st  me,  fly — 
"  Now,  now — ere  yet  their  blades  are  nigh. 
"  Oh  haste — the  bark  that  bore  me  hither 

"  Can  waft  us  o'er  yon  dark'ning  sea, 
"  East — west — .alas,  I  care  not  whither, 

"  So  thou  art  safe,  and  I  with  tliec ! 
"  Go  where  we  will,  this  hand  in  thine, 

"  Those  eyes  before  me  siniliiig  thus, 
"  Through  good  and  ill,  through  storni  aiul  shino 

"The  world's  a  world  of  love  for  us! 
"On  some  calm,  blessed  shore  we'll  dwell. 
"  Where  'tis  no  crime  to  love  too  well ; — 
"  Where  thus  to  worship  tenderly 
"  An  erring  child  of  light  like  thee 
"  Will  not  be  sin — or,  if  it  be, 
"  Where  we  may  weep  our  faults  away, 
"  Together  kneeling,  night  ;)nd  day, 
"Thou,  for  my  sake,  at  Alla's  shrine, 
"  And  I— at  (inij  God's,  for  thine!" 

WiKIIy  these  passionate  words  she  spoke — 
Tlien  hung  her  head,  and  wept  for  .shame; 

Sobbing,  as  if  a  heart-string  broke 

With  every  deep-he.avcd  sob  that  came. 

While  he,  young,  warm — oh  !  wonder  not 
If,  for  a  moment,  pride  and  fame, 
His  oath — his  cause — that  shrino  of  fluinei 

And  Ikan's  self  arc  nil  forgot 


LALLA  liOOKH. 


58 


For  her  whom  at  Iiis  feet  he  sees 
Kneeling  hi  speeclih'ss  agonies. 
No.  bl:ime  him  not,  if  Hope  awhile 
Dawn'd  in  his  sunl,  and  threw  her  sniilo 
O'er  hours  to  come — o'er  days  and  nights, 
Wing'd  will!  those  ])rocious  pure  delights 
Whieh  she,  who  bonds  all  beauteous  tliere, 
Was  born  to  kindle  and  to  share. 
A  tear  or  two,  which,  as  he  bow'd 

To  raise  the  suppliant,  trembling  stole, 
Fii'st  warn'd  him  of  tliis  dang'rous  cloud 

Of  softness  passing  o'er  his  soul. 
Starting,  he  brush'd  the  drops  away, 
Unworthy  o'er  that  cheek  to  stray  ;— 
Like  one  who,  on  the  morn  of  fight. 
Shakes  from  his  sword  the  dews  of  night, 
That  had  but  dimm'd,  not  stain'd  its  light. 
Yet,  tliough  subdued  th'  unnerving  thrill, 
Its  warmth,  its  weakness,  linger'd  still 

So  touching  in  its  look  and  tone. 
That  the  fond,  fearing,  hoping  maid 
Half  counted  on  the  fliglit  she  pray'd. 
Half  thought  the  hero's  soul  was  grown 
As  soft,  as  yielding  as  her  own, 
And  smiled  and  bless'd  him,  while  he  s.aid, 

"Yes if  there  be  some  happier  sphere, 

"Where  fadeless  truth  like  ours  is  dear, — 
"If  there  be  any  land  of  rest 

"  For  those  who  love  and  ne'er  forget, 

"  Oh ;  comfort  thee— for  safe  and  bless'd 

«  We'll  meet  in  that  calm  region  yet !" 

Scarce  had  she  time  to  ask  her  heart 
If  good  or  ill  these  words  impart, 
When  the  roused  youth  impatient  flew 
To  the  tow'r-wall,  where,  high  in  view, 
A  pond'rous  sea-horn="  hung,  and  blew 
A  signal,  deep  and  dread  as  those 
The  storm-fiend  at  his  rising  blows. — 
Full  well  his  Chieftains,  sworn  and  true 
Through  life  and  de.ath,  that  sign.al  knew; 
For  'twas  th'  appointed  warning  blast, 
Th'  alarm,  to  tell  wlien  hope  was  past. 
And  the  tremendous  de.alh-die  east! 
And  there,  upon  the  mould'ring  tovv'r, 
Hath  hung  this  sea-horn  many  an  hour. 
Ready  to  sound  o'er  land  and  sea 
That  dirge-note  of  the  brave  and  free. 

They  came — his  Chieftains  at  the  call 
Came  slowly  round,  and  with  them  all — 
Alas,  liow  few ! — the  worn  remains 
Of  those  who  late  o'er  Kerman's  plains 
Went  gayly  prancing  to  the  clash 
Of  Moorish  zei  and  tvmbalon. 


Catching  new  hope  from  every  flash 

Of  their  long  lances  in  the  sun, 
And,  as  their  coursers  charged  the  wind. 
And  the  white  o.\-tails  stream'd  behind,"* 
Looking,  as  if  the  steeds  they  rode 
Were  wing'd,  and  every  Chief  a  God ! 
How  fall'n,  how  alter'd  now!  how  wan 
Each  scarr'd  and  faded  visage  shone 
lis  round  the  burning  shrine  they  came  ; — 

How  deadly  was  the  glare  it  cast. 
As  mute  they  paused  before  the  flame 

To  light  their  torches  as  they  pass'd ! 
'Twas  silence  all — the  youth  hath  plarin'4 
The  duties  of  his  soldier-band ; 
And  e.ach  determined  brow  declares 
His  faithful  Chieftains  well  know  theirs. 
But  minutes  speed— night  gems  the  skies — 
And  oh,  how  soon,  ye  blessed  eyes. 
That  look  from  heaven,  ye  may  behold 
Sights  that  will  turn  your  star-fires  cold ! 
Breathless  with  awe,  impatience,  hope, 
The  maiden  sees  the  veteran  group 
Her  litter  silently  prep.are. 

And  lay  it  at  her  trembling  feet; — 
And  now  the  youth,  with  gentle  care, 

Hath  placed  her  in  the  shelter'd  seat. 
And  prcss'd  her  hand— that  ling'ring  press 

Of  hands,  that  for  the  last  time  sever ; 
Of  hearts,  whose  pulse  of  happiness, 

When  that  hold  breaks,  is  dead  for  ever 
And  yet  to  her  this  sad  caress 

Gives  hope — so  fondly  hope  can  err ! 
'Twas  joy,  she  thought,  joy's  mute  excess — 

Their  happy  flight's  dear  harbinger  ; 
'Twas  warmth — assurance — tenderness — 
'Twas  any  thing  but  leaving  her. 

"  Haste,  haste  I"  she  cried, "  the  clouds  grow  dark, 
"  But  still,  ere  night,  we'll  reach  the  bark ; 
"  And  by  to-morrow's  dawn — o!i  bliss  ! 

"  With  thee  upon  the  sun-bright  deep, 
"  Far  off,  I'll  but  remember  this, 

"As  some  dark  vanish'd  dream  of  sleep; 
"  And  thou "  but  ah  ! — he  answers  not^ — 

Good  Hcav'n! — and  does  she  go  alone? 
She  now  has  reacli'd  that  dismal  spot. 

Where,  some  hours  since,  his  voice's  tone 
Had  come  to  soothe  her  fe.ars  and  ills. 
Sweet  as  the  angel  Israfil's,"'* 
When  every  le.af  on  Eden's  tree 
Is  tremblinff  to  hh  minstrelsy — 
Yet  now — oh,  now,  he  is  not  nigh. — 

"  Hafed  !  my  Hafed  ! — if  it  be 
"  Thy  will,  thy  doom  this  night  to  die, 

"  Let  me  but  stay  to  die  "itli  thee. 


54 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


"And  I  will  bless  tliy  loved  name, 
■"Till  the  last  lile-breath  leave  tliis  frame. 
"  Oh  !  let  our  lips,  our  cheeks  be  laid 
"  But  near  each  other  wliile  they  fade  ; 
"  Let  us  but  mix  our  parting  breaths, 
"And  I  can  die  ten  thousand  deaths! 
'•  You  too,  who  huriy  me  away 
"  So  cruelly,  one  moment  stay — 

"Oh  !  stay — one  moment  is  not  much — 
"  He  yet  may  come — for  him  I  pray — 
"  Hafed  !  dear  Hafed  I" — all  the  way 

In  wild  lamentings,  tliat  would  touch 
A  heart  of  stone,  she  shriek'd  his  name 
To  tlie  dark  woods — no  Hafed  came : — 
No — hapless  pair — you've  look'd  your  last: — 

Your  hearts  should  both  have  broken  then ; 
The  dream  is  o'er — your  doom  is  cast — 

Y'ou'U  never  meet  on  earth  again ! 

Alas  for  him,  wlio  hears  her  cries! 

Still  half-way  down  the  steep  he  stands, 
Watching  with  fix'd  and  feverish  eyes 

The  glimmer  of  those  burning  brands. 
That  down  the  rocks,  with  mournful  ray, 
Light  all  he  loves  on  earth  away! 
Hopeless  as  they  who,  far  at  sea, 

By  the  cold  moon  have  just  consign'd 
Tlic  corse  of  one,  loved  tenderly. 

To  the  bleak  flood  they  leave  behind; 
And  on  the  deck  still  lingVing  stay, 
And  long  look  back,  with  sad  delay. 
To  watch  the  moonlight  on  the  wave, 
That  ripples  o'er  that  cheerless  grave. 
But  see — he  starts — what  heard  he  then  ? 
That  dreadful  shout  I — across  the  glen 
Prom  the  land-jide  it  comes,  and  loud 
Rings  through  the  chasm  ;  as  if  the  crowd 
Of  fearful  things,  that  haunt  that  dell, 
lis  Gholes  and  Dives  and  shapes  of  hell, 
Had  all  in  one  dread  howl  broke  out, 
So  loud,  so  terrible  that  shout! 
"  They  come — the  Jloslcms  come  !" — he  cries. 
His  proud  soul  mounting  to  his  eyes, — 
"  Now,  Spirits  of  the  Brave,  who  roam 
"Enfranchised  through  yon  starry  dome, 
"  RcjoicQ — for  souls  of  kindred  fire 
"Arc  on  the  wing  to  join  your  choir!" 
He  said — and,  light  ns  bridegrooms  bound 

To  their  young  loves,  reclinib'd  the  steep 
And  gain'd  the  Shrine — his  Chiefs  stood  round- 

Tlieir  swords,  as  with  instinctive  leap. 
Together,  nt  Hint  cry  accursed, 
Had  from  Iheir  sheaths,  like  sunbeams,  burst. 
.\nd  hark  I — ngain — again  it  rings ; 
Npnr  and  more  near  ila  cchoings 


Peal  through  the  chasm — oh  !  who  that  then 
Had  seen  those  list'ning  warrior-men. 
With  their  swords  grasp'd,  their  eyes  of  flame 
Turn'd  on  their  Chief — could  doubt  the  shame, 
Tir  indignant  shame  with  which  they  thrill 
To  hear  those  shouts,  and  yet  stand  still  ? 
He  read  their  thoughts — tliey  were  his  own — ■ 

"  What !  while  our  arms  can  wield  these  blades 
"Shall  we  die  tamely?  die  alone? 

"  Without  one  victim  to  our  shades, 
"  One  Jloslem  heart,  where,  buried  deep, 
"The  sabre  from  its  toil  may  sleep  ? 
"  No — God  of  Iran's  burning  skies ! 
'•  Thou  scorn'st  th'  inglorious  sacrifice. 
"  No — though  of  all  earth's  hope  bereft, 
"  Life,  swords,  and  vengeance  still  arc  lefU 
"  We'll  make  yon  valley's  recking  caves 

"  Live  in  the  awe-struck  minds  of  men, 
"Till  tyrants  shudder,  when  their  slaves 

"  Tell  of  the  Glieber's  bloody  glen. 
"Follow,  brave  hearts! — this  pile  remains 
"Our  refuge  still  from  life  and  chains; 
"  But  his  the  best,  the  holiest  bed, 
"  Who  sinks  cntomb'd  in  Jloslem  dead !" 

Down  the  precipitous  rocks  they  sprung, 
Wliile  vigor,  more  than  human,  strung 
Each  arm  and  heart. — Th'  exulting  foe 
Still  through  the  dark  defiles  below, 
Tr.ack'd  by  his  torches'  lurid  fire. 

Wound  slow,  as  through  Golconda's  vale"' 
The  mighty  serpent,  in  his  ire. 

Glides  on  with  glitt'ring,  deadly  trail. 
No  torch  the  Ghcbers  need — so  well 
They  know  cacli  myst'ry  of  the  dell. 
So  oft  have,  in  their  wanderings, 
Cross'd  the  wild  race  that  round  them  dwell, 

The  very  tigers  from  their  delves 
Look  out,  and  let  them  p.ass,  as  things 

Untamed  and  fearless  like  themselves  I 

There  was  a  deep  ravine,  that  lay 

Yot  darkling  in  the  Moslem's  way, 

Fit  spot  to  make  invaders  rue 

The  many  fall'n  before  the  few. 

The  torrents  from  that  morning's  sky 

Had  fill'd  the  narrow  chasm  breast-high. 

And,  on  each  side,  aloft  and  wild, 

Huge  cliffs  and  toppling  crags  were  piled, — 

The  guards  with  which  young  Freedom  linos 

Tlio  pathways  to  her  nmunl.'iin-shrlnes 

Here,  at  this  pass,  the  scanty  band 

Of  Ihan'm  last  avengers  stand  ; 

Here  wait,  in  bilcnco  like  tho  dead. 

And  listen  for  the  Moslem's  Ircad 


LALLA  ROOKJl. 


66 


So  anxiously,  llio  cai-rion-Lird 
Above  tlic'iii  llijis  his  wing  unlie.ird! 

Tliey  come — tliat  plunge  into  the  water 
Gives  signal  for  the  work  of  slaughter. 
Now,  Ghebcrs,  now — if  e'er  your  blades 

Had  point  or  prowess,  prove  them  now — 
Woe  to  the  file  that  foremost  wades! 

They  come — a  falchion  greets  each  brow, 
And,  as  they  tumble,  trunk  on  trunlt, 
Beneath  the  gory  waters  sunk, 
Still  o'er  their  drowning  bodies  press 
New  victims  quick  and  numberless; 
Till  scarce  an  arm  in  IIafed's  band, 

So  fierce  their  toil,  hath  power  to  stir, 
But  listless  from  each  crimson  hand 

The  sword  hangs,  clogg'd  with  massacre. 
Nevnr  was  horde  of  tyrants  met 
With  bloodier  welcome — never  yet 
To  patriot  vengeance  hath  the  sword 
More  terrible  libations  pour'd ! 

All  up  the  dreary,  long  ravine, 
By  the  red,  murky  glimmer  seen 
Of  half-quench'd  brands,  that  o'er  the  flood 
Lie  scatter'd  round  and  burn  in  blood, 
What  ruin  glares!  what  carnage  swims! 
Heads,  blazing  turbans,  quiv'ring  limbs, 
Lost  swords  that,  dropp'd  from  many  a  hand, 
In  that  thick  pool  of  slaughter  stand; — 
Wretches  who  wading,  half  on  fire 

From  the  toss'd  brands  that  round  them  fly 
'Twixt  flood  and  flame  in  shrieks  expire ; — 

And  some  who,  grasp'd  by  those  that  die. 
Sink  woundless  with  them,  smother'd  o'er 
In  their  dead  brethren's  gushing  gore ! 

But  vainly  hundreds,  thousands  bleed. 
Still  hundreds,  thousands  more  succeed ; 
Countless  as  tovv'rds  some  flame  at  night 
The  North's  dark  insects  wing  their  fiight, 
And  quench  or  perish  in  its  light, 
To  this  terrific  spot  they  pour — 
Till,  bridged  with  Bloslem  bodies  o'er, 
It  bears  aloft  their  slipp'ry  tread, 
And  o'er  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Tremendous  causeway !  on  they  pass. — 
Then,  hapless  Ghebers,  then,  alas, 
Wh.at  hope  was  left  for  you  ?  for  you. 
Whose  yet  warm  pile  of  sacrifice 
Is  smoking  in  their  vengeful  eyes ; — 
Whose  swords  how  keen,  how  fierce  they  knew. 
And  burn  with  shame  to  find  how  few  ? 
Crush'd  down  by  that  vast  multitude, 
Some  found  their  graves  where  first  fhey  stood ; 


While  some  with  luardier  struggle  died, 
And  still  fought  on  bv  Hafed's  side, 
Who,  frontmg  to  the  foe,  trod  back 
Tow'rds  the  high  towers  his  gory  track. 
And,  as  a  lion  swept  away 

By  sudden  swell  of  Jordan's  pride 
From  the  wild  covert  where  he  lay,"" 

Long  battles  with  tli'  o'erwhelming  tide. 
So  fought  he  back  with  fierce  delay. 
And  kept  both  foes  and  fate  at  bay. 

But  whither  now  ?  their  track  is  lost, 

Their  prey  escaped — guide,  torches  gone— 
By  torrent^beds  and  labyrinths  cross'd 

The  scatter'd  crowd  rush  blindly  on — 
"Curse  on  those  tardy  lights  th.at  wind," 
They  panting  cry,  "  so  far  behind ; 
"  Oh  for  a  bloodhound's  precious  scent, 
"  To  track  the  way  the  Gheber  went ! 
Vain  wish — confusedly  along 
They  rush,  more  desp'rate  as  more  wrong. 
Till,  wilder'd  by  the  far-off"  lights. 
Yet  glitt'ring  up  those  gloomy  heights. 
Their  footing,  mazed  and  lost,  they  miss. 
And  down  the  darkling  precipice 
Are  dash'd  into  the  deep  abyss ; 
Or  midway  hang,  impaled  on  rocks, 
A  banquet,  yet  alive,  for  flocks 
Of  rav'ning  vultures, — while  the  dell 
Re-echoes  with  each  horrible  yell. 

Those  sounds — the  l.-ist,  to  vengeance  dear. 
That  e'er  shall  ring  in  Hafed's  ear,— 
Now  reach'd  him,  as  aloft,  alone. 
Upon  the  steep  way  breathless  thrown, 
He  lay  beside  his  reeking  blade, 

Resign'd,  as  if  life's  task  were  o'er. 
Its  last  blood-offering  amply  paid. 

And  Iran's  self  could  claim  no  more. 
One  only  thought,  one  ling'ring  beam 
Now  broke  across  his  dizzy  dream 
Of  pain  and  weariness — 'tw.is  she. 

His  heart's  pure  planet,  shining  yet 
Above  the  waste  of  memory, 

When  all  life's  other  lights  were  set. 
And  never  to  his  mind  before 
Her  image  such  enchantment  wore. 
It  seem'd  as  if  each  thought  that  stain'd. 

Each  fear  that  chill'd  their  loves  was  past. 
And  not  one  cloud  of  earth  remain'd 

Between  him  and  her  radiance  cast; — 
As  if  to  charms,  before  so  bright, 

New  grace  from  other  worlds  was  giv'n. 
And  his  soul  saw  her  by  the  light 

Now  breaking  o'er  itself  from  heav'n ! 


56 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


A  voice  spoke  near  him — 'twas  the  tone 

Of  a  loved  friend,  the  only  one 

Of  all  his  warriors,  left  with  life 

From  ih.-it  short  night's  tremendous  strife. — 

"And  must  we  then,  my  Chief,  die  here? 

"Foes  round  us,  and  the  Shrine  so  near!" 

These  words  have  roused  the  last  remains 

Of  life  within  him—"  What !  not  yet 
"  Beyond  the  reach  of  Moslem  chains !" 

The  thought  could  make  ev'n  Death  forget 
His  icy  bond;ige — with  a  bound 
He  springs,  all  bleeding,  from  the  ground. 
And  grasps  his  comrade's  arm,  now  grown 
Ev'n  feebler,  heavier  than  his  own. 
And  up  the  painful  pathway  leads. 
Death  gaining  on  each  step  he  treads. 
Speed  them,  thou  God,  who  heardst  tlieir  vow! 
They  mount — they  bleed — oh  save  them  now — 
The  crags  are  red  they've  clamber'd  o'er. 
The  rock-weed's  dripping  with  their  gore  ; — 
Thy  blade  too,  Hafed,  false  at  length. 
Now  breaks  beneath  thy  tott'ring  strength ! 
Haste,  haste — the  voices  of  tlie  Foe 
Come  near  and  nearer  from  below — 
One  cllbrt  more — thank  Heav'n !  'tis  past, 
They've  gain'J  the  topmost  steep  at  last. 
And  now  they  touch  the  temple's  walls, 

Now  Hafed  sees  the  Fire  divine — 
When,  lo ! — his  weak,  worn  comrade  falls 

Dc.id  on  the  threshold  of  the  Shrine. 
"Alas,  brave  soul,  too  quickly  fled! 

"  .'Xnd  must  I  leave  thee  wilh'ring  here, 
"  The  sport  of  every  ruflian's  tread, 

"  The  mark  for  every  coward's  spear? 
"  No,  by  yon  altar's  sacred  beams!" 
He  cries,  and,  with  a  strength  that  seems 
Not  of  this  world,  uplifts  the  frame 
Of  the  fall'n  Chief,  and  tow'rds  the  flame 
Bears  him  along ; — with  death-damp  hand 

The  corpse  upon  the  pyre  he  l.ays, 
Then  lights  the  consecrated  brand. 

And  fires  the  pile,  whose  sudden  blaze 
Like  lightning  bursts  o'er  O.man's  Sea. — 
"  Now,  Freedom's  God !  I  come  to  Thee," 
The  youth  exclaims,  and  with  a  smile 
Of  triumph  vaulting  on  the  pile, 
In  that  last  cfl'ort,  ere  the  fires 
Have  harm'd  one  glorious  limb,  expires ! 

What  shriek  was  that  on  O.man's  tide? 

Il  cnine  from  yonder  drifting  bark, 
That  just  hath  caught  upon  her  side 

The  dealli-lighl — and  again  is  dark. 
It  IS  the  boat^ah,  why  delay'd  .' — 
'i'hat  bears  the  wrelcliuU  Mubluui  inuid ; 


Confided  to  the  watchful  c:rre 

Of  a  small  veteran  band,  with  whom 
Their  gen'rous  Chieftain  would  not  share 

The  secret  of  his  final  doom. 
But  hoped  when  Hinda,  safe  and  free. 

Was  render'd  to  her  father's  eyes. 
Their  pardon,  full  and  prompt,  would  be 

The  ransom  of  so  dear  a  prize. — 
Unconscious,  thus,  of  Hafed's  fate, 
And  proud  to  guard  their  beauteous  fieight, 
Scarce  had  they  clear'd  the  surly  waves 
That  foam  around  those  frightful  caves. 
When  the  cursed  war-whoops,  known  so  well 
Came  echoing  from  the  distant  dell — 
Sudden  each  o.ar,  upheld  and  still, 

Hung  dripping  o'er  the  vessel's  side. 
And,  driving  .at  the  current's  will. 

They  rock'd  along  the  wliisp'ring  tide ; 
While  every  eye,  in  mute  dismay. 

Was  tow'rd  that  filial  mountain  turn'd, 
Where  the  dim  altar's  quiv'ring  ray 

As  yet  all  lone  and  tranquil  burn'd. 

Oh!  'tis  not,  Hixda,  in  the  pow'r 

Of  Fancy's  most  terrific  toiicli 
To  paint  thy  pangs  in  that  dread  hour — 

Thy  silent  agony — 'twas  such 
As  those  who  feel  could  paint  too  well. 
But  none  e'er  felt  .ind  lived  to  tell! 
'Twas  not  alone  the  dreary  state 
Of  a  lorn  spirit,  crusli'd  by  fate. 
When,  though  no  more  remains  to  dread, 

The  panic  chill  will  not  depart; — 
When,  though  the  inmate  Hope  be  dead, 

Her  ghost  still  haunts  the  mould'ring  heart 
No — pleasures,  iiopes,  aflections  gone, 
The  wretch  may  bear,  and  yet  live  on, 
Like  things,  within  the  cold  rock  found 
Alive,  when  all's  congeal'd  around. 
But  there's  a  blank  repose  in  this, 
A  calm  stagnation,  that  were  bliss 
To  the  keen,  burning,  harrowing  pain. 
Now  felt  through  all  thy  breast  and  brain;— 
Tliat  spasm  of  terror,  muto,  intense, 
That  breathless,  agonized  suspense. 
From  whose  hot  throb,  wlioso  deadly  aching 
The  heart  hath  no  relief  but  breaking! 

Calm  is  the  wave — heav'n'.s  brilliant  ligliU 
llellected  dance  beneath  the  prow  ; 

Time  was  when,  on  such  lovely  nights, 
She  who  \*  there,  no  desolate  now, 

Could  sit  all  cheerful,  though  nlone, 
And  ask  no  happier  joy  than  seeing 

That  sturlit'lit  o'er  the  waters  thrown — 


s 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


67 


No  joy  Ijut  lliat,  to  m;il(e  lier  blest, 

And  tiie  IVosh,  buoytuit  sense  of  Being, 
Wliicli  bounds  in  youtli's  yet  eiireloss  breast  - 
Itself  a  star,  not  borrowing  liglit. 
But  in  its  own  glad  essence  bright. 
How  difTorcnt  now ! — but,  hark,  again 
Tlie  yell  of  liavoc  riiigs — brave  men  I 
In  vain,  with  beating  hearts,  ye  stand 
On  the  bark's  edge — in  vain  each  hand 
Half  draws  the  falchion  from  its  sheatli ; 

All's  o'er — in  rust  your  blades  may  lie: — 
He,  at  whoso  word  they've  scatter'd  death, 

Ev'n  now,  this  night,  himself  must  die ! 
Well  may  ye  look  to  yon  dim  tower, 

And  ask,  and  wond'ring  guess  what  means 
The  battle-cry  at  this  dead  hour — 

Ah !  she  could  tell  you — she,  who  leans 
Unliceded  there,  pale,  sunk,  aghast, 
With  brow  against  the  dew-cold  mast; — 

Too  well  she  knows — her  more  than  life. 
Her  soul's  first  idol  and  its  last. 

Lies  bleeding  in  tliat  murd'rous  strife. 

But  see — what  moves  upon  the  height? 
Some  signal! — 'tis  a  torch's  light. 

What  bodes  its  solitary  glare? 
In  gasping  silence  tow'rd  the  Shrine 
All  eyes  are  turn'd — thine,  Kinda,  thine 

Fix  their  last  fading  life-beams  there. 
'Twas  but  a  moment — tierce  and  high 
The  death-pile  blazed  into  the  sky, 
And  far  away,  o'er  rock  and  flood 

Its  melancholy  radiance  sent; 
While  IIafed,  like  a  vision  stood 
Reveal'd  before  the  burning  pyre, 
Tall,  shadowy,  like  a  Spirit  of  Fire 

Shrined  in  its  own  grand  clement ! 
"'Tis  he!" — the  shudd'ring  maid  exclaims, — 

But,  while  she  speaks,  he's  seen  no  more ; 
High  burst  in  air  the  funeral  flames. 

And  Iran's  hopes  and  hers  are  o'er! 

One  wild,  heart-broken  shriek  she  gave ; 
Then  sprung,  as  if  to  reach  that  blaze, 
Where  still  she  fix'd  her  dying  gaze, 

And,  gazing,  sunk  into  the  wave, — 
Deep,  deep, — wliere  never  care  or  pain 
Shall  reach  her  innocent  heart  again! 


t  AREWELL — farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea,) 
No  pearl  ever  lay,  under  Oman's  green  water, 

!>f  .;rc  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  Spirit  in  thee. 
VOL.  II. — 8 


Oh !  fair  as  the  so.i-flowcr  close  to  thee  growing, 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  Love's  witchery 
came. 
Like  the  wind  of  the  south""'  o'er  a  summer  lute 
blowing, 
And  hush'd  all  its  music,  and  withcr'd  its  frame! 

But  long,  upon  Akaby's  green  sunny  highlands. 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember  the  doom 

Of  her,  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl  Islands, 
With  naught  but  the  sea-star""  to  light  up  her 
tomb. 

And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is  burning,"' 
And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young  and  the 
old, 

The  happiest  there,  from  their  p.astime  returning 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  story  is  told. 

The  young  village-maid,  when   with   flow'rs   sht 
dresses 

Her  dark  flowing  hair  for  some  festival  d.ay, 
Will  think  of  thy  fate  till,  neglecting  her  tresses. 

She  mournfully  turns  fioin  the  mirror  away. 

Nor  shall  Ik^vn,  beloved  of  her  Hero  !  forget  thee— 
Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as  they  start, 

Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  Hero  she'll  set  thee, 
Embalm'd  in  the  inue-;ucst  shrine  of  her  heart. 

Farewell — be  it  ours  to  embellish  thy  pillow 

With  ev'ry  tiling  beauteous  that  grows  in  the 
deep; 

Each  flow'r  of  the  rock  and  each  gem  of  the  billow 
Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy  sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird  has  wept;'°° 

With  many  a  shell,  in  whose  hollow-wreathed  cham- 
ber. 
We,  Peris  of  Ocean,  by  moonlight  have  slept. 

We'll  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie  darkling, 
And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy  he.nd ; 

We'll  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  Caspian"'  are 
sparkling. 
And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over' thy  bed. 

Farewell — farewell — until  Pity's  sweet  fountain 
Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the  brave, 
They'll  weep  for  the  Chieftain  who  died  on  that 
mountain. 
They'll  weeji  for  the  Maiden  who  sleeps  In  thig 
wave. 


58 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


I 


The  singular  placidity  with  whicli  Fadladeen 
had  listened,  during  the  latter  part  of  this  obnoxious 
story,  surprised  the  Princess  and  Feramorz  exceed- 
ing-ly ;  and  even  inclined  towards  him  the  hearts  of 
these  unsuspicious  young  persons,  who  little  knew 
the  source  of  a  complacency  so  marvellous.  The 
truth  w.as,  he  had  been  organizing,  for  the  last  few 
days,  a  most  notable  plan  of  persecution  against 
the  poet,  in  consequence  of  some  passages  that 
had  fallen  from  him  on  the  second  evening  of  re- 
cit.ll, — which  appeared  to  this  v.orthy  Chamberlain 
to  contain  language  and  principles,  for  which  nothing 
short  of  the  summary  criticism  of  the  Chabuk'"" 
would  be  advisable.  It  was  his  intention,  therefore, 
immediately  on  their  arrival  at  Cashmere,  to  give 
information  to  the  King  of  Bucharia  of  the  very 
dangerous  sentiments  of  his  minstrel ;  and  if,  un- 
fortunately, tliat  monarch  did  not  act  with  suitable 
vigor  on  the  occasion,  (that  is,  if  he  did  not  give 
the  Cliabuk  to  FEr.AMOKZ,  and  a  place  to  Fad- 
:.ADEEN,)  there  would  be  an  end,  he  feared,  of  all 
legitimate  government  in  Buch.aria.  He  could  not 
help,  however,  auguring  better  both  for  himself  and 
the  cause  of  potentates  in  gener.il ;  and  it  w.as  tlie 
pleasure  arising  from  these  mingled  anticipations 
that  diffused  such  unusual  satisfaction  through  hia 
features,  and  m.ide  his  eyes  shine  out  like  poppies 
of  the  desert,  over  the  wide  and  lifeless  wilderness 
of  that  countenance. 

Having  decided  upon  the  Poet's  chastisement  in 
this  manner,  he  thought  it  but  humanity  to  spare 
him  the  minor  tortures  of  criticism.  Accordingly, 
when  they  assembled  the  following  evening  in  the 
pavilion,  and  Lalla  Rookh  was  expecting  to  see 
all  the  beauties  of  her  bard  melt  aw.ay,  one  by  one, 
in  the  acidity  of  criticism,  like  pearls  in  the  cup  of 
the  Egyptian  queen, — he  agreeably  disappointed 
her,  by  merely  saying,  with  an  ironical  smile,  that 
the  merits  of  such  a  poem  deserved  to  be  tried  at  a 
much  higher  tribunal ;  and  then  suddenly  passed 
oirinto  a  panegyric  upon  all  Mussulman  sovereigns, 
more  particularly  liis  august  and  Imperial  master, 
Aurungzcbe, — the  wi.icst  and  best  of  the  descend- 
ants of  Timur — who,  among  other  great  things  he 
h.ad  done  for  mankind,  had  given  to  him,  Fad- 
I.adee:*,  the  very  profitable  posts  of  Uetcl-carricr, 
nnd  Taster  of  Sherbets  to  the  Emperor,  Chief 
Holder  of  the  Girdle  of  Beautiful  Forms,'"'  and 
Gr.tnd  Nazir,  or  Chamberlain  of  the  Haram. 

They  Were  now  not  far  from  that  I'uiliiddon 
River,"'  beyond  which  no  pure  Hindoo  can  p.iss ; 
nnil  were  reposing  for  a  llnio  in  (he  rich  valley  of 
lluksun  Abdaul,  wliivli  had  always  been  a  fuvorilo 


resting-piace  of  the  Emperors  in  their  .nnnu.il  migra. 
tions  to  C.ishmere.  Here  often  had  the  Light  of 
the  Faith,  Jehan-Guire,  been  known  to  wander 
with  his  beloved  and  beautiful  Nourmahal ;  and  here 
would  Lalla  Rookh  have  been  happy  to  remain 
for  ever,  giving  up  the  throne  of  Bucharia  and  the 
world,  for  Feramorz  and  love  in  this  sweet  lonely 
v.illey.  But  the  time  was  now  fast  appro.aching 
when  she  must  see  him  no  longer, — or,  what  was 
still  worse,  behold  him  with  eyes  whose  every  look 
belonged  to  another ;  and  there  was  a  melancholy 
preciousness  in  these  iast  moments,  which  made 
her  he.art  cling  to  them  as  it  would  to  life.  During 
the  latter  part  of  the  journey,  indeed,  she  li.id  sunk 
into  a  deep  sadness,  from  which  nothing  but  the 
presence  of  the  young  minstrel  could  awake  her. 
Like  those  Lamps  in  tombs,  which  only  light  up 
wlien  the  air  is  admitted,  it  was  only  at  his  approach 
that  her  eyes  became  smiling  and  animated.  But 
here,  in  this  dear  valley,  every  moment  appeared  an 
age  of  pleasure;  she  saw  him  all  day,  and  was, 
therefore,  all  day  happy, — resembling,  she  often 
thought,  th.at  people  of  Zinge,'"  who  attribute  the 
unfading  cheerfVihiess  they  enjoy  to  one  genial  star 
that  rises  nightly  over  their  heads.'"' 

The  whole  party,  indeed,  seemed  in  their  liveU- 
est  mood  during  the  few  days  they  passed  in  this 
delightful  solitude.  The  young  attendants  of  the 
Princess,  who  were  here  allowed  a  much  fieer 
range  than  they  could  safely  be  indulged  with  in  a 
less  sequestered  place,  ran  wild  among  tlie  gardens 
and  bounded  through  the  meadows  lightly  as  young 
roes  over  the  aromatic  plains  of  Tibet.  While 
Fadladeen,  in  addition  to  the  spiritual  comfort  de- 
rived by  him  from  a  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of  the 
saint  from  whom  the  valley  is  named,  had  also  op- 
port'inilies  of  indulging,  in  a  small  way,  his  taste 
for  victiius,  by  pulling  to  death  sonic  hundreds  of 
those  unfortunate  little  lizards,""  which  all  pious 
Mussulmans  make  it  a  point  to  kill ; — taking  for 
granted,  that  the  manner  in  which  the  creature 
hangs  its  head  is  meant  as  a  mimicry  of  the  attitude 
in  which  the  Faithful  say  their  pr.iyors. 

About  two  miles  from  llus-uu  .Vhdaul  wore 
those  Royal  Gardens,""  which  had  grown  boanliful 
under  the  care  of  so  many  lovely  eyes,  and  were 
beautiful  .still,  though  those  eyes  could  see  them  no 
longer.  This  place,  with  its  flowers  aiul  its  holy 
silence,  interrupted  only  by  the  dipping  of  the  wings 
of  birds  in  its  marble  basins  filled  with  the  pure 
water  of  those  hills,  was  to  I,ai.la  Rookii  all  that 
her  heart  could  fancy  of  fragrance,  coolness,  and 
nlisr^il  heavenly   'uni|uillity      As  tlin  Prupliut  sojd 


LALLA  EOOKH. 


59 


of  Damascus,  "  it  was  too  delicious;""' — and  here, 
in  listening  to  the  sweet  voice  of  Feramorz,  or 
reading  in  his  eyes  what  yet  he  never  dared  to  tell 
her,  the  most  exquisite  moments  of  her  wliole  life 
were  passecL  One  evening,  when  tliey  had  been 
talking  of  the  Sultana  Nourmuhal,  the  Light  of  the 
Ilaram,""  who  liad  so  often  wandered  among  these 
flowers,  and  fed  with  her  own  hands,  in  those  marble 
basins,  tlie  am:iU  shining  fishes  of  which  she  was  so 
fond,'"  tlie  youtli,  in  order  to  delay  tlie  moment  of 
separation,  proposed  to  recite  a  short  story,  or 
rather  rhapsody,  of  which  this  adored  Sultana  was 
the  heroine.  It  related,  he  said,  to  the  reconcile- 
ment of  a  sort  of  lovers'  quarrel  which  took  place 
between  her  and  the  Emperor  during  a  Feast  of 
Roses  at  Cashmere  ;  and  would  remind  the  Princess 
of  that  dilference  between  Ilaroun-al-Raschid  and 
his  fair  mistress  Marida,"^  which  was  so  happily 
made  up  by  the  soft  strains  of  the  musician,  Mous- 
eali.  As  the  story  was  chiefly  to  be  told  in  song, 
and  Feramorz  had  unluckily  forgotten  his  own 
lute  in  the  valley,  he  borrowed  tlie  vina  of  Lalla 
IlooKu's  little  Persian  slave,  and  thus  began  : — 


Who  has  not  heard  of  tlie  Vale  of  Cashmere, 
With  its   roses   the  brightest  that  earth   ever 
gave,^'^ 
Its  temples,  and  grottoes,  and  fountains  as  clear 
As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hang  over  their 
wave  ? 

Oh !  to  see  it  at  sunset, — when  vv'arm  o'er  the  Lake 

Its  splendor  at  parting  a  summer  eve  throws, 
Like  a  bride,  full  of  blushes,  when  ling'ring  to  take 

A  last  look  of  her  mirror  at  night  ere  she  goes  I — 
When  the  shrines  through  the  foliage  are  gleaminc 

lialf  shown, 
And  each  liallows  the  hour  by  some  rites  of  its  own. 
Here  the  music  of  pray'r  from  a  minaret  swells, 

Ilei*  the  Magian  his  urn,  full   of  perfume,  is 
swinging. 
And  here,  at  the  altar,  a  zone  of  sweet  bells 

Round  the  waist  of  some  fair  Indian  dancer  is 
ringing.^" 
Or  to  see  it  by  moonliglit, — when  mellowly  shines 
The  light  o'er  its  palaees,  gardens,  and  shrines ; 
When  the  water-falls  gleam,  like  a  quick  fall  of  stars, 
\nd  tlie  nighting.ale'a  hymn  from  the  Isle  of  Chenars 
Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet 
From  the  cool,  shining  walks  where  the  young  peo- 
ple meet  — 
Or  .at  morn,  when  the  magic  of  daylight  awtkes 
A  new  wonder  each  minute,  as  slowly  it  bre.aks. 


Hills,  cupolas,  fountains,  c.ali'd  forth  every  one 
Out  of  darkness,  as  if  but  just  born  of  ine  Sun. 
When  the  Spirit  of  Fragrance  is  up  with  the  d.ay. 
From  his  ilarani  of  iiight-iiowers  stealing  away; 
And  the  wind,  full  of  wantonness,  woos  like  a  lover 
The  young  aspen-trees,°"  till  they  tremble  all  over. 
When  the  East  is  as  warm  a.s  the  light  of  first 
hopes, 

And  Day,  with  his  banner  of  r.adiance  nnfurrd, 
Shines  in  througii   the  mountainous  portaP'"  lli.at 
opes, 

Sublime,  from  lliat  Valley  of  bliss  to  Ihe  worldl 

But  never  yet,  by  night  or  day. 
In  dew  of  spring  or  .summer's  ray, 
Did  the  sweet  Valley  shine  so  gay 
As  now  it  shines — all  love  and  light. 
Visions  by  day  and  feasts  by  night! 
A  happier  smile  illumes  each  brov/. 

With  quicker  spread  e.".ch  heart  uncloses 
And  all  is  ecstasy ,-^for  now 

The  Valley  holds  its  Feast  of  Roses;'" 
The  joyous  time,  when  ple.asures  pour 
Profusely  round  and,  in  their  shower, 
Hearts  open,  like  the  Season's  Rose, — 

The  flow'ret  of  a  hundred  leaves,'' 
Expanding  while  the  dew-fall  flows. 

And  every  leaf  its  balm  receives. 

'Twas  when  the  hour  of  evening  came 

Upon  tlie  Lake,  serene  and  cool, 
When  Day  had  Iiid  Ins  sultry  flame 

Behind  the  p.alms  of  Baeamoule,''* 
When  maids  began  to  lift  their  heads, 
Refresh'd  from  their  embroider'd  beds, 
Where  they  had  slept  tlie  sun  away, 
And  waked  to  moonliglit  and  to  plav. 
All  were  abroad — the  busiest  hive 
On  Bela's'-"  liills  is  less  alive. 
When  sati'ron-beds  are  full  in  flovv'r. 
Than  look'd  the  Valley  in  that  hour. 
A  thousand  restless  torches  plav'd 
Tlirough  every  grove  and  island  sh.ado: 
A  thousand  sparkling  lamps  were  set 
On  every  dome  and  minaret ; 
And  fields  and  pathways,  far  and  near. 
Were  lighted  by  a  blaze  so  clear. 
That  you  could  see,  in  wand'ring  round. 
The  smallest  rose-leaf  on  the  ground. 
Yet  did  the  maids  and  matrons  le.ave 
Their  veils  at  home,  th,at  brilliant  eve; 
And  tliere  were  glancing  eyes  about, 
And  checks,  tliat  would  not  dare  shine  out 
In  open  day,  but  thought  they  might 
Look  lovely  then,  because  'twas  night. 


w 


MOOEE'S  TVOEKS. 


And  all  were  free,  and  wandering, 

And  all  e.xelaim'd  to  all  they  met. 
That  never  did  the  snramcr  bring 

So  gay  a  Feast  of  Roses  yet ; — 
The  moon  had  never  shed  a  light 

So  clear  as  that  which  bless'd  them  there ; 
The  roses  ne'er  shone  half  so  bright, 

\or  they  thcaisclves  look'd  half  so  fair. 

And  wliat  a  wilderness  of  flow'rs  ! 
It  scetn'd  as  though  from  all  the  bow'rs 
And  fairest  fields  of  all  the  year, 
The  mingled  spoil  were  scatter'd  here. 
The  Lake,  loo,  like  a  garden  breathes. 
With  the  rich  buds  that  o'er  it  lie, — 
As  if  a  shower  of  fairy  wreaths 

Had  fall'n  upon  it  from  the  sky! 
And  then  the  sounds  of  joy, — the  beat 
Of  tabors  and  of  dancing  feet ; — 
The  minaret-crier's  chant  of  glee 
Sung  from  his  lighted  gallery,'"' 
And  answer'd  by  a  ziraleet 
From  neighboring  Ilaram,  wild  and  sweet ; — 
The  merry  laughter,  echoing 
From  gardens,  where  the  silken  swing'" 
Wafts  some  delighted  girl  above 
The  top  leaves  of  the  orange-grove; 
Or,  from  those  infant  groups  at  pl.ay 
Among  the  tents'"'  that  line  the  way. 
Flinging,  unawed  by  slave  or  motlier, 
Uandfuls  of  roses  at  e.ach  other. — 
Then,  the  sounds  from  the  L;ike, — the  low  whis- 
p'ring  in  boats. 
As  tlicy  shoot  through  the  moonlight ; — the  dip- 
ping of  oar-s. 
And  the  wild,  airy  warbling  tliat  ev'rywhere  floats, 
Tlirough  the  groves,  round  tlie  islands,  as  if  all 
the  shores, 
Like  those  of  Kathav,  uttcr'd  music,  and  gave 
An  answer  in  song  to  the  kiss  of  each  wave.'" 
But  the  gentlest  of  .all  arc  those  sounds,  full  of  fecl- 

That  soft  from  the  lute  of  some  lover  are  stealing, — 
Some   lover,   who   knows   all   tliu    heart-touching 

power 
Of  a  lute  &nd  a  sigh  in  this  magical  hour. 
Oh !  best  of  delights  ns  it  ev'rywhere  is 
To  bo  near  the  loved  One, — what  n  rapture  is  his 
Who  in  niDonlight  and  music  thus  sweetly  ni.ay 

glide 
O'er  llio  Lake  of  Cashmere,  with  that  One  by  liis 

(tide! 
If  woninn  can  make  the  worst  wilderness  dear. 
Think,  think   what  n  Ilcov'n  she  must  make  of 

Ca«iihebe! 


So  felt  the  magnificent  Son  of  Acbar,'"' 

When  from  pow'r  and  pomp  and  the  trophies  of 

war 
He  flew  to  th.at  Valley,  forgetting  them  all 
With  tlie  Light  of  the  Haram,  his  young  NouK-iia- 

llAL. 

When  free  and  uncrown'd  as  the  Conijiioror  ruved 
By  the  b.anks  of  that  lake,  with  his  only  l'L-K>vcd, 
He  saw,  in  tlie  wreaths  she  would  playfully  ?nalfli 
Fi-om  the  hedges,  a  glory  his   crown   could  nul 

m.atch. 
And  preferr'd  in  his  heart  the  lenst  ringlet  that 

curl'd 
Down   her  exquisite  neck   to   the  throne    of  the 

world. 

There's  a  beauty,  for  ever  uncliangingly  briglif, 
Like  the  long,  sunny  lapse  of  a  summer-d.iy's  light. 
Shining  on,  shining  on,  by  no  shadow  m.ado  tender 
Till  Love  falls  asleep  in  its  sameness  of  splendor. 
This  7vas  not  the  beauty — oh,  nothing  like  this. 
That  to  young  NounMAHAL  gave  such  magic  of 

bliss! 
I5ut  that  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  which  jilays 
Like  the  light  upon  autumn's  soft  shadowy  daj  s, 
Now  here  and   now  there,  giving  warjuth   as  it 

flics 
From  the  lip  to  the  cheek,  from  tlie  cheek  to  the 

eyes ; 
Now  melting  in  mist  and  now  breaking  in  gleams. 
Like  the  glimpses  a  saint  hath  of  lIiM\"n  in  his 

dreams. 
When  pensive,  it  seem'd  as  if  that  very  grace. 
That  charm  of  all  others,  was  born  with  her  face  ! 
And   when   angry, — for   ev'n   in    the    tranijnillest 

climes 
Light  breezes  will  rulUe  the  blossoms  sometimes — 
The  short,  passing  anger  but  seem'd  to  awaken 
New  beauty,  like  llow'rs  that  are  .sweetest  wh"n 

shaken. 
If  tenderness  tonch'd  her,  the  dark  of  her  eye 
At  once  took  a  darker,  a  heav'nlier  dye,       ' 
From  the  depth  of  whose  shadow,  like  holy  reveal- 

ings 
From  innermost  shrines,  came  the  liglil  oI'Ijit  I'ccl- 

ings. 
Then  her  mirth — oh!    'iwas  sporlivo  as  ever  look 

wing 
From  the  heart  willi  ;i  Imrsl,  like  the  wiM  bird  in 

spring ; 
Illumed  by  a  wit  llial  would  fascinate  .sages, 
Vet  ])layful  as  I'eris  just  looseil  from  their  cages."' 
While  her  laugh,  full  of  life,  wilhout  any  control 
But  the  8weut  ono  of  gracefulness,  rung  from  liet 

bodI: 


LALLA  EOOKH. 


61 


And  wherp  it  most  sparkled  no  glance  could  dis- 
cover, 
In  lip,  cheek,  or  eyes,  for  she  brighten'd  all  ove-, — 
Like  any  fair  lake  that  the  breeze  is  upoii, 
When  it  breaks  into  dnnples  and  lauglis  in  the  sun. 
Such,  such  were  the  peerless  enchantments,  that 

gave 
NoURMAiiAL  the  proud  Lord  of  tlio  East  for  her 

slave : 
Vnd  thousli  bright  was  his  Ilaram,— a  living  par- 
terre 
Of  the  flow'rs"'  of  lliis  planet— though  treasures 

were  there, 
For  whidi  Soliman's  self  might  have  giv'n  all  the 

store 
That  the  navy  from  Ophir  e'er  wing'd  to  his  shore, 
Yet  dim  before  her  were  the  smiles  of  them  all, 
And  the  Light  of  his  Haram  was  young  Nourmahal  ! 

But  where  is  she  now,  this  night  of  joy. 
When  bliss  is  every  heart's  employ? — 

When  all  around  her  is  so  bright. 
So  like  the  visions  of  a  trance. 
That  one  might  think,  who  came  by  chance 

Into  the  vale  this  happy  night. 

He  saw  that  City  of  Delight'" 
In  Fairy-land,  whose  streets  and  tow'rs 
Are  made  of  gems,  and  light,  and  flow'rs! 
Where  is  the  loved  Sultana?  where. 
When  mirth  brings  out  the  young  and  fair. 
Does  she,  the  fairest,  hide  her  brow. 
In  melancholy  stillness  now  ? 

Alas  I — how  light  a  cause  may  move 

Dissension  between  hearts  tliat  love  ! 

Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  had  tried, 

And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied ; 

That  stood  the  storm,  when  waves  were  rough. 

Yet  in  a  sunny  hour  fall  off, 

Like  ships  that  have  gone  down  at  sea. 

When  heaven  was  all  tranquillity  ! 

A  something,  light  as  air — a  look, 

A  word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken — 
Oh !  love,  that  tempests  never  shook, 

A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  hath  shaken. 
And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in     . 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  begin; 
And  eyes  forget  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day ; 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said; 
Till  fast  declining,  one  by  one. 
The  sweetnesses  of  love  are  gone, 
And  hearts,  so  lately  mingled,  .seem 
Like  broken  clouds, — or  like  the  stream. 


That  smiling  left  the  mountain's  brow 
Ah  though  its  waters  ne'er  could  sever, 

Vet,  ere  it  reach  the  jilain  below. 

Breaks  into  iloods,  that  part  for  ever. 

Oh,  you,  that  have  the  charge  of  Love, 

Keep  him  in  rosy  bondage  bound. 
As  in  the  Fields  of  Bliss  above 

He  sits,  with  llow'rets  fetter'd  round ;— "' 
Loose  not  a  tie  that  round  liira  clings. 
Nor  ever  let  him  use  his  wings ; 
For  ev'n  an  hour,  a  minute's  flight 
Will  rob  the  plumes  of  half  their  light. 
Lilie  that  celestial  bird, — whose  nest 

Is  found  beneath  far  Eastern  skies, — 
Whose  wings,  thougli  nidiant  when  at  rest. 

Lose  all  their  glory  when  he  flies!"" 

Some  diff''rence,  of  this  dang'rous  kind, — 
By  which,  though  light,  the  links  that  bind 
The  fondest  hearts  may  soon  be  riv'n ; 
Some  shadow  in  Love's  summer  heav'n, 
Which,  though  a  fleecy  speck  at  first, 
May  yet  in  awful  thunder  burst ; — 
Sucli  cloud  it  is,  that  now  hangs  over 
The  heart  of  the  Imperial  Lover, 
And  far  hath  banish'd  from  his  sight 
His  Nourmahal,  his  Haram's  Light  I 
Hence  isjt,  on  this  happy  night. 
When  Pleasure  through  the  fields  and  groves 
Has  let  loose  all  her  world  of  loves, 
And  every  heart  has  found  its  own, 
He  wanders,  joyless  and  alone. 
And  weary  as  that  bird  of  Thrace, 
Whose  pinion  knows  no  resting-place."' 
In  vain  the  loveliest  cheeks  and  eyes 
This  Eden  of  the  Earth  supplies 

Come  crowding  round — -the  cheeks  r.re  pa_»» 
The  eyes  are  dim : — thougli  rich  the  spot 
With  every  flow'r  this  earth  has  got, 

What  is  it  to  the  niglitingale. 
If  there  his  darling  rose  is  not  ?"' 
In  vain  the  Valley's  smiling  tlirong 
Worship  him,  as  lie  moves  along ; 
He  heeds  them  not — one  smile  of  her^ 
Is  worth  a  world  of  worshippers. 
They  but  the  Star's  adorers  are. 
She  is  the  Heav'n  that  lights  the  Star ! 

Hence  is  it,  too,  that  Nour.maual, 

Amid  tlie  luxuries  of  this  hour 
Far  from  the  joyous  festival, 

Sits  in  her  own  sequester'd  bow  r. 
With  no  one  near,  to  soothe  or  aid. 
But  that  inspired  and  wondrous  maid. 


62 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Namocna,  tlie  Enchantress; — one, 

•'  And  who  might  tell "• 

O'lT  whom  Iiis  r;ice  the  golden  sun 

"  For  me,  for  me," 

For  unrcmeinbcr'd  years  has  run, 

Cried  Novrmahal  impatiently, — 

Yet  never  saw  her  blooming  brow 

'■  Oil !  twine  that  wreath  for  mo  to-night " 

Vounger  or  fairer  than  'tis  now. 

Then,  rapidly,  with  foot  as  light 

Kay,  rather, — as  the  west  wind's  sigli 

As  the  young  musk-roe's,  out  she  flew. 

I'leshens  the  flow'r  it  passes  by, — 

To  cull  each  shining  leaf  that  grew 

Time's  wing  but  seem'd,  in  stealing  o'er, 

Beneath  the  moonlight's  hallowing  beams, 

To  leave  her  lovelier  than  before. 

For  this  enchanted  Wreath  of  Dreams. 

Vet  on  her  smiles  a  s.adness  hung. 

Anemones  and  Seas  of  Gold,'" 

And  when,  as  oft,  she  spoke  or  sung 

And  new-blown  lilies  of  the  river, 

Of  other  worlds,  there  came  a  light 

And  those  sweet  flow'rets,  that  unfold 

From  her  dark  eyes  so  strangely  biiglit, 

Their  buds  on  Camadeva's  quiver ; — '" 

That  all  believed  nor  man  nor  earth 

The  tube-rose,  with  her  silv'ry  light, 

Were  conscious  of  Namouna's  birth! 

That  in  the  Gardens  of  JIalay 

Is  call'd  the  Mistress  of  the  Night,"" 

AH  spells  and  talismans  she  knew, 

So  like  a  bride,  scented  and  bright. 

From  the  great  JIantra,'"  which  around 

She  comes  out  when  the  sun's  .away  ; — 

The  Air's  sublimer  Spirits  drew. 

Amar.anths,  such  as  crown  the  maids 

To  the  gold  gems^"  of  Afric,  bound 

Th.at  w.ander  through  Zamaka's  shades: — *" 

Upon  the  wand'ring  Arab's  arm. 

And  the  white  moon-flow'r,  as  it  shows. 

To  keep  him  from  the  Siltim's'^'  harm. 

On  Sekendid's  high  crags,  to  those 

And  she  had  pledged  lier  powerful  art, — 

\V'ho  near  the  isle  .at  evening  sail. 

Pledged  it  with  all  the  zeal  and  heart 

Scenting  her  dove-trees  in  the  gale; 

Of  one  who  knew,  though  high  her  sphere. 

In  short,  .all  flow'rets  and  all  pl.ants, 

What  'twas  to  lose  a  love  so  dear, — 

From  the  divine  Amrila  tree,"' 

To  iind  some  spell  that  should  recall 

That  blesses  heaven's  inhabitants 

|[er  Selini's"'  smile  to  NouRMAHAto! 

With  fruits  of  immortality. 

Down  to  the  basil  tuft,"'  that  waves. 

Tvvas  midnight — through  the  lattice,  wreathed 

Its  fragrant  blossom  over  graves. 

With  woodbine,  many  a  perfume  breathed 

And  to  the  humble  rosemary, 

From  plants  that  wake  when  others  sleep, 

Whose  sweets  so  thanklessly  are  shed 

From  timid  jasmine  buds,  that  keep 

To  scent  the  desert""  and  the  dead: — 

Their  odor  to  themselves  all  day, 

.Ml  in  that  garden  bloom,  and  all 

nut,  when  Ilie  sunlight  dies  away, 

Are  gather'd  by  young  NottRMAHAL, 

Let  the  delicious  secret  out 

Who  heaps  her  baskets  with  the  flow'rs 

To  every  breeze  that  roams  about ; — 

A\\(\  leave-^,  till  they  can  hold  no  more; 

When  thus  Namouna: — "'Tis  the  hour 

Then  to  Namoijna  flies,  and  show'rs 

"That  scatters  spells  on  herb  and  flow'r. 

Upon  luT  1m|i  the  shining  store. 

"And  garlands  might  be  gather'd  now, 

"That,  twined  around  the  sleeper's  brow. 

Willi  wli;it  delight  Ih"  I''iichantress  views 

"Would  make  him  dream  of  such  delights, 

So  many  bnds,  bathed  with  the  dews 

"  Such  miracles  and  dazzling  sights. 

And  beams  of  Ihnt  bless'd  hour! — her  glance 

"As  Genii  of  the  Sun  behold. 

Sjioke  something,  jiasl  all  nmrlal  pl.-asuroi 

".\t  evening,  from  their  tents  of  gold 

As,  in  a  kind  of  luily  trance. 

"  Upon  tir  horizon — where  they  piny 

She  hung  above  those  fragrant  trea.s»res, 

"  Till  twiligl.t  comes,  and,  ray  by  ray, 

licnding  to  drink  their  balmy  airs. 

"Their  sunny  mansions  melt  nway. 

As  if  she  niix'd  her  soul  with  (heirs. 

"  .Now,  too,  n  chaplet  might  be  wreathed 

And  'twas,  indeed,  the  iierfnine  shed 

"Of  buds  o'er  which  the  moon  has  breathed. 

From  flow'rs  and  scenti'd  flame,  that  fed 

"  Which  worn  by  her,  whose  love  has  slray'd. 

Her  eh;u'meil  life — for  none  h.ul  e'er 

"  Might  liring  sume  Peri  from  the  hkies. 

Hehcld  her  taste  of  inorlal  fare. 

"  Some  hprile,  whoso  very  soul  is  made 

Nor  ever  in  nught  earthly  dip, 

"Of  ilow'rctb'  brcnthi  and  lovers'  sighs. 

l!ut  tha  morn's  dew,  her  roseate  lip 

LALLA  KOOKH. 


63 


J'iH'd  with  llie  cool,  inspil-ing  smell, 

Into  those  wreathy.  Red  Sea  shells, 

Til'  Enchantress  now  begins  her  sipcll. 

Whe.-e  Love  himself,  of  old,  lay  slecpirig;"" 

Thus  siiii,'ing  lis  she  winds  and  weaves 

And  now  a  Spirit  form'd,  'twould  seem. 

In  mystic  form  the  j,'littcring  leaves: — 

Of  music  and  of  light, — so  fair. 

So  brilliantly  his  features  beam. 

I  linow  whore  tlie  winded  visions  dwell 

And  such  a  sound  is  in  the  air 

That  around  the  night-bod  play; 

Of  sweetness  when  Jie  waves  his  wings,^ 

I  know  each  herb  and  flow'ret's  bell. 

Hovers  around  her,  and  thus  sings: 

W'hcre  they  hide  their  wings  by  day. 

Then  hasten  we,  maid. 

From  Chindara's'"  warbling  fount  I  corae, 

To  twine  our  braid, 

Call'd  by  that  moonlight  garland's  spell; 

To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 

From  Chindara's  fount,  my  fairy  home. 

Where  in  music,  morn  and  night,  I  dwell. 

The  image  of  love,  that  nightly  flies. 

Where  lutes  in  the  air  are  heard  about, 

To  visit  the  bashful  maid, 

And  voices  are  singing  the  whole  day  long, 

Steals  from  the  jasmine  flower,  that  sighs 

And  every  sigh  the  heart  breathes  out 

Its  soul,  like  her,  in  the  shade. 

Is  turn'd,  as  it  leaves  the  lips,  to  song.' 

The  dream  of  a  future,  happier  hour. 

Hither  I  come 

That  alights  on  misery's  brow. 

From  my  fairy  home. 

Springs  out  of  the  silv'ry  almond-flow'r, 

And  if  tlierc's  a  magic  in  Music's  strain, 

That  bl>^v/uia  on  a  leafless  bough.'" 

I  swear  by  the  breath 

Then  hasten  we,  maid. 

Of  that  moonlight  wreath, 

To  twine  our  braid. 

Thy  Lover  shall  sigh  at  thy  feet  again. 

To-morrow  the  dreams  and  (lowers  will  f;ide. 

For  mine  is  the  lay  that  lightly  floats. 

The  visions,  that  oft  to  worldly  eyes 

And  mine  are  the  murm'ring;  dying  notes, 

The  glitter  of  mines  unfold. 

That  fall  as  soft  as  snow  on  the  sea. 

Inh.abit  the  mountain-herb,'"  that  dyes 

And  melt  in  the  heart  as  instantly : — 

The  tooth  of  the  fawn  like  gold. 

And  the  passionate  strain  tliat,  deeply  going. 

The  phantom  shapes — oh  touch  not  them — 

Refines  the  bosom  it  trembles  through. 

That  appal  the  murd'rer's  sight. 

As  the  rausk-wind,  over  the  water  blowing. 

Lurk  in  the  fleshly  mandr.ake's  stem. 

RufHcs  the  wave,  but  sweetens  it  too. 

That  shrieks,  when  pUick'd  at  night  I 

Then  hasten  we,  maid. 

Mine  is  the  charm,  whose  mystic  sway 

To  twine  our  braid, 

The  Spirits  of  past  Delight  obey ; — 

To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  f;ide. 

Let  but  the  tuneful  talisman  sound. 

And  they  come,  like  Genii,  hov'ring  round. 

The  dream  of  the  injured,  patient  mind. 

And  mine  is  the  gentle  song  that  bears 

That  smiles  with  the  wrongs  of  men. 

From  soul  to  soul,  the  wishes  of  love. 

Is  found  in  the  bruised  and  wounded  rind 

As  a  bird,  that  wafts  through  genial  airs 

Of  the  cinnamon,  sweetest  then. 

The  cinnamon-seed  from  grove  to  grove.'" 

Then  hasten  we,  maid. 

'Tis  I  that  mingle  in  one  sweet  measure 

To  twine  our  braid. 

Tlie  past,  the  present,  and  future  of  pleasure ;'" 

To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 

When  IMemory  links  the  tone  that  is  gone 

With  the  blissful  tone  that's  still  in  the  ear ; 

No  sooner  was  the  flow'ry  crown 

And  Hope  from  a  heavenly  note  flies  on 

Placed  on  her  head,  than  sleep  came  down. 

To  a  note  more  heavenly  still  that  is  near. 

Gently  as  nights  of  summer  fall. 

Upon  the  lids  of  Nourmahal  ; — 

The  warrior's  heart,  when  touch'd  by  me, 

And,  suddenly,  a  tuneful  breeze. 

Can  as  downy  soft  and  as  yielding  be 

As  full  of  sjpall,  rich  harmonies 

As  his  own  white  plume,  that  high  amid  death 

As  ever  wind,  that  o'er  the  tents 

Through  the  field  has  shone — yet  moves  wilh  a 

Of  Azab'"  blew,  was  full  of  scents. 

breath ! 

Steals  on  her  ear,  and  floats  and  swells. 

And,  oh,  how  the  eyes  of  Beauty  glisten. 

like  the  first  air  of  morning  creeping 

When  Music  has  reach'd  her  inward  seal, 

64 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


Like  the  silent  stars,  that  wink  and  listen 

And  from  the  Garden  of  the  Nile, 

Wliile  Heaven's  eternal  melodies  roll. 

Delicate  as  the  roses  there; — '" 

So,  hither  I  come 

Daughters  of  Love  fi-om  Cyprus'  rocks, 

From  my  fiiiry  home, 

With  Paphian  diamonds  in  their  locks ; — '" 

And  if  there's  a  magic  in  Music's  strain, 

Light  Peri  forms,  such  as  they  are 

I  swear  by  the  breath 

On  the  gold  meads  of  Candahar  ;"' 

Of  that  moonlight  wreath. 

And  they,  before  whose  sleepy  eyes. 

Thy  lover  shall  sigh  at  tliy  feet  again. 

In  their  own  bright  Kathaiau  bow'rs, 

Sparkle  such  rainbow  butterflies. 

Tis  dawn — at  least  that  earlier  dawn, 

That  they  might  fancy  the  rich  flow'rs. 

Whose  glimpses  are  again  withdrawn,"' 

That  round  them  in  the  sun  lay  sigliing, 

As  if  the  morn  had  w.iked,  and  then 

H.id  been  by  m.agic  all  set  Hying."' 

Shut  close  her  lids  of  liglit  again. 

And  NoURMAHAL  is  up,  and  trying 

Every  thing  young,  every  thing  fair 

The  wonders  of  her  lute,  whose  strings — 

From  East  and  Wast  is  blushing  there, 

Oh,  bliss! — now  murmur  like  the  sighing 

Except — except — oh,  Nourhiahal! 

From  that  ambrosial  Spirit's  wings. 

Thou  loveliest,  dearest  of  them  all. 

And  then,  her  voice — 'tis  more  than  human — 

The  one,  whose  smile  shone  out  alone, 

Never,  till  now,  had  it  been  given 

Amidst  a  world  the  only  one  ; 

To  lips  of  any  mortal  woman 

Whose  light,  among  sc  m.any  lights. 

To  utter  notes  so  fresh  from  heaven ; 

Was  like  that  star  on  starry  nights. 

Sweet  as  the  brc.ith  of  angel  sighs. 

The  seaman  singles  from  the  sky, 

Wlien  .angel  sighs  are  most  divine. — 

To  steer  his  baric  for  ever  by ! 

•Oh !  let  it  liist  till  night,"  she  cries, 

"  And  he  is  more  th.an  ever  mine." 

Thou  wert  not  there — so  Selim  thought. 

And  hourly  she  renews  the  lay, 

And  every  thing  secm'd  drear  without  tli08 

So  fearful  lest  its  hcav'nly  sweetness 

But,  all !  thou  wert,  thou  wert, — and  brought 

Should,  ere  the  evening,  fade  away, — 

Thy  charm  of  song  .•xll  fresh  about  thee. 

For  things  so  hcav'nly  have  such  flectness ! 

Mingling  unnoticed  with  a  band 

But,  far  from  fading,  it  but  grows 

Of  lutanists  from  many  a  laud, 

Richer,  diviner  as  it  flows; 

And  vcil'd  by  such  a  mask  as  shades 

Till  rapt  she  dwells  on  every  string. 

The  features  of  young  Arab  maids, — '" 

And  pours  again  each  sound  along. 

A  mask  that  leaves  but  one  eye  free, 

Like  echo,  lost  and  languishing, 

To  do  its  best  in  witchery, — 

In  love  with  her  own  wondrous  song. 

She  roved,  with  beating  heart,  around, 

And  waited,  trembling,  for  the  min\ite, 

That  evening,  (trusting  that  bis  soul 

When  she  might  try  if  still  the  sound 

Might  be  from  haunting  Inve  released 

Of  lier  loved  lute  had  magic  in  it. 

By  mirth,  by  music,  and  the  bowl.) 

The  Imperial  Sf.lim  held  a  feast 

The  board  was  spread  with  fruits  and  wine 

In  his  magnificent  Shalimar: — '" 

With  grapes  of  gold,  like  those  that  .shino 

In  whose  Saloons,  when  the  first  stir 

On  Casbin's  hills; — "°  pomegramates  full 

Of  evening  o'er  the  waters  trembled. 

Of  moiling  sweetness,  and  the  pears. 

The  'V^alley's  loveliest  all  assembled  ; 

And  sunniest  apples"'  that  Caubui. 

All  the  bright  creatures  that,  like  dreams. 

In  all  its  thousand  gardciis""''  bears;— 

Cilide  through  its  foliage,  and  drink  beams 

Plantains,  the  golden  aiul  the  green. 

Of  beauty  from  its  founts  and  streams;"" 

Malaya's  neetar'd  mangustcen ;'" 

And  all  those  wand'ring  niinstrel-maids, 

Prunes  of  Bokhara,  and  sweet  nuts 

Who  leave — how  can  they  Ic.nvc? — the  shades 

From  the  far  groves  of  Samarcani), 

Of  that  dear  Valley,  and  are  found 

And  Basra  dales,  and  apricots. 

Sinfjing  in  gardens  of  the  South'" 

Seeil  of  the  Sun,"'  from  Iran's  land  ;— 

ThoBC  HongM,  that  ne'er  so  sweetly  sound 

Willi  rich  conserve  of  Visua  cherries,'" 

Ah  from  n  young  Cashmorian's  mouth. 

Of  orange  llowcrs,  and  of  those  berries 

Tlii-re,  too,  the  Ilarain     inmates  smilo 

That,  wild  and  fiesli,  the  young  gazelles 

JJuids  from  the  West,  with  sun-bri^'hl  hair, 

Feed  on  in  Ekac's  roi'ky  dells."' 

LALLA  ROOKH. 


65 


All  tliese  in  richest  vnses  smile, 

III  liasUets  of  pure.  s;indal-\vood, 
And  urns  of  poroebiiii  from  lliat  isle'" 

Sunk  underneatk  tlic  Indian  (lood, 
Whence  oft  the  lucky  diver  brings 
Vases  to  criice  the  halls  of  kings. 
Wines,  too,  of  every  clime  and  hue, 
Around  their  li(|uid  lustre  threw; 
Amber  Ivosolli,'"" —  the  bright  dew 
From  vineyards  of  the  Green-Sea  gusning;'°° 
And  SniRAZ  wine,  that  richly  ran 

As  if  that  jewel,  large  and  rare, 
The  ruby  for  which  Kublai-Khan 
Offer'd  a  city's  wealth,'"  was  blushing, 

Melted  within  the  goblets  there ! 

And  amply  Selim  quaffs  of  each. 

And  seems  resolved  the  flood  shall  reach 

His  inward  heart, — shedding  around 

A  genial  deluge,  as  they  run, 
That  soon  shall  leave  no  spot  undrown'd, 

For  Love  to  rest  his  wings  upon. 
He  little  knew  how  well  the  boy 

Could  float  upon  a  goblet's  streams, 
Ligliting  them  with  his  smile  of  joy  ; — 

As  bards  have  seen  him  in  their  dreams, 
Down  the  blue  Ganges  laugliing  glide 

Upon  .1  rosy  lotus  wre.ath,'" 
Catching  new  lustre  from  the  tide 

That  witli  his  image  shone  beneath. 
But  what  are  cups,  without  the  aid 

Of  song  to  speed  them  as  they  flow  1 
.\nd  see — a  lovely  Georgian  maid, 

With  all  the  bloom,  the  freshen'd  glow 
Of  her  own  country  maidens'  looks, 
When  warm  they  rise  from  Teflis'  brooks  ■"' 
And  with  an  eye,  whose  restless  ray. 

Full,  floating,  dark — oh,  he,  who  knows 
His  heart  is  weak,  of  Heav'n  should  pray 

To  guard  him  from  such  eyes  as  those ! — 

With  a  voluptuous  wildness  flings 

Her  snowy  hand  across  the  strings 

Of  a  syrinda,'"  and  thus  sings: — 

Come  hither,  come  hither — by  night  and  by  day, 
We  linger  in  pleasures  that  never  are  gone ; 

Like  the  waves  of  the  summer,  as  one  dies  awiiy. 
Another  .is  sweet  and  .as  shining  comes  on. 

And  the  love  that  is  o'er,  in  expiring,  gives  birth 
I'o  a  new  one  as  warm,  as  unequall'd  in  bliss; 

And,  oh!  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  tluj."' 

Here  maidens  arc  sighing,  and  fragrant  their  sigli 
As  the  flow'r  of  the  .\mra  just  opod  by  a  bee  ;"' 

VOL.  II. — ^ 


And  precious  their  tears  as  that  r.iin  from  the  sky," 
VVliicli  turns  into  pearls  as  it  f.dls  in  the  sea. 

Oh  !  third;  what  the  kiss  and  the  smile  must  be  worth 
When  the  sigh  and  the  tear  are  so  perfect  in  bliss, 

And  own  if  there  bo  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 

Here  sp.arklcs  tiic  nectar,  that,  hallow'd  by  love, 
Could  draw  down  those  angels  of  old  from  their 
sphere, 
Who  for  wine  of  this  earth"'  left  the  fount.aina 
above, 
And  forgot  heav'n's  stars  for  the  eyes  we  have 
here. 
And,  bless'd  witli  the  odor  our  goblet  gives  forth, 

Wh.at  Spirit  the  sweets  of  his  Eden  would  miss? 
For,  oh  !  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 

The  Georgian's  song  was  scarcely  mute. 

When  the  same  measure,  sound  fur  sound, 
Was  caught  up  by  another  lute. 

And  so  divinely  breathed  around, 
That  all  stood  husli'd  and  wondering, 

And  turii'd  and  look'd  into  the  air, 
As  if  they  thought  to  see  the  wing. 

Of  IsF.AFiL,""  the  Angel,  there ; — 
So  pow'rfully  on  ev'ry  soul 
That  new,  enchanted  measure  stole. 
While  now  a  voice,  sweet  .as  the  note 
Of  the  charm'd  lute,  was  heard  to  float 
Along  its  chords,  and  so  entwine 

Its  sounds  with  theirs,  tluat  none  knew  wh     \et 
The  voice  or  lute  w.as  most  divine. 

So  wondrously  they  went  together : — 

There's  a  bliss  beyond  all  that  the  minstrel  h.a.-  told. 
When  two,  that  are  link'd  in  one  heav'iily  f  e, 

With  heart  never  changing,  and  brow  never  r  jld. 
Love  on  through  all  ills,  .and  love  on  till  they  die ! 

One  hour  of  a  passion  so  sacred  is  worth 

Whole  ages  of  lieartless  and  w.andering  bliss; 

And,  oh !  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth. 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 

'Twas  not  the  air,  'twas  not  the  words, 
But  that  deep  m.agic  in  the  chords 
And  in  the  lijis,  th.at  gave  such  pow'r 
As  Music  knew  not  till  tli.at  hour. 
At  once  a  hundred  voices  said, 
"  It  is  the  mask"d  Arabian  maid !'' 
While  Seli.m,  who  had  felt  the  str.ain 
Deepest  of  any,  and  had  lain 
Some  minutes  rapt,  as  in  a  trance. 
After  the  fairv  sounds  were  oVt 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Too  inly  touch'd  for  utterance, 

Nov.-  motion'd  with  his  hand  for  more : — 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me, 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee  ; 
But,  oh  I  the  choice  what  lieart  can  doubt. 
Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without  ? 

Uur  rocks  are  rough,  but  smiling  there 
Th'  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flow'ring  in  a  v.ilderness. 

Our  sands  are  bare,  but  down  tlicir  slope 

The  silv'ry-footed  antelope 

As  gracefully  and  gayly  springs 

As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

Then  come — thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  loved  and  lone  acaci.i-tree, 
The  antelope,  wlioso  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness. 

Oh !  tliere  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, — 
As  if  tlie  soul  that  minute  caught 
Sonie  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought ; 

As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes, 
Predestined  to  have  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again. 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  us  then ! 

So  came  thy  cv'ry  glance  and  tone 
When  first  on  me  they  breathed  and  slione; 
New,  as  if  brought  from  other  splieres, 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years. 

Tlien  fly  with  me, — if  thou  hast  known 
No  otiier  (lame,  nor  faUely  thrown 
A  gem  away,  that  tliou  li.idst  sworn 
Should  ever  in  thy  heart  be  worn. 

Come,  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me, 
•   la  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thco, — 
Fresh  ns  the  fountain  under  ground, 
When  first  'tis  by  the  lapwing  found.'" 

Uut  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Home  other  maid,  and  rudely  break 
Her  worshipp'd  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  to  nie  the  ruin'd  place; — 

Then,  fare  (heo  well — I'd  rather  ra.tko 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake 


When  tliawing  suns  begin  to  shine, 
Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine  ? 

There  was  a  pathos  in  this  lay, 

That,  ev'n  without  enchantment's  art, 
Would  instantly  have  found  its  way 

Deep  into  Selim's  burning  heart; 
But,  brcatliing,  as  it  did,  a  tone 
To  earthly  lutes  and  lips  unknown; 
With  every  chord  fresh  from  the  touch 
Of  Music's  Spirit, — 'twas  too  much ! 
Starting,  he  dash'd  away  the  cup, — 

Wliii'h,  all  the  time  of  this  sweet  air, 
His  hand  had  held,  untasted,  up, 

As  if  'twere  fix'd  by  magic  there, — 
And  naming  her,  so  long  unnamed. 
So  long  unseen,  wildly  exclaim'd, 

"  Oh  NOURMAHAL  !  oh  NOURMAHAL  ! 

"Hadst  thou  but  sung  this  witching  strain, 
"I  could  forget — forgive  thee  .all, 
"And  never  le.ive  those  eyes  ag.iin." 

The  mask  is  oft' — the  charm  is  wrought — 
And  Selim  to  his  heart  h.as  caught, 
In  blushes,  more  than  ever  bright. 
Ills  NouKMAHAL,  his  Ilaram's  Light ! 
And  well  do  vanish'd  frowns  enhance 
The  charm  of  every  bngliten'd  glance  ; 
And  dearer  seems  each  dawning  smilo 
For  having  lost  its  light  awhile : 
And,  happier  now  for  all  her  sighs. 

As  on  his  arm  her  head  reposes. 
She  whispers  him,  \vith  laughing  eyes, 

"  Remember,  love,  the  Feast  of  Roses!" 


Fadladeen,  at  the  conclusion  of  this  light  rh.np- 
sody,  took  occasion  to  sum  up  his  opinion  of  tha 
young  Cashmerian's  poetry, — of  which,  he  trusted, 
they  had  that  evening  heard  the  last  Having 
recapitulated  the  epithets,  "  frivolous" — "  inharmo- 
nious''— "  nonsensical,"  he  proceeded  to  say  th.it, 
viewing  it  in  the  most  favorable  light,  it  resembled 
one  of  those  MaUlivian  boats,  to  which  the  Princess 
had  alluded  in  the  rclatiiin  of  her  dream,""" — ;i  sllglit, 
gilded  thing,  sent  .ndrifl.  wilhonl  rndilci  or  ballast, 
and  with  nothing  but  vapid  sweets  and  I'.kIimI  (lowors 
on  board.  The  profusion,  indeed,  of  flowers  and 
birds,  which  this  poet  h.ad  ready  on  all  occasions, — 
not  to  mention  dews,  gems,  &c., — was  a  most  op- 
pressive kind  of  opulence  to  his  hearers;  and  had 
the  unlucky  elVect  of  giving  to  his  style  all  the 
glitter  of  the  (lower-g  irden  without  its  method,  and 
all  the  nutter  of  the  aviary  wilhout  its  song.  In 
addition  to  this,  he  uhoso  Ills  subjcct.<i  badly,  and 


LALLA  llOOKH. 


67 


was  always  most  inspired  by  the  worst  parts  of 
them.  The  cliarms  of  paganism,  the  merits  of 
rebellion, — these  wore  the  themes  honored  with  Iiis 
parlienlar  enthnsiasm;  and,  in  tlie  poem  just  re- 
cited, one  of  liis  most  palatable  passages  was  in 
praise  of  that  beverage  of  the  Unfaithful,  wine ; — ■ 
■'being,  perhaps,"  said  he,  relaxing  into  a  smile,  as 
conscious  of  liis  own  character  in  the  Haram  on  this 
point, "  one  of  those  bards,  whose  fancy  owes  all  its 
illumination  to  tlie  grape,  like  that  painted  porce- 
lain,'" so  curious  and  so  rare,  whose  images  are 
only  visible  when  liquor  is  poured  into  it."  Upon 
the  wliole,  it  was  his  opinion,  from  the  specimens 
which  they  hhd  heard,  and  which,  he  begged  to 
say,  were  tlie  most  tiresome  part  of  the  journey, 
tliat — whatever  other  merits  this  well-dressed  young 
gentleman  might  possess — poetry  was  by  no  means 
his  proper  avocation  :  "  and  indeed,"  concluded  the 
critic,  "  from  his  fondness  for  (lowers  and  for  birds, 
I  would  venture  to  suggest  that  a  florist  or  a  bird- 
catcher  is  a  much  more  suitable  calling  for  him 
than  a  poet." 

They  had  now  began  to  ascend  those  barren 
mountains,  which  separate  Cashmere  from  the  rest 
of  India ;  and,  as  the  heats  were  intolerable,  and  the 
time  of  their  encampments  limited  to  the  few  hours 
necessary  for  refreshment  and  repose,  there  was  an 
end  to  all  their  delightful  evenings,  and  Lalla 
RooKH  saw  no  more  of  Feramorz.  She  now  felt 
that  her  short  dream  of  happiness  was  over,  and 
that  she  had  nothing  but  the  recollection  of  its  few 
blissful  hours,  like  the  one  draught  of  sweet  water 
that  serves  the  camel  across  the  wilderness,  to  be 
her  heart's  refreshment  during  the  dreary  waste  of 
life  that  was  before  her.  The  blight  that  had  fallen 
upon  Iier  spirits  soon  found  its  way  to  her  cheek, 
and  her  ladies  saw  with  regret — though  not  witliout 
some  suspicion  of  the  cause — tliat  the  beauty  of 
their  mistress,  of  which  they  were  almost  as  proud 
as  of  their  own,  was  fiist  vanishing  away  at  the 
very  moment  of  all  when  she  had  most  need  of  it. 
What  must  the  King  of  Bucharia  feel,  when,  in- 
stead of  the  lively  and  beautiful  Lalla  Rookh, 
whom  the  poets  of  Dellii  had  described  as  more 
perfect  than  the  divinest  images  in  the  house  of 
Azor,'*'  he  should  receive  a  pale  and  inanimate 
victim,  upon  whose  cheek  neither  health  nor  plea- 
sure bloomed,  and  from  whose  eyes  Love  had  fled, 
—to  hide  himself  in  her  heart? 

If  any  tiling  could  have  charmed  away  the  mel- 
ancholy of  her  spirits,  it  would  have  been  the  fresli 
airs  and  enchanting  scenery  of  that  Valley,  wliicli 
tlio  Persians   so  justly  called   the   Unequalled.'*' 


But  neither  the  coolness  of  its  atmosphere,  so 
lu.vurious  after  toiling  up  those  bare  and  burning 
mountains, — neither  the  splendor  of  the  minarets 
and  pagodas,  lliat  slione  out  from  the  depth  of  its 
woods,  nor  tlie  grottoes,  hermitages,  and  miraculous 
fountains,"*  which  make  every  spot  of  that  region 
holy  ground, — neither  the  countless  waterfalls,  that 
rush  into  the  Valley  from  all  those  high  and  ro- 
mantic mountains  that  encircle  if,  nor  the  fair  city 
on  the  Lake,  whose  houses,  roofed  with  flowers,'" 
appeared  at  a  dist.-ince  like  one  vast  and  variegated 
parterre; — not  all  tliese  wonders  and  glories  of  the 
most  lovely  country  under  the  sun  could  steal 
her  heart  for  a  minute  from  those  sad  thoughts, 
which  but  darkened,  and  grew  bitterer  every  step 
she  advanced. 

Tlie  gay  pomps  and  processions  that  met  her 
upon  her  entrance  into  the  Valley,  and  the  raagnifi- 
cence  with  which  the  roads  all  along  were  decorated, 
did  honor  to  the  taste  and  gallantry  of  the  young 
King.  It  was  night  when  they  approached  the  city, 
and,  for  the  last  two  miles,  they  had  passed  under 
arches,  thrown  from  hedge  to  hedge,  festooned 
with  only  those  rarest  roses  from  which  the  Attar 
Gul,  more  precious  than  gold,  is  distilled,  and  illu- 
minated in  rich  and  fanciful  forms  with  lanterns  of 
the  triple-colored  tortoise-shell  of  Pegu.""  Some- 
times, from  a  dark  wood  by  tlie  side  of  tlie  road,  a 
display  of  fireworks  would  break  out,  so  sudden  and 
so  brilliant,  that  a  Brahmin  might  fancy  he  beheld 
that  grove,  in  wliose  purple  shade  the  God  of  Battles 
was  born,  bursting  into  a  flame  at  the  moment  of 
his  birth ; — while,  at  other  times,  a  quick  and  play- 
ful irradiation  continued  to  brighten  all  the  fields 
and  gardens  by  which  they  passed,  forming  a  line 
of  dancing  liglits  along  the  horizon ;  like  the 
meteors  of  the  north  as  they  are  seen  by  those 
hunters,'"  who  pursue  the  white  and  blue  fo.ves  on 
the  confines  of  the  Icy  Sea. 

These  arches  and  fireworks  delighted  the  Ladies 
of  the  Princess  exceedingly;  and  with  their  usual 
good  logic,  they  deduced  from  his  taste  for  illumi- 
nations, that  the  King  of  Biieharia  would  maI;o  the 
most  exemplary  husband  imaginable.  Nor,  indeed, 
could  Lalla  Rookh  herself  help  feeling  the  kind- 
ness and  splendor  with  which  the  young  bridegroom 
welcomed  her; — but  she  also  felt  how  p.ainful  i< 
the  gratitude,  which  kindness  from  those  we  cannot 
love  e.vcites;  and  that  their  best  blandishments 
come  over  the  heart  with  all  that  chilling  and 
deadly  sweetness,  which  we  can  fancy  in  the  cold, 
odoriferous  \\-ind'^  th.at  is  to  blow  over  this  earth 
in  the  last  days. 


68 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


The  raarrinje  was  fixed  for  the  morning  after 
niT  arrival,  when  she  was,  for  the  first  time,  to  be 
presented  to  the  monarch  in  that  Imperial  Palace 
beyond  the  lake,  called  the  Shaliraar.  Though 
never  before  had  a  night  of  more  wakeful  and 
anxious  thought  been  passed  in  the  Happy  Valley, 
yet,  when  she  rose  in  the  morning,  and  her  Ladies 
came  around  her,  to  assist  in  the  adjustment  of  t!ie 
bridal  ornaments,  they  tiiought  tliey  had  never 
seen  her  look  half  so  beautiful.  Wh.it  she  had  lost 
of  the  bloom  and  radiancy  of  her  charms  was  more 
that  made  up  by  that  intellectual  expression,  that 
soul  beaming  forth  from  the  eyes,  which  is  worth 
ill  the  rest  of  loveliness.  When  they  had  tinged 
'it  lingers  with  the  Henna  leaf,  and  placed  upon 
ner  brow  a  small  coronet  of  jewels,  of  the  shape 
worn  by  the  ancient  Queens  of  Bucharia,  they  flung 
over  licr  head  the  rose-colored  bridal  veil,  and  she 
proceeded  to  the  liarge  that  was  to  convey  her 
acioss  the  lake ; — first  kissing,  with  a  mournful 
look,  the  little  amulet  of  cornelian,  wliich  her  father 
at  parting  h.id  hung  about  her  neck. 

The  morning  was  as  fresh  and  fair  as  the  maid 
on  whose  nuptials  it  rose,  and  the  shining  lake  all 
covered  with  boats,  the  minstrels  playing  upon  the 
shores  of  the  islands,  and  the  crowded  summer- 
houses  on  the  green  hills  around,  with  shawls  and 
banners  waving  from  their  roois,  presented  sucli  a 
picture  of  animated  rejoicing,  as  only  she  who  w.ns 
the  object  of  it  all,  did  not  feel  with  transport.  To 
Lalla  Rooku  alone  it  was  a  melancholy  pageant ; 
nor  could  she  have  even  borne  to  look  upon  the 
scene,  were  it  not  for  a  hope  that,  among  the 
crowds  around,  she  might  once  more  perhaps  catch 
a  glimpse  of  Fkkamouz.  So  much  was  her  im.agi- 
nalion  haunted  by  tliis  thought,  that  there  was 
scarcely  an  islet  or  boat  she  passed  on  the  way,  at 
wliich  her  heart  did  not  flutter  with  the  momentary 
f.mcy  that  ho  was  there.  Happy,  in  her  eyes,  the 
humblest  slave  upon  whom  the  light  of  his  dear 
\imkn  fell  I — In  the  barge  immediately  after  the 
princess  sat  I''Am.Ai)r:F.N,  with  his  silken  cm-tains 
Ihrown  widely  apart,  that  all  might  have  the  benolit 
of  his  august  presence,  and  with  his  head  full  of  the 
dpccch  ho  was  to  deliver  to  the  King,  "concerning 
Fr.RAMORZ,  and  literature,  and  the  Chabuk,  as  con- 
ncrlcd  llii-rewilh." 

■l'h(y  now  had  entered  the  canal  which  leads 
from  Uio  Lake  to  the  splendid  domes  and  saloons 
of  the  SImlimar,  and  went  gliding  on  through  the 


gardens  that  ascended  from  each  bank,  full  of 
flowering  shrubs  that  made  the  air  all  perfume 
while  from  the  middle  of  the  canal  rose  jets  of 
water,  smooth  and  unbroken,  to  such  a  dazzling 
height,  that  they  stood  like  tall  pillars  of  diamond  iu 
the  sunshine.  After  sailing  under  the  arches  of 
various  saloons,  they  at  length  arrived  at  the  last 
and  most  magnificent,  where  the  monarch  awaited 
the  coming  of  his  bride  ;  and  such  was  the  agitation 
of  her  heart  and  frame,  that  it  was  with  difiiculty 
she  could  walk  up  the  marble  steps  which  wero 
covered  with  cloth  of  gold  for  her  ascent  from  the 
barge.  At  the  end  of  the  hall  stood  two  thrones, 
as  precious  as  the  Cerulean  Throne  of  Coolburga,"" 
on  one  of  which  sat  Aliris,  t!ie  youthful  King  of 
Bucharia,  and  on  the  other  was,  in  a  few  minules, 
to  be  pl.iced  the  most  beautiful  Princess  in  llic 
world.  Immediately  upon  the  entrance  of  Lalla 
RooKH  into  the  saloon,  the  monarch  descended 
from  his  throne  to  meet  her;  but  scarcely  had  he 
time  to  take  her  hand  in  his,  when  she  screamed 
with  surprise,  and  fainted  at  his  feet.  It  wag 
Ferajiorz  himself  that  stood  before  her  I — Fera- 
MORZ  was,  himself,  the  Sovereign  of  Bucharia,  who 
in  this  disguise  had  accompanied  his  young  bride 
from  Delhi,  and,  having  won  her  love  as  an  humble 
minstrel,  now  amply  deserved  to  enjoy  it  as  a 
King. 

The  consternation  of  Fadladeex  at  this  dis- 
covery was,  for  the  moment,  almost  pitiable.  But 
change  of  opinion  is  a  resource  too  conveifient  in 
courts  for  this  experienced  courtier  not  to  have 
learned  to  avail  himself  of  it.  His  criticisms  were 
all,  of  course,  recanted  instantly :  ho  was  seized 
with  an  admiration  of  the  King's  verses,  as  un- 
bounded as,  he  begged  him  to  belierc,  it  was  dis- 
interested;  and  the  following  week  saw  him  in 
possession  of  an  additional  place,  swearing  by  all 
the  Saints  of  Islam  that  never  had  there  existed  sn 
great  a  poet  as  the  Monarch  Ai-ii!is,  and,  moreover 
ready  to  ])rescribe  his  favorite  regimen  of  the  Cha- 
buk for  every  man,  woman,  and  cliild  lliat  dared  to 
think  otherwise. 

Of  the  happiness  of  Iho  King  and  Queen  of 
Bucharia,  after  such  a  begiiming,  there  can  be  but 
little  doubt;  and,  among  the  lesser  symptoms,  it 
is  recorded  of  Lalla  Rookii,  thai,  to  the  day  of 
her  death,  iu  memory  of  their  delightful  journey, 
hIic  never  called  the  King  hv  any  oilier  name  than 
Feuamokz. 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


69 


NOTES. 


(1)  These  particulars  Df  the  visit  of  tlie  KiiiB  of  Bucliaria  to 
Annmgzebo  are  founil  in  DowU  History  of  Hindistan,  vol.  iii. 
p.  392. 

(2)  Tulip  check. 

(3)  Tho  mislrcss  of  Mejnoiin,  upon  wliosu  story  so  many 
Uomanccs  in  all  tlie  languages  of  the  East  are  founded. 

(■I)  For  the  loves  of  this  celebrated  beauty  wilb  Khosrou  and 
with  Ferhad,  see  D'llerMol,  Gibbon,  Oriental  Collections,  &c. 

(5)  "The  history  of  the  loves  of  Dcwilde  and  Chi/.cr,thc  son 
of  the  Kmperor  Alia,  Is  wrilteu  in  an  elegant  poem,  by  the 
noblu  Chusero." — Ftrishta. 

(6)  Cul  Reazec. 

(7)  "  One  mark  of  honor  or  knighthood  bestowed  by  the 
Emperor  is  tho  permission  to  wear  a  small  kettle-drum  at  tho 
bows  of  their  saddles,  which  at  first  was  invented  for  the  train- 
ing of  hawks,  and  to  call  them  to  tho  lure,  and  is  worn  in  the 
field  by  all  sportsmen  tu4hat  end."— Fryrr's  Travels. 

"Those  on  whom  the  King  has  conferred  the  privilege  must 
wear  an  ornament  of  jewels  on  the  right  side  of  the  turban, 
eurnioiMited  by  a  plume  of  the  feathers  of  a  kind  of  egret. 
This  bird  is  found  only  in  Cashmere,  and  the  feathers  are  care- 
fully collected  for  the  King,  who  bestows  them  on  his  nobles." 
— Elphinstone^s  Account  of  Caubul. 

(8)  "  Khedar  Khan,  the  Khakan,  or  King  of  Turquestan,  be- 
yond the  Cibon,  (at  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century,)  when- 
ever he  appeared  abroad  was  p.-eceded  by  seven  hundred 
horsemen  witli  silver  battle-axes,  and  was  followed  by  an  equal 
number  bearing  maces  of  gold.  Ho  was  a  great  patron  of 
poetry,  and  it  was  he  who  used  to  preside  at  public  exercises 
of  genius,  with  four  basins  of  gold  and  silver  by  him  to  dis- 
tribute among  the  poets  who  excelled."— /iicAari/soa's  Disser- 
tation preBxed  to  his  Diciiouary. 

(9)  "The  kubdeh,  a  large  golden  knob,  generally  in  the  shapo 
of  a  pineapple,  on  the  top  of  the  canopy  over  the  litter  or  pal- 
anquin."— ^cotCs  Notes  on  the  Dabardanvish. 

(10)  In  the  Poem  of  Zohair.  in  the  Moallakat,  there  is  the 
following  lively  description  of  "  a  company  of  maidens  sealed 
on  camels." 

"They  are  mounted  in  carriages  covered  with  costly  awn- 
ings, and  with  rose-colored  veils,  the  linings  of  which  have  the 
hue  of  crimson  .'Vndem-wood. 

"  When  they  ascend  from  the  bosom  of  the  vale,  they  sit 
forward  on  the  saddle-cloth,  with  every  mark  of  a  voluptuous 
gayety. 

"  Now,  when  they  have  reached  the  brink  of  yon  blue-gush- 
ing rivulet,  they  ivi  the  poles  of  their  tents  like  the  Arab  with 
B  settled  mansion." 

(11)  t^ee  Bemicr^s  descriptijn  ol  the  attendants  of  Raucha- 
na;-a-Ilegum,  in  her  progress  to  Casumere. 

(IJ)  Thisbypocrilical  Emperor  would  have  made  a  worthy 
iBsociate  of  certain  Holy  I  "agues.— "  He  held  lh6  cloak  of 


religion  (says  Dow)  between  his  actions  and  the  vulgar:  and 
impiously  thanked  the  Divinity  for  a  success  which  he  owed 
to  his  own  wickedness.  ^Vhen  he  was  murdering  and  per- 
secuting his  brothers  and  their  families,  he  was  building  n 
inagnilicent  mosque  at  Delhi,  as  an  olTeriug  to  Cod  for  his 
assistance  lo  him  in  the  civil  wars,  lie  acted  as  high  priest  at 
the  consecration  of  this  temple  ;  anil  made  a  practice  of  at- 
tending divine  service  there,  in  the  liun]ble  dress  of  a  Fakeer. 
nut  when  he  lilted  one  hand  lo  the  Divinily,  he,  with  the 
other,  signed  warrants  for  the  execution  of  his  relations."— 
Ilislorij  of  I/iiidastaii,  vol.  iii.  p.  33.5.  See  also  the  curioiu 
letter  of  A\irungzebo,  given  in  the  Oricvtul  Collections,  vol  i. 
p.  320. 

(13)  "The  idol  at  J.Tgbcrnat  has  two  fine  diamonds  for  eyes. 
No  goldsmith  is  suffered  to  enter  the  Pagoda,  one  having  stole 
one  of  these  eyes,  being  locked  up  all  night  with  the  Idol."— 

Tavcrnicr, 

(14)  See  a  description  of  these  royal  Gardens  in  "  ,\n  Ac- 
count of  tho  present  state  of  Delhi,  by  Lieut.  \V.  Franklin."— 
Jlsiat.  Research.,  vol.  iv.  p.  417. 

(15)  "In  the  neighborhood  is  Notte  Gill,  or  the  Lake  of 
Pearl,  which  receives  this  name  from  its  pellucid  water."— 
PevvttnCs  llindostan. 

"Nasir  Jung  encamped  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Lakeof  Tonoor, 
amused  himself  with  sailing  on  that  clear  and  beautiful  water, 
and  gave  it  the  fanciful  name  of  Motee  Talah. 'the  Lakeof 
Pearl.s.'  which  it  still  retains."—  (VUks's  South  of  India. 

(10)  Sir  Thomas  Roe,  Ambassador  from  James  I.  to  Jehan- 
guire. 

(17)  "  Tlie  romance  VVemakweazra,  written  in  Persian  vei-ae, 
which  contains  the  loves  of  Wamak  and  Ezra,  two  celebrated 
lovers  who  lived  before  the  time  of  Mahomet."— J\w(c  on  tlie 
Oriental  Tales. 

(18)  Their  amour  is  recounted  in  the  Shah-Nameh  of  Fer 
dousi ;  and  there  is  much  beauty  in  the  passage  which  de- 
scribes the  slaves  of  Rodahver  silling  on  the  bank  of  the  river 
and  throwing  llowcrs  into  the  stream,  in  order  to  draw  the 
atteutiou  of  the  young  Hero  who  is  encamped  im  the  opposite 
side.— See  Ciantjiivn's  transliition. 

(19)  Rustam  is  the  Hercules  of  the  Persians.  For  the  par- 
ticulars of  his  victory  over  the  Sepeed  Deeve.  or  White  Dis 
mon,  see  Oriental  Collections,  vol.  ii.  p.  45.— Near  the  cily  of 
Shiraiu  is  an  immense  quadrangular  miuiument,  in  commemo- 
ration of  this  combat,  called  the  Kelaat-i-Deev  Sepeed.  or 
Castle  of  the  White  Giant,  which  Father  Angelo,  in  his  Ca- 
zophilacium  Persicum,  p.  127,  declares  to  have  been  the  most 
memorable  monument  of  antiquity  which  be  had  seen  in 
Persia. — See  OuseJo/s  Persian  Miscellanies. 

(20)  "The  women  of  the  Idol,  or  dancing-girls  of  the  Pa- 
goda, have  little  golden  bells  fastened  to  their  feet,  tho  soft 
harmonious  tinkling  of  which  vibrates  in  unison  with  the 
exquisite  melody  of  their  voices." — Mmricc^s  Indian  -Antiq- 
uities, 

"  The  .Arabian  courtesans,  like  the  Indian  women,  have  little 


70 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


gol  Icn  bells  fbatened  round  their  legs,  neck,  and  elbows,  to 
the  .jound  of  which  they  dance  before  the  King.  The  Arabian 
priucesses  wear  golden  rings  on  their  fingers,  to  which  little 
bells  are  suspended,  as  well  as  in  the  flowing  tresses  of  their 
hair,  that  their  superior  rant  may  be  known,  and  they  them- 
eelves  receive  in  passing  the  homage  due  to  them.'* — See  Col- 
met''s  Dictionarj-,  art.  Bells. 

(21)  "  Abou-Tige  Yille  de  la  Th6baide,  on  il  cruit  benucoup 
de  pavot  noir,  dont  se  fait  le  meilleur  op'mm.^^—D'* HcrbeUt. 

0S)  The  Indian  Apollo.—"  Fie  and  the  three  Ramas  are  de- 
pcribed  as  yoiilhs  of  perfect  beau'.y ;  and  the  princesses  of 
Ilindtislan  were  all  passionately  in  love  with  Clirishna^  who 
continues  to  this  hour  the  darling  God  of  the  Indian  women." 
—.Sir  If.  Jones,  on  the  Gods  of  Greece,  Italy,  and  India. 

('23)  See  Turner's  Embassy  for  a  descriplion  of  this  animal, 
'•the  most  beautiful  among  the  whole  tribe  of  goats."  The 
mriterial  for  the  shawls  (which  is  carried  to  Cashmire)  is  found 
next  the  skin. 

(24)  For  the  real  history  of  this  Impostor,  whose  original 
name  was  Ilakem  ben  Huschem,  and  who  was  called  Mocauna, 
fn.m  the  veil  of  silver  gauze  (or,  as  others  say,  golden)  which 
he  always  wore,  Bee  D"" Herbelot. 

(25)  Kborassan  signifies,  in  the  old  Persian  language,  Prov- 
l-icc  or  Region  ot  the  Sun.— SjV  IV.  Jones. 

(26)  "The  fruits  of  .Meru  are  finer  than  those  of  any  other 
place;  and  one  cannot  see  in  any  otiicr  city  such  palaces  with 
ppovcs,  and  streams,  and  gardens.'*— £ft«  JlauktU's  Geography. 

v27>  itnp  of  the  royal  cities  of  Khorassan. 

(9K}  ftiusv^ 

(2fl)  **Ses  disciples  ossuraient  qu'll  so  couvrnit  le  visage, 
pour  no  pas  6bluuir  ceux  qui  Tapprochaicnt  par  I'^clat  do  son 
visage  comme  Moyse."- Z>'//frir/w(. 

(30)  Black  was  the  color  adopted  by  the  Ciiliphs  of  the 
House  of  Abbas,  in  their  garments,  turbans,  and  standards. — 
**  (1  fnut  rcmurqiier  ici  louchant  les  habits  blanca  des  disciples 
ilf*  Ilakem,  quo  la  coideur  des  habits,  des  coiffures  ot  di>s 
^-trmlarls  des  Khalifea  Atmssides  Hnnt  la  noire,  co  chef  do 
Rcbriles  no  pouvait  pas  choisir  unc  que  lui  fiit  plus  opposeo.'* 

—JJ^J/erbcJot. 

<3I)  "Our  dark  Javelins,  exquisitely  wrought  of  Khathaian 
rot*ds,  slender  and  delicato."— rorm  of  ^Imru. 

(X2)  Pichnia,  used  anciently  for  arrows  by  the  Pcnsians. 

(33)  Ttio  Persians  call  this  plant  Car.  The  celebrated  shafl 
of  Isfendinr,  one  of  their  ancient  lieroes,  was  made  of  It.— 
*- Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  than  tli"  appearance  of  this 
plant  in  llower  during  the  rains  on  the  hanks  of  rivers,  where 
it  is  uftually  Interwoven  with  a  lovely  twining  asctepias," — .Sir 
II'.  JoHCMy  llolanical  Observations  on  .Select  Indian  Plants. 

(M)  The  oriental  plane.  "The  chonar  is  n  delightful  tn'e ; 
Is  hole  In  of  n  llni!  white  and  smooth  hnrk  ;  and  its  fohnge, 
wh\c.U  grows  In  a  tuft  at  the  Hunimil,  Is  of  a  bright  green."  — 
Mvrier*s  Travels. 

O.')  TTio  burning  rnnnlalns  nf  Brahma  near  Chlltogoitg,  cs- 
Inmod  AS  h-dy.— 7'«rn*^r, 

(3A)  C^lr.a. 

OT)  **  Tb  <  nom*  of  tulip  la  tild  to  be  of  TurkJib  extraction, 


and  given  to  the  flower  on  account  of  its  resembli  ng  a  tm  ban.*^ 
— BeckjjKiJin's  Histor)"  of  Inventions. 

(38)  "  The  inhabitants  of  Bucharia  wear  a  round  cloth  bon- 
net, shaped  much  after  the  Polish  fashion,  having  a  large  fur 
border.  They  tie  their  kaftans  about  the  middle  with  a  girdla 
of  a  kind  of  silk  crape,  several  times  round  the  body." — .4c- 
count  of  Independent  Tartanj*  in  rinkerton''s  CoUectivn. 

(30)  In  the  w.or  of  the  Caliph  Mahadi  against  the  Empress 
Irene,  for  an  account  of  whicli  vide  Gibbon^  vol.  x. 

(40)  This  wonderful  Throne  was  called  The  Star  of  the  Genii. 
For  a  fidl  description  of  it,  see  the  Fragment,  translated  by 
Captain  Franklin,  from  a  Persian  MS.  entitled  ''The  History 
of  Jerusalem."  Oriental  Collections^  vol.  i.  p.  235.— When  toll- 
man travelled,  the  eastern  writers  say,  "He  bad  a  carpet  of 
green  silk  on  which  his  throne  was  placed,  being  of  a  prodigi- 
ous length  and  breadth,  nnd  sufficient  for  all  his  furces  to  stand 
upon,  the  men  placing  themselves  on  his  right  hand,  and  the 
spirits  on  his  left ;  and  that  when  all  were  in  onler.  the  wind, 
at  his  commanJ,  took  up  the  carpet,  and  transported  it,  with 
all  that  were  upon  it,  wherever  he  pleased ;  the  army  of  birds 
at  the  same  time  flying  over  their  heads,  and  forming  a  kind 
of  canopy  to  t^hade  them  from  the  sun."— .Sn/fV  Koran,  vol.  ii. 
p.  214,  note. 

(41)  The  transmigration  of  souls  was  one  of  his  doctrines.- 
Vide  D'Herbelot. 

(42)  "And  when  we  said  unto  the  angels,  Worship  Adam, 
they  all  worshipped  him,  except  Kblis,  (Lucifer,)  who  refused." 
—  The  Koran,  chap.  ii. 

(43)  Moses. 

(44)  This  is  according  to  D'Herhelol'saccmml  of  the  dticlrine 
of  Mokanna: — "  Sa  doctrine  etuit,  quo  Dieii  avail  pi'is  uno 
forme  et  figure  hiimaine,  depuis  qu'il  cut  coinmande  aux 
Anges  d'adorer  Adam,  le  premier  des  hornmes.  Qu'apri'-s  la 
mort  d'Adam,  Dieu  i!'lail  appaiu  sons  la  figure  de  pliisieura 
Prophetes,  et  ar.tres  gratuU  liommes  qu'il  avnit  cluiisis.j;isqu*a 
ce  qu'il  prit  cello  d'Ahu  .Moslem,  Prince  do  Khorassan,  Ircpiel 
professait  I'erreur  de  la  TiUiassiikhiah  ou  Melempsychose ;  ct 
qu'apri's  la  mnrt  do  ce  Prince,  la  Diviniti'!  etait  pnssee,  ot 
descendue  en  aa  personne." 

(45)  Jesus. 

(4G*  The  Amno.  which  rises  in  the  Beliir  Tag.  or  Park  Moun- 
taiiiH.  and  ninnini;  neirly  from  east  to  west,  splits  into  two 
brandies:  one  oi  which  falls  into  the  Caspian  sea,  and  th«» 
other  iiiio  Aral  .N'ahr.  or  tlu'  Lake  of  Fag'.es. 

(47)  The  ninhtlngnle. 

(48i  The  cities  of  Com  (or  Konm)  and  Cashan  aro  fidt  or 
mosques,  mausoleums,  and  sepulchres  of  Iho  descendants  of 
All,  the  b'aliits  of  Persia.— C'Aart/in. 

(40)  An  Island  In  Iho  Persian  Gulf,  coh-hrated  for  its  whito 
^^ine. 

(W)  The  miraculous  well  at  Mecca:  so  called,  iinys  Sole, 
f^oni  the  niunnuriiig  of  its  waters. 

(31)  Till*  god  Hnnnnmnn.— **  Apes  nre  In  many  parts  of  liidls 
highly  venerated,  out  of  respect  (o  Iho  God  Hannaman,  a  tleiiy 
partjddng  fif  the  form  of  that  rnrv."~  I'rinitnCji  IliiuloHtim. 

fifo  a  curious  arcimnt,  In  str/>fifn':t  /Vr.«irt,  of  n  solemn  em- 
bassy from  S4tme  part  of  thu  IndleH  li»  Gua,  when  the  I'lUlu- 
gueeo  were  there,  oTorUig  vnut  Iroanures  fur  the  recovery  of  a 
moukev**   tooth,  which  thry  huM    In  grout   veneration,  and 


LALLA  ROOKK. 


71 


wliich  had  been  taken  away  upon  tlio  conquest  of  the  kingdom 
of  Jafannpfi'.aii. 

(.'j2)  Tliis  resohition  of  y.UWa  not  to  acknowIcdK*'  tlio  new 
creatuio,  mun,  wiia^  accoi'din^  tu  Maliometua  tradition,  thus 
ndoptud;— "Tlie  earth  (which  God  iiad  selected  fur  the  niate- 
fiuls  ol"  his  work)  was  carried  into  Ariibia,  to  a  place  between 
Mecca  and  Tayef,  where,  bt^'iu'^  Ihat  kneaded  by  the  iinijeifl,  it 
waa  iifterwarJa  faaliioried  by  (.'od  himself  into  a  human  form, 
and  U'lt  to  dry  fur  the  ^pacu  of  forty  days,  or,  as  others  say,  as 
many  years;  the  ant,'els,  in  tlio  mean  time,  often  visiting  it, 
and  r.blis  (then  one  of  tho  angels  nearest  to  (iod's  presence, 
afterwards  the  devil)  among  the  rest ;  but  he,  not  content  with 
looking  at  it,  kicked  it  with  his  foot  till  it  rung,  and  knowing 
God  designed  that  creature  to  bo  his  superior,  took  a  secret 
resolution  never  to  acknowledge  him  as  such,"— So/c  on  the 
Koran. 

(J3)  A  kind  of  lantern  formerly  used  by  robbers,  called  the 
Head  of  iilory,  tho  candle  for  which  waa  made  of  tho  fat  of  a 
dead  malefactor.  This,  however,  was  rather  a  western  than  an 
enstern  superstition. 

(r*!)  The  material  of  which  images  of  Gaudma  (the  Birman 
Deity)  are  made,  is  held  sacred.  "Birtnans  may  not  purchase 
tliu  marble  in  mass,  but  are  suffered,  and  indeed  encouraged, 
to  buy  figures  of  the  Deity  ready  made." — Syme'*s  Ava,  vol.  ii. 
p.  37(3. 

(55)  "  It  is  commonly  said  in  Persia,  that  if  a  man  breathe  in 
tho  hot  south  wind,  which  in  June  or  July  passes  over  that 
flower,  tthe  Kerzereh,)  it  will  kill  himJ'^—Thevcnot, 

(56)  The  humming-bird  is  said  to  run  this  risk  for  the  pur- 
pose of  picking  the  crocodile's  teeth.  The  same  circumstance 
la  related  of  the  lapwing,  as  a  fact  to  which  he  waa  witness,  by 
Pant  J.ucas,  Voyage  fait  en  1714. 

The  ancient  story  concerning  the  Trochilus,  or  humming- 
bird, entering  with  impunity  into  the  mouth  of  the  crocodile, 
is  firmly  believed  at  Java. — Barrow^s  Cochin- China. 

(57)  Circum  easdera  ripas  (Nili,  viz.)  ales  est  Ibis.  Ea  ser- 
pontium  populatur  ova,  gratissimamque  ex  his  escam  nldis 
suis  refert. — Solinus, 

(5b)  "Tlie  feast  of  Lanterns  is  celebrated  at  Yamtcheou  with 
more  magidficence  than  anywhere  else:  and  the  report  goes, 
that  the  illuminations  there  are  so  splendid,  that  an  Emperor 
once,  not  daring  openly  to  leave  his  Court  to  go  thither,  com- 
mitted himself  with  the  Queen  and  several  Princesses  of  his 
family  into  the  hands  of  a  magician,  who  promised  to  transport 
them  thither  in  a  trice.  He  made  them  in  tlie  night  to  ascend 
magnificent  thrones  that  were  borno  up  by  swans,  which  in  a 
moment  arrived  at  Yamtcheou.  The  Emperor  saw  at  his 
leisure  all  the  solemnity,  being  carried  upon  a  cloud  that 
hovered  over  the  city  and  descended  by  degrees ;  and  came 
back  again  with  the  same  speed  and  equipage,  nobody  at  court 
perceiving  his  absence."— 7"Ae  Present  State  of  China,  p.  156. 

(59)  See  a  description  of  the  nuptials  of  Vizier  Alee  in  the 
Asiatic  jJnnuai  Register  of  1804. 

(60>  "The  ^'ulgar  ascribe  it  to  an  accident  that  happened  in 
the  family  of  a  famous  Mandarin,  whose  daughter,  walking  one 
evening  upon  tho  shoro  of  a  lake,  fell  in  and  was  drowned: 
this  alllicted  father,  with  his  family,  ran  thither,  and,  the  better 
to  find  her,  he  caused  a  great  company  of  lanterns  to  be  lighted. 
All  the  inhabitants  of  the  place  thronged  aflL*r  him  with  torch- 
«B  The  year  ensuing  they  made  fires  upon  the  shores  the  same 
uay ;  they  continued  the  ceremony  every  year,  every  one  lighted 
bia  lanicrn,  and  by  degrees  it  commeuced  iuto  a  cistom." — 
Present  State  of  China, 


(61)  «Thou  hast  ravished  my  heart  with  one  of  thine  eyet." 

— Soi,  Sari^. 

(GiJj  "They  tinged  tho  ends  of  her  fingers  scarlet  with  lieu- 
na,  so  that  they  resembled  branches  of  coral." — Utory  of  Prince 
I'uttun  in  liahardanush. 

(G3)  "The  women  blacken  the  inside  of  their  eyelids  with  a 
powder  named  tho  black  Kohol." — Russcf, 

"None  of  these  ladies,"  says  Hhaw^  "  take  themselves  to  be 
completely  dressed,  till  they  have  tinged  (he  hair  and  edges 
of  their  eyelids  with  the  powder  of  lead-ore.  Now,  as  this 
operation  is  performed  by  dipping  first  into  the  powder  a  small 
wooden  bodkin  of  the  thickni'ss  of  a  quill,  and  then  drawing  it 
afterwards  tlirmigh  the  eyelids  over  tho  ball  of  the  eye,  we  shall 
have  a  lively  imago  of  what  the  Prophet  (Jer.  iv.  30)  may  be 
supposed  to  mean  by  rmdinfr  the  eyes  with  painting.  This 
practice  is  no  doubt  of  great  antiquity;  for  besides  tho  in- 
stance already  taken  notice  of,  we  liud  that  where  Jezebel  ig 
said  (2  Kings,  ix.  30)  to  kacr.  painted  her  face,  the  original  words 
are,  she  adjusted  her  eyes  with  the  powder  of  lead-ore.'''' — ShauPt 
Travels. 

(64)  "The  appearance  of  the  blossoms  of  the  gold-colored 
Champac  on  the  black  hair  of  the  Indian  women  has  supplied 
the  Sanscrit  Poets  with  many  elegant  allusions." — See  Asiatic 
Researches^  vol.  iv. 

(65)  A  tree  famous  for  its  perfume,  and  common  on  the  hills 
of  Yemen.— .V/tiiiAr. 

(6G)  Of  the  genus  mimosa, "  which  droops  its  branches  when 
ever  any  person  approaches  it,  seeming  as  if  it  saluted  those 
who  retire  under  its  shade." — Ibid. 

(67)  "Cloves  are  a  principal  ingredient  in  the  composition 
of  the  perfumed  rods,  which  men  of  rank  keep  constantly 
burning  in  their  presence." — Turner's  Tibet. 

(68)  "C'est  d'ou  vienl  e  bois  d'aloes,  qui  les  Arabes  appel- 
lent  Oud  Comnri,  et  cehh  du  sandal,  qui  s'y  trouve  on  grande 
quantity." — VHcrbdut. 

(69)  "Thousands  of  variegated  loories  visit  the  coral- trees.'* 
— D  arrow, 

(70)  "  In  Mecca  there  are  quantities  of  blue  pigeons,  which 
none  will  affright  or  abuse,  much  less  kill."— Pj«'s  Account 
of  the  Mahometans. 

(71)  "The  Pagoda  Thrush  is  esteemed  among  the  first  chor- 
isters of  India.  It  sits  perched  on  the  sacred  pagodas,  and  from 
thence  delivers  its  melodious  song." — Pennants  Hindostau. 

(72)  Tarcrnier  adds,  that  while  the  Birds  of  Paradise  lie  iii 
this  intoxicated  state,  the  emmets  come  and  eat  off  their  legs; 
and  that  hence  it  is  they  are  said  to  have  no  feet. 

(73)  Birds  of  Paradise,  which,  at  the  nutmeg  season,  come  in 
flights  from  the  southern  isles  to  India;  and  "the  strength  of 
the  nutmeg."  says  Tavcmier^  "so  intoxicates  them  that  they 
fall  dead  drunk  to  the  earth." 

(74)  "That  bird  which  liveth  in  Arabia,  and  buildeih  its 
nest  with  cinnamon." — Brown^s  Vulgar  Errors. 

(75)  "The  spirits  of  the  martyrs  will  be  lodged  In  tho  crops 
of  green  birds." — Oibbony  vol.  ix.  p.  421. 

(76)  Phedad,  who  made  the  delicious  gardens  of  Irim,  Ii 
imitation  of  Paradise,  and  was  destroyed  by  lightmug  the  drat 
time  he  attempted  to  eator  tbom. 


72 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


(TT)  "  My  PandiU  assure  me  that  the  plant  before  us  (the 
Nilica)  is  their  Sephalic:!.  thus  named  because  the  bee3  are 
B  ipposed  to  sleep  un  its  blossoms." — Sir  IV.  Jones, 

(78)  "They  deferred  it  till  the  Kin?  of  Flowers  should  as- 
ccnd  his  throne  of  enamelled  fuliaste.'*— TAe  Bahardanusk. 

/T9^  *•  One  of  the  head-dresses  of  the  Persian  women  is  com- 
posed of  a  lisht  golden  chain-work,  set  with  small  pearls,  with 
p.  ihin  1,'old  plate  pendent,  about  the  bigness  of  a  crown-piece, 
on  which  is  impressed  an  Arabian  prayer,  and  which  haiigs 
upon  the  cheek  below  the  ear." — Hallway's  Travels. 

(80)  ''  Certainly  the  women  of  Yezd  are  the  handsomest 
women  in  Persia.  The  proverb  is,  that  to  live  hnppy  a  man 
muat  have  a  wife  of  Yezd,  eat  the  bread  of  Yezdecas,  ajid 
drink  the  wine  of  Shimz."— Tartrrnicr. 

(91)  Musnuda  arc  cushioned  seats,  usually  reserved  for  per- 
sona of  distinction. 

(83)  The  Persians,  like  the  ancient  Greeks,  call  their  musi- 
cal modes  or  Perdas  by  the  narae*  of  different  countries  or 
cities,  as  the  mode  of  Isfahan,  the  niode  of  Irak,  tc. 

1^8.1)  A  river  which  flows  near  the  ruins  of  Chilminar. 

(84)  "To  the  north  of  «s  (on  the  coast  of  the  Caspian,  near 
Badkii)  was  a  mountain,  which  sparkled  tike  diamonds,  arising 
from  the  sea-glass  and  crjstuls  with  which  it  abounds." — Jour- 
veij  of  Ike  Russian  ^Imbassador  to  Persia^  l~-t6. 

(85)  "To  which  will  be  added  the  sound  of  the  bells,  han-^- 
Ing  on  the  trees,  which  will  be  put  in  mulion  by  the  wind  pro- 
ceeding from  the  throne  of  God,  as  often  as  the  blessed  wish 
for  rauaic."— aW<'. 

(80)  "  Whose  wanton  eyes  resemble  blue  water-lilies,  agita- 
ted by  the  breeze.7 — Jayadtta. 

^87)  The  blue  lotus,  which  grows  in  Cashmere  and  in  Persia. 

(88)  It  has  been  generally  supposed  that  the  Mahometans 
prohibit  all  pictures  of  iminitils;  but  T'ldmni  shows  that, 
though  the  practice  is  forbidduii  by  the  Koran,  they  arc  nut 
more  nvt-rse  to  painted  flgurt-s  and  images  than  other  people. 
I'rrun  Mr.  Murphy's  work,  too,  we  llnd  thai  the  Arabs  of  Spain 
had  no  objection  to  the  introduction  of  flgnres  into  paintln;^. 

(89)  Tills  is  not  quite  astronomically  true.  "Dr.  Iladh-y 
(naya  Keil>  has  shown  that  Venus  is  brightest  when  she  is 
About  forty  degrees  removed  from  the  sun ;  and  that  tlien  but 
only  a  fourth  part  of  her  lucid  disk  is  to  bo  seen  from  the 
oorlh." 

(90)  For  the  Inves  of  King  Polomon,  (who  was  supposed  to 
prenldc  over  the  whole  race  of  Genii,)  with  Ralkis,  the  (iu)'en 
of  Hheba  or  Saba,  see  ly llerbdoty  and  the  JV'utes  on  the  Koran^ 
chap.  2. 

**  In  the  palaco  which  Botomon  ordered  to  bo  built  ogninst 
Ihe  arrival  of  the  Quocn  of  Saba,  the  floor  or  pavement  wris  of 
tran^pnn'nt  glnim,  laid  over  rinining  water,  In  which  flub  were 
swimming."  Thin  Ifd  the  C2ueen  Into  a  very  natural  mistake, 
which  the  Koran  hni  not  thought  beneiilh  Its  dignity  to  ciun- 
memnmte.  ^*  It  was  ff.iid  unto  her,  "^  Knter  the  palace.'  And 
when  fliir  saw  It  she  Imoginctl  It  to  be  n  great  water;  and  (*)!■• 
ni»rovnred  her  lrg«,  by  lifting  up  her  robe  to  pans  through  it. 
VVherrupf>n  .^oloinon  said  to  her,  *  Vorlly,  this  Is  the  place 
trrnlir  flmirrd  with  kIom.*"— Chop.  27. 

nil  Tli^  wlff  „r  p4.ttphar,  ttnis  nannd  by  the  nrirnlnl-. 
•TU  ptaiuo  which  this  friUi  bvftuly  of  oaUqully  coucolvwl 


for  her  young  Hebrew  slave,  has  given  rise  to  a  much-<-stoemoi] 
poem  in  the  Persian  language,  entitled  Yu.-ief  vau  Zdikhay  by 
.Yourcdliji  Jumi ;  the  manuscript  ctipy  of  whicli.  in  the  Bod- 
leian Library  at  Oxford,  is  supposed  to  be  the  fluest  in  thn 
world." — J\'ote  upon  A'od's  Translation  of  Hafez, 

(92>  The  particulars  of  Mahomet's  amour  with  Marj',  Iha 
<?optic  girl,  in  justification  of  which  he  added  a  new  c^iapter 
to  the  Koran,  may  bo  found  in  Gagnicr^s  J\''otes  upon  Ahu!fcda^ 
p.  151. 

(93)  "Deep  blue  is  their  mourning  color." — Hanwaij. 

(94)  Tlie  sorrowful  nyctanthes,  which  begins  to  spread  its 
rich  odor  after  sunset. 

(9jt  "Concerning  the  vipers,  which  Pliny  says  were  frequent 
among  the  balsam-trees,  I  made  very  particular  inquiry;  sev- 
eral were  brought  me  alive  both  to  Yambo  and  Jidda."- 
Brucc. 

(OG)  "In  the  territory  of  Istkahar  there  is  a  kind  of  aj>plo, 
half  of  which  is  sweet  and  half  sour." — Kbn  HaukaL 

(97)  For  an  account  of  this  ceremony,  see  Qrandpri''s  Voyago 
in  the  Indian  Ocean. 

(98)  "The  place  where  the  ^\Tiangho,  a  river  of  Thibet, 
rises,  and  where  there  arc  more  than  a  hundred  springs,  which 
sparkle  like  stars:  whence  it  is  called  Hotun-nor,  that  is,  the 
Sea  of  Stars." — Description  of  Thibet  in  Pinkcrton. 

(99)  *'The  Lescar  or  Imperial  Camp  is  divided,  like  a  regu- 
lar town,  inlo  squares,  adeys,  and  streets,  and  from  a  rising 
ground  furnishes  one  of  the  most  agreeable  prospi-cls  in  the 
world.  St.irting  up  in  a  few  hours  in  an  uninhabited  ]dain,  Jt 
raises  the  idea  of  a  city  built  by  enchandnent.  V.ww  thoso 
who  leave  their  houses  in  cities  to  follow  the  Prince  iu  bis 
progress,  are  iVequontly  so  charmed  with  the  Lescar,  when 
situated  in  a  beautiful  and  con\enien.  place,  that  they  can- 
not prevail  with  theinsi-lves  to  remove.  To  prevent  this  in- 
convenience to  the  court,  the  Krnperor,  after  suKIcleul  time  is 
allowed  to  Iho  tradesmen  to  follow,  orders  them  to  be  burnt 
out  of  their  ti-'uls." — Doir's  Hindo^tan, 

Colonel  W'ilka  gives  a  very  lively  picture  of  an  Knstern  en- 
campment:— "His  camp,  like  that  of  most  Indian  armies,  ex- 
hibited a  motley  collection  of  covers  from  tlie  scorching  sun 
and  dews  of  the  night,  variegated  according  to  the  taste  or 
means  of  eacli  individual,  by  extensive  enclosures  of  colored 
calico  surrounding  superb  suites  of  tents ;  by  ragged  c'uthea  or 
blankets  stretched  over  sticks  or  brandies;  pahn-leo*  i  ha.stily 
spread  over  similar  supports;  bamlsome  tents  ar,  splendid 
canopies  ;  horses,  oxen,  elephants,  and  camels  ;  all  t  tertnixed 
without  any  exterior  mark  of  tu-der  or  design,  <'xce"it  the  flags 
of  the  duels,  which  usually  mark  the  centres  of  a  "''jngerles  of 
these  masses;  the  only  regular  part  of  the  enc»i  npmont  be- 
ing the  streets  of  shops,  each  (tf  which  is  constni  ,ted  nearly  la 
tho  manner  t)f  a  booth  at  an  I'.nglish  fair," — Hist/rical  Skrtche» 
of  the  Houth  of  India. 

(100)  Tho  edldres  of  Chnlmlnnr  an<l  Halbec  are  supposed  to 
luivo  been  bulll  by  the  (leiill,  acting  under  the  orders  of  .tan 
ben  Jan,  who  governed  the  world  long  bvfore  the  llmo  of 
Adam. 

(ini>  "A  sirperb  camel,  ornnmenled  "»'.th  strings  and  tufU 
of  snmll  shells."— .^/i  /Jry. 

(10',*)  A  native  of  Khnrasfnn,  nnd  illurod  southward  bj 
menus  of  thf  water  nfn  fountain  Itetwf  ui  Shiraz  outl  Ispnlian, 
railed  the  roiintiiln  of  Itird-^.  of  wblcb  It  is  10  f  Mtd  that  It  will 
foUfm  wlioruvor  tliat  wotior  Is  curriotL 


LALLA  EOOKH. 


73 


(103)  "  Some  of  tho  camels  have  bolls  iibout  their  necks,  and 
«omo  about  their  legs,  like  tlioae  which  our  carriers  put  about 
their  roru-borses'  necks,  which,  togotlier  with  tlio  servants, 
(who  belong  to  tho  camels,  and  travel  on  foot,)  singing  all 
night,  make  a  pleasant  noise,  and  the  journey  ])asse8  away 
delightfully."— i'lH's  Account  of  the  .Mahometans. 

"Tho  caniel-diiver  follows  the  camels  singing,  and  aomo- 
liinea  playing  upon  his  pipe ;  the  louder  he  sings  and  pipes, 
tho  fasler  tlie  camcils  ko.  Nay,  they  will  stand  still  when  he 
gives  over  bis  music." — Taucrnia: 

(lO-t)  "This  trumpet  is  often  called,  in  .Abyssinia,  vrssrr 
eano,  which  signilles  tho  Note  of  the  Kagle."— Ao(c  of  Brace's 
Editor. 

(105)  The  two  black  standards  borne  before  the  Caliphs  of 
the  House  of  Abbas  were  called,  allcgorically,  The  Night  and 
The  Shadow Sec  Oibbon. 

(lOG)  Tlic  Mahometan  religion. 

(107)  "The  Persians  swear  by  the  Tomb  of  Shah  Bo».adc, 
who  is  buried  at  Casbin;  and  when  one  desires  anotbe'  to 
asseverate  a  matter,  he  will  ask  hira  if  bo  dare  swear  by  the 
Holy  Crave."— .Sfruy. 

(108)  Mahaili,  in  a  single  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  expended  six 
isillions  of  dinars  of  gold. 

(100)  Nivem  Meccam  apporlavit,  rem  ibi  aut  nunquam  aut 
raro  visara. — JlhiiXfeda. 

(110)  The  inhabitants  of  Hcjaz  or  Arabia  Pelj-asa,  called  hy 
an  Eaatern  writer  "The  People  of  the  Rock."— £4n  Uanhal. 

(111)  "Those  horses,  called  by  the  Arabians  Kochlani,  of 
whom  a  written  genealogy  has  been  kept  for  2000  years. 
They  are  said  to  derive  their  origin  from  King  Solomon's 
steeds."— .Wciu/tr. 

(113)  "  Many  of  the  figures  on  the  blades  of  their  swords  are 
wrought  in  gold  or  silver,  or  in  marquetry  with  small  gems." 
— Asiat,  Misc.  v.  i. 

(113)  Azab  or  S.aba. 

(114)  "The  chiefs  of  the  Uzbek  Tartars  wear  a  plume  of 
white  hermi's  feathers  in  their  turbans."— .(Jrcount  of  liide- 
pendent  Tartanj. 

(113)  In  the  mountains  of  Nishapour  and  Tous  (in  Khoras- 
sau)  they  llnd  turquoises Ein  Hitukal. 

<U0)  For  a  description  of  these  stupendous  ranges  of  moun- 
tains, seo  Elphinstones  Cauliui. 

(117)  The  Ghebers  or  Guebres,  those  original  natives  of  Per- 
sia who  adhered  to  their  ancieHt  faith,  the  religion  of  Zoro- 
aster, and  who,  artcr  tho  conquest  of  their  country  by  the 
Arabs,  were  either  persecuted  at  home,  or  forced  to  become 
wanderers  abroad 

(118)  "Yezd,  the  chief  residence  of  those  ancient  natives, 
who  worship  the  Sun  and  the  Fire,  which  latter  they  have 
carefully  kept  lighted,  without  being  once  extinguished  for  a 
moment,  ;ibout  3(100  years,  on  a  mountain  near  Vezd,  called 
Aler  Qucdah,  signifying  the  House  or  Mansion  of  the  Fire. 
lie  is  reckoned  very  unfortunate  who  dies  off  that  mountain." 
—StcpJirn's  Persia. 

(119)  "Ulien  the  weather  is  hazy,  the  spriTigs  of  Naphtha 
(on  an  island  near  Baku)  boil  up  the  higher,  and  the  Naphtha 

VOL.  II.— 10 


often  takes  Ore  on  tho  surface  of  the  earth,  and  runs  in  a  flame 
into  the  sea  to  a  distance  almost  incredible."— //a«Mi/ on  l/u 
Kccrlasting  Fire  at  Jiaku. 

(120)  Savanj  says  of  the  south  wind,  wliieh  blows  in  F,gy]>t 
from  February  to  May,  "Sometimes  it  appears  only  in  the 
sh.ipo  of  an  impetuous  whirlwind,  which  piisses  rapidly,  and 
is  fatal  to  tho  traveller,  surprised  in  the  middle  of  the  deserts. 
Torrents  of  burning  sand  roll  before  it,  the  llrmament  is  en- 
veloped in  a  thick  veil,  and  the  sun  appears  of  the  color  of 
blood.    Sometimes  whole  caravans  are  buried  in  it." 

(121)  la  the  groat  victory  gainnil  by  .tlahomet  at  Beder,  lie 
was  assisted,  say  tho  Jliissulnians,  by  three  thousand  angels, 
led  by  Gabriel,  mounted  on  his  horse  Iliazum.— Seo  Tlie  Koran 
and  its  Commentators. 

(122)  The  Tecbir,  or  cry  of  the  .Arabs.  "  Alia  Achar !"  says 
Ockley,  means,  "God  is  most  mighty." 

(123)  The  ziraleet  is  a  kind  of  chorus,  which  the  women  of 
tbo  East  sing  upon  joyful  occasions.- /iiissrf. 

(124)  The  Dead  Sea,  which  contains  neither  animal  nor  vege- 
table life. 

(125)  The  ancient  Oxus. 
(120)  .A  city  of  Transoxiana. 

(127)  "  You  never  can  cast  your  eyes  on  this  tree,  but  you 
meet  there  either  blossoms  or  fruit ;  and  as  the  blossom  drops 
underneath  on  tho  ground  (which  is  frequently  covered  with 
these  purpie-colored  flowers)  others  come  forth  in  their  stead," 
&.C.,  &.c.—J\ricuhoff. 

(128)  The  Demons  of  the  Persian  mythology. 

(129)  Carreri  mentions  the  fire-flies  in  India  during  the  rainj 
season.— See  his  Travels. 

(130)  Sennacherib,  called  by  the  Orientals  King  of  Moussal. 
— D'Herhetot. 

(131)  Chosroes.  For  the  descriptiou  of  his  Throne  or  Palace, 
see  Oibbon  and  D'llcrhclot. 

There  were  said  to  be  under  this  Ttirone  or  Palace  of  Khos- 
rou  Parviz  a  hundred  vaults  tilled  with  "  treasures  so  immense 
that  some  JIahometan  writers  tell  us,  their  Prophet,  to  en- 
comage  his  disciples,  carried  them  to  a  rock,  which  at  his 
command  opened,  and  gave  them  a  prospect  through  it  of  the 
treasures  of  Khosrou."—  Universal  History. 

(132)  "Tlie  crown  of  GerashiJ  is  cloudy  and  t,irni3hcd  be- 
fore the  heron  tuft  of  thy  tiu-ban."— From  one  of  the  elegies  or 
songs  in  praise  of  .All,  written  in  characters  of  gold  round  the 
gallery  of  Abbas's  tomb.— See  Chardin. 

(133)  The  beauty  of  All's  eyes  was  so  remarkable,  that  when- 
ever the  Persians  woidd  describe  any  thing  as  very  lovely,  they 
say  it  is  Ayn  Hali,  or  the  Eyes  of  .Wi.—Cliardin. 

(134)  We  are  not  told  more  of  this  trick  of  the  Impostor, 
thau  it  was  "une  machine,  qu'il  disait  4tre  la  Lune."  .Accord- 
ing to  Richardson,  the  miracle  is  perpetuated  in  Nekscheb.— 
"Nakshab,  the  namejjf  a  city  in  Transo.xiana,  where  they  say 
there  is  a  well,  in  which  the  appearance  of  the  moon  is  to  be 
seen  night  and  day." 

(13.5)  "  II  amusa  pendant  deux  mois  le  people  de  la  Tillo  de 
Nekhscheb,  en  faisant  sorlir  toutes  les  nulls  du  fond  d'ua 
puits  un  corps  lumineux  serablable  a  la  Luna,  qui  porlai* 


74 


MOOEE'S  AVOEKS. 


»  lumiere  jiisqu'a  1ft  distance  de  plasieurs  milles."— /)V/er- 
lelot.    Hence  he  was  called  Sajcudehraah,  or  Iho  Moon-maker. 

(136)  The  Shecliinah,  called  Sakinat  in  the  Korau.— See  Salens 
Xotf^  chnp.  ii. 

^137)  The  part3  of  the  night  are  made  known  as  well  by  in- 
aruments  of  music,  as  by  the  rounds  of  the  watchmen  with 
cries  and  small  drums. — See  Burder*s  Oriental  Customs,  vol.  i. 
p    1ID. 

(13S)  The  Serrapurda,  high  screens  of  red  cloth,  stiffened 
with  cane,  used  to  enclose  a  considerable  space  round  the 
royal  tents. — JVotes  on  the  Bahardauush. 

The  tents  of  Princes  were  generally  illuminated.  Norden 
tells  us,  that  the  tent  of  the  Bey  of  Girge  was  distinguished 
from  the  other  tents  by  forty  lanterns  being  suspended  before 
it. — See  Ilarmcr^s  Observations  on  Job. 

(139)  "From  the  groves  of  orange  trees  at  Kauzeroou  the 
bees  cull  a  celebrated  honey." — JHoricr^s  Travels. 

(140)  "  A  custom  still  subsisting  at  this  day,  seems  to  me  to 
prove  th:;t  the  Kg}*plian3  formerly  sacrificed  a  young  virgin  to 
lliu  Gud  of  the  Nile;  fur  they  now  make  a  statue  of  earth  in 
shape  of  n  girl,  to  whicli  they  give  the  name  of  the  Betrothed 
I^ride,  and  throw  it  into  the  river." — Saoary. 

(141)  Tliat  they  knew  the  secret  of  the  Greek  Ore  among  the 
Mussulmans  early  in  the  eleventh  century,  appears  from  Z>o(p's 
Account  of  Mamood  I.  "  When  ho  arrived  at  .Moultan,  finding 
that  the  country  of  the  Jits  was  defended  by  great  rivers,  ho 
ordered  fifteen  hundred  boats  to  be  built,  each  of  which  he 
armed  with  six  iron  spikes,  projecting  from  their  prows  and 
sides,  to  prevent  their  being  boarded  by  the  enemy,  who  were 
Tury  expert  in  that  kind  of  war.  When  he  had  launched  this 
fleet,  he  ordered  twenty  archers  into  each  boat,  nud  live  others 
with  fire-balls,  to  burn  the  craft  of  the  Jits,  and  naphtha  to  ^et 
the  whole  river  on  fire." 

The  cffnee  osfcr,  too,  in  Indian  poems  the  Instrument  of  Fire, 
whoso  flame  cannot  be  extinguished,  is  supposed  to  signify 
the  Greek  FIro.— See  IfUka^s  South  of  India,  vol.  i.  p.  471.— 
And  in  tlie  curious  Javan  poem,  the  Brata  Yudha^  given  by 
■ViV  Stamford  liafflra  in  bis  History  of  Java,  we  find,  "  Ho  aimed 
at  the  heart  of  Sotta  with  the  sharp-pointed  Weapon  of 
Fire." 

The  mention  of  gunpowder  as  in  use  nmong  the  Arabians, 
long  before  its  supposed  discovery  in  Europe,  is  introduced 
by  Ebn  Fadhl,  the  Egjptian  geographer,  who  lived  in  the  thir- 
teenth century.  "  Hodies,"  lie  says, "  in  the  form  of  scorpions, 
bound  round  and  filled  with  nitrons  powder,  glide  along, 
making  a  gentle  noise;  then,  exploding,  they  lighten,  as  it 
were,  and  burn.  Hut  th<-re  are  otht-rn  which,  c:mt  into  the  air, 
rtn-lch  along  like  n  cloud,  roaring  hurrihly,  as  thtind<*r  roars, 
and  on  oil  sides  vomiting  out  flame!i,  burst,  burn,  and  reduce 
Ui  cinders  whatever  comes  in  their  way."  The  historian  Drn 
Jlbdalln,  In  speaking  of  the  sieges  of  Abulualid  in  the  year  of 
the  Hegirn  713,  says,  "  A  flery  globe,  by  means  of  combnslible 
mntter,  with  n  mighty  nolso  nuddenly  emitted,  strikes  wtth  the 
force  of  lightning,  and  nhnkes  the  citadel."— Heo  the  extracts 
from  CaairCa  Itiblloth.  Arab.  Illftpan.  In  the  Appendix  to  lier- 
ingtotC*  Literary  History  of  tho  Middle  Agen. 

ni2)  The  Greek  Are,  which  was  occnslonnlly  lent  by  the  om- 
\fr"X*\<i  iht'lrnllleN.  **  It  was,"  says  Gibbon,  "cither  launched 
In  red-hrit  halls  of  stone  and  Iron,  or  darted  in  nrmws  atnl 
JfitcKufi,  twistt^d  rttund  with  flax  and  low,  which  had  deeply 
ImbltM-d  the  Inflammable  oil.'' 

iW'S)  S«?fl  //«nira/4  Account  of  Iho  PprlngB  of  Naphtha  nl 
lUkii  (which  U  called  liy  LUutennnl  Potttnger  Joain  MookcD, 
or.  ihi  Flaming  Mouth)  taking  fire  and  rnnnlog  Into  tlm  sea. 


Dr.  Cooke,  ia  his  Journal,  mentions  some  wells  iu  Circaasia, 
strongly  impregnated  with  this  inllaramable  oil,  from  which 
issues  boiling  water.  '*  Tlmugh  the  weather,"  he  adds,  *'  was 
now  very  cold,  the  warmth  of  these  wells  of  hot  water  pro 
duced  near  them  the  verdure  and  flowers  of  spring." 

Myor  Scott  H'ariug  says,  that  naphtha  is  usl'J  by  the  Per 
siaus,  as  we  are  told  it  was  in  la-U,  for  lamps. 

many  a  row 

Of  stany  lamps  and  bliuing  cressets,  fetl 
With  naphtha  and  asphaltus,  yielding  light 
As  from  a  sky. 

(H4)  "At  the  great  festival  of  Bre,  called  the  Shob  Sez&,  they 
used  to  set  lire  to  large  bunches  of  dry  combustibles,  fastened 
round  wild  beasts  and  birds,  which  being  then  let  looso.  the 
air  and  earth  appeared  one  groat  illumination ;  and  as  these 
terrified  creatore^  - -•---ny  fled  to  tho  woods  for  shelter,  it  is 
easy  to  conceive  the  contlagrations  they  produced."— /iicAari- 
son's  Dissertation. 

(145)  "The  righteous  shall  be  given  to  drink  of  pure  wine. 
sealed  ;  the  seal  whereof  shall  be  musk. — Koran,  chap.  Ixxxiii. 

(146)  "Tlio  Afgliauns  believe  each  of  the  numerous  solitudes 
and  deserts  of  their  country  to  be  inhabited  by  a  lonely  demon, 
whom  they  call  the  Ghoolco  Beeabau,  or  Spirit  of  the  Waste, 
They  often  illustrate  the  wilduess  of  any  sequestered  tribe,  by 
saying,  they  are  wild  as  tlio  Demon  of  the  Waste."— iC^/'/nn- 
stont'^s  Cciubuh 

(147)  "  11  donna  du  poison  dans  le  vin  i  tons  ses  gens,  et  ac 
jeta  lui-meme  ensuite  dans  une  cuvo  pleine  de  drogues  bru- 
lantes  et  consumantcs,  afin  qu^il  no  restiil  rien  de  tous  les 
mombres  de  son  corps,  et  que  ceux  qui  restaient  do  sa  secto 
puissent  cruiro  qu'il  6tait  mont*^  au  ciel,  ce  qui  no  manqua 
pas  d'arrivcr."— /^V/crftf/of. 

(148)  "They  have  all  a  great  reverence  for  burial  groimds, 
which  they  sometimes  call  by  tlie  poetical  name  of  Cities  of 
the  Silent,  and  wliich  they  people  with  the  gliosis  of  the  de- 
parted, who  sit  each  at  the  bead  of  his  own  grave,  invisible  to 
mortal  eyes." — Klphinstonc. 

(14i))  "The  celebrity  of  l\Iazagong  is  owing  to  its  mangoes, 
which  are  ct^rLaliily  the  best  fruit  1  ever  tasted.  The  parenl- 
lice.  from  which  all  those  of  this  species  have  been  gralled,  is 
honored  during  the  fruit-season  by  a  guard  of  sepiijs;  and  in 
the  reign  of  Shah  Jehan,  couriers  were  stationed  between  Delhi 
and  the  Mahratta  coast,  to  secure  an  abundant  and  fresh  supply 
of  mangoes  for  the  royal  table."— Jl/i-5.  Gi'ahanCs  Journal  of  a 
Residence  in  India. 

(I.W  This  old  porcelain  is  found  in  digging,  and  "if  it  is  es- 
teemed, it  is*  not  because  it  has  acijuire!!  any  lu'w  tlegreo  of 
beauty  In  the  earth,  but  because  It  has  retained  lis  ancient 
beauty;  and  this  alone  Is  of  great  importance  in  L'hitia,  where 
they  give  large  wutus  for  llio  smallest  vessels  which  were  used 
under  the  Emperors  Ynn  and  Chun,  who  reiicned  many  ages 
before  tho  dytui!«ly  of  Tang,  at  which  lime  ]>orceIain  V'gan  to 
ho  used  by  Iho  Emperors,"  (about  the  year  413.) — />«»»'.<  Col- 
lection of  Curious  Observations,  &c. ;— a  bad  Innishtiou  of 
some  parts  of  the  Eettres  Ediflanles  el  Curieuses  of  the  .V.ls 
slonary  Jesuit**. 

(151)  "  I.a  lecture  do  ces  Fables  plalsalt  si  Hirt  aax  Arnbes* 
que,  qunnd  Mahomet  les  rntretenall  iln  riMstolro  de  IVAncien 
Testament,  lis  1"S  m<^prinrilenl,  lul  disaul  que  relies  que  Nasiior 
lour  mconlalent  iMalent  beaucoup  plus  belles.  Celto  prAf6. 
rence  altlrri  t^  Nasser  la  mal(>dlctlon  de  Maliomet  et  de  tons  Ml 
disciples."— ////rrfrr/pr. 

(.XhT)  Ttin  binckvmlth  Gan,  who  succesufully  rotilBtud  Ibo  tjr 


LALLA  KOOKH. 


76 


rant  Zohak,  nnd  whoso  apron  became  the  Royal  Standard  of 
Psrsia. 

(153)  «Tho  Huma,  a  bird  peculiar  to  tho  Kaat.  It  is  sup- 
posed to  Hy  coiistanlly  in  the  air,  ami  never  touch  the  ground ; 
it  is  loolied  upon  as  a  bird  ol"  happy  oinL-n ;  and  that  every 
head  it  overshadows  will  in  lime  wuar  a  crown." — Richardson. 

In  the  lernia  of  alliance  made  by  Fiizzel  Oola  Khan  with 
Ilyder  in  ITPiU,  one  of  tho  stipuhiUnns  w:i8,  '-Ihat  he  should 
have  the  distinction  of  iwo  lionorary  atli'iidanls  standing  be- 
hind him,  holdiu'^  fans  compo8ed  of  the  feathers  of  the  hum- 
ma,  according  to  the  priicticG  of  his  family."— /ri/As's  South 
of  India.  He  adds  in  a  note:— "Tho  Humma  is  a  fabulous 
bird,  Tho  head  over  which  its  shadow  once  passes  will  as- 
suredly be  circled  with  a  crown.  Tlie  splendid  lillle  bird  sus- 
pended over  the  throne  of  Tippoo  Sullauii,  found  at  Perint;- 
apalain  in  1709,  was  intended  to  represent  this  poetical  fancy." 

(1j4)  ''To  the  pilgrims  to  Mount  Sinai  wo  must  attribute  the 
inscriptions,  flijures,  &c.,  on  thoso  rocks  which  have  from 
thence  acquired  the  name  of  the  Written  iMountain."— ro/nry. 
M.Cebelin  and  others  have  been  at  much  pains  to  attach  some 
mysterious  and  important  meaning  to  these  inscriptious;  but 
Niebuhr,  as  well  as  Volney,  thinks  tliat  they  must  have  been 
executed  at  idle  hours  by  tho  travellers  to  Mount  Sinai,  "who 
were  satisfied  wilh  cutting  the  unpolished  rock  with  any 
pointed  instrument;  adding  to  their  names  and  the  date  of 
iheir  journeys  some  rude  figures,  which  bespeak  the  hand  of  a 
people  but  little  skilled  in  the  atts.—J^icbukr. 

(155)  The  Story  of  Siubad. 

(15G)  See  J^oWs  Hafez,  Ode  v. 

(157)  "The  Uiimalata  (called  by  Linuatus,  Ipomeea)  is  the 
most  beautiful  of  its  order,  botb  in  the  color  and  form  of  its 
leaves  and  flowers;  its  elegant  blossoms  are  'celestial  rosy 
red.  Love's  proper  hue,'  and  have  justly  procured  it  the  name 
of  Cimalata,  or  Love's  Creeper." — Sir  IV.  Jones. 

"  CaraalatA  may  also  mean  a  mythological  plant,  by  which 
all  desires  are  granted  to  such  as  inhabit  the  heaven  of  Indra; 
and  if  ever  flower  was  worthy  of  paradise,  it  is  our  charming 
Ipomaea." — Ih. 

(158)  "According  to  Father  Premare,  in  his  tract  on  Chinese 
Mythology,  the  mother  of  Fo-bi  was  the  daughter  of  heaven, 
surnamed  Flower-loving;  and  as  the  nymph  was  walking 
alone  on  the  bank  of  a  river,  she  found  herself  encircled  by  a 
rainbow,  after  which  she  became  pregnant,  and,  at  the  end 
of  twelve  years,  was  delivered  of  a  son  radiant  as  herself." — 
Jisiat.  lies, 

(159)  "Numerous  suiall  islands  eniergo  from  tho  Lake  of 
Cashmere.  One  is  called  Char  Chenaur,  from  the  plane-trees 
upon  it." — Foster. 

(IfiO)  "The  Altan  Kol  or  Golden  River  of  Tibet,  which  runs 
into  the  Lakes  of  Sing-su-hay,  has  abimdance  of  gold  in  its 
sands,  which  employs  the  inhabitants  all  tho  summer  in 
gathering  it." — Description  of  Tibet  in  Pinhcrton. 

(IGl)  "The  Brahmins  of  this  province  insist  that  the  blue 
campac  flowers  only  in  Paradise." — Sir  Jf.  Jones.  It  appears, 
however,  from  a  curious  letter  of  the  Sultan  of  Menaugcabow, 
given  by  Marsden,  that  one  place  on  earth  may  lay  claim  to 
the  posstission  of  it.  "This  is  the  Sultan,  who  keeps  the 
flower  champaka  that  is  blue,  and  to  be  found  lu  no  other 
country  but  hia,  being  yellow  elsewhere." — Marsdeii's  Su- 
raatia. 

(1G2)  "The  Mahometans  suppose  that  falling  stars  are  the 
••■ebrands  wherewith  tho  good  angels  drive  away  the  bad. 


when  they  approach  too  near  the  empyrean  or  verg*!  of  the 

heavens." — Fryer, 

(163)  The  Forty  Pilhirs;  so  the  Persians  call  tlie  ruins  of 
Persepolis.  It  is  imagined  by  them  that  this  palace  and  the 
edifices  at  Balbec  were  buill  by  Genii,  for  tho  purpose  of 
hiding  in  their  subterraneous  caverns  immense  treas'ires, 
which  still  remain  i\n;re.—D^ Jfcrbdot^  Vulncy. 

(ir>4)  Diodorus  mentions  tho  Is!e  of  Panchaia,  to  tho  south 
of  Arabia  Felix,  where  there  was  a  tomjtlc  of  Jupiter.  This 
island,  or  rather  cluster  of  isles,  has  disappeared,  "sunk  (says 
Grandpre)  in  the  abyss  made  by  the  fire  beneath  tlieir  founda- 
tions,"— Voyage  t,9  the  Indian  Ocean. 

(163)  The  Iplcsof  PanclKiia. 

(IGC)  "The  cup  of  Jamshid,  discovered,  ihoy  say,  v.-hen 
digging  for  the  foundations  of  Persepolis."— /iicAart/jfon. 

(107)  "  It  is  not  like  tho  Sea  of  India,  whoso  bottom  is  rich 
with  pearls  and  ambergris,  whoso  mountains  of  the  coast  are 
stored  with  gold  and  precious  stones,  whose  gtdfs  breed 
creatures  that  yield  ivory,  and  among  tho  plants  of  whose 
shores  are  ebony,  red  wood,  and  the  wood  of  Ilairzan,  aloes, 
camphor,  cloves,  sandal-wood,  and  all  other  spices  and  aro- 
matics;  where  parrots  and  peacocks  are  birds  of  the  forest, 
and  musk  and  civet  are  collected  upon  tho  lands." — TVavels 
of  two  Muhamvicdans. 

(1G8) in  the  ground 

Tlie  bended  twigs  take  root,  and  daughters  grow 

About  the  mother-tree,  a  pillared  shade, 

High  overarcb'd,  and  eclioing  walks  between.— Milton, 

For  a  particular  description  and  plate  of  the  Banyan-troe, 
see  Cordiner^s  Ceylon. 

(169)  "With  this  immense  treasure  Mahraood  returnea  to 
Ghizni,  and  in  the  year  400  prepared  a  magnificent  festival, 
where  he  displayed  to  the  people  his  wealth  in  golden  thrones 
and  in  other  ornaments,  in  a  great  plain  without  the  city  of 
Ghizni." — Fcrishtn. 

(170)  "Mahmood  of  Gazna,  or  Cliizni,  who  conquered  India 
in  the  beginning  of  the  llth  century."— See  his  History  in  Doia 
and  Sir  J.  Malcolm. 

(171)  "  It  is  reported  that  tho  hunting  equipage  of  the  Sultan 
Mahmood  was  so  magnificent,  that  he  kept  400  greyhounds  and 
bloodhounds,  each  of  which  wore  a  cnlhir  set  with  jewels,  and 
a  covering  edged  with  gold  and  pearls." — Universal  History^ 
vol.  iii. 

(172)  Objections  may  be  made  to  my  use  of  the  v/ord  Liberty 
in  this,  and  more  especially  in  the  story  thai  follows  it,  as 
totally  inapplicable  to  any  state  of  Ihin^-s  that  has  ever  existed 
in  the  East;  but  though  I  cannot,  of  course,  mean  to  employ 
it  in  that  enlai'ged  and  noble  sense  which  is  so  well  understood 
at  the  present  day,  and,  I  grieve  to  say,  so  lillle  acted  upon, 
yet  it  is  no  disparagement  to  the  word  to  apply  it  to  that 
national  independence,  that  freedom  from  the  interference 
and  dictation  of  foreigne'*B,  without  v/hich,  indeed,  no  liberty 
of  any  kind  can  exist ;  and  for  which  both  Hindoos  and  Per- 
sians fought  against  their  Mussulman  invaders  with,  in  many 
cases,  a  bravery  that  deserved  much  better  success. 

(173)  "The  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  or  the  Montes  Lunce  of 
antiquity,  at  the  foot  of  which  the  Nile  is  supposed  to  arise." 
— Bruce. 

"Sometimes  c'lled,"  saj's  Jaclison^  "Jibbel  Kurarie,  or  the 
-vhite  »r  lunar-colored  mountains ;  so  a  white  horse  is  called 
by  the  Arabians  a  moon-colored  horse." 


76 


MOOEE'S  WOBKS. 


f^lTJ)  "The  XUc,  which  the  Abyasiniaus  know  ty  the  names 
of  Abcy  and  Alawy,  or  the  Giant."— .'?ita(.  Research,  vol.  i. 
P.3S7. 

(175)  See  Perry's  View  of  the  Levant  for  an  account  of  the 
sepulchres  in  Tpper  Thebes,  and  the  numberless  grots  covered 
all  over  with  hiL-roglyphics  in  the  mountains  of  Upper  Egjpt. 

(176)  "The  orchards  of  Kosetla  are  filled  with  turtle-doves/* 
— SonniTti. 

(177)  Savarj'  mentions  the  pelicans  upon  Lake  Mteris. 

(J78>  "The  s'.iperb  date-tree,  whose  head  languidly  reclines, 
like  that  of  a  handsome  woman  overcome  with  sleep." — 
Dafard  el  ffi.laJ. 

(179)  **Thal  beautiful  bird,  with  plumage  of  the  flnest  shi- 
i>i;r^  blue,  with  purple  beak  and  legs,  the  natural  and  living 
or.i.'  :vjnt  of  the  temples  and  palaces  of  the  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans, which,  from  the  statcliness  of  its  port,  as  well  as  the 
brilliancy  of  its  colors,  has  obtained  the  title  of  Sultana.*' — 
Simnmi. 

(180)  Jackson,  speaking  of  the  plague  that  occurred  in  West 
IJorbarj",  when  he  was  there,  says.  "The  birds  of  the  air  fled 
away  from  the  iibodcs  of  men.  The  hyaenas,  on  the  contrary, 
visited  the  cemeteries,"  &.c. 

(181)  "  Gondar  was  full  of  hyaenas  from  the  time  it  turned 
dark,  till  the  dawn  of  day,  seeking  the  dilTerent  pieces  of 
slaughtered  carcasses,  which  this  cruel  and  unclean  people 
expose  in  the  streets  without  burial,  and  who  firmly  believe 
that  these  animals  are  Falashta  Irom  the  neighboring  moun- 
tains, transformed  by  magic,  and  come  down  to  eat  human 
flesh  in  tho  dark  in  safety." — Bruce, 

(IBS)  Ibid. 

(183)  This  circumstance  has  been  often  introduced  into  poe- 
Iry— by  Vinccnllus  Fabricius,  by  Darwin,  and  lately,  with  very 
powerful  effect,  by  Mr.  \ViI?on. 

(184)  *•  In  (he  East,  they  suppose  the  I'lurnix  ti)  have  fifty 
orillcea  in  hia  bill,  which  arc  continued  to  his  tail;  and  that, 
after  living  one  thousand  years,  he  builds  himself  a  funeral 
pile,  eings  a  melodious  air  of  dilTerent  harmonic!)  tlirough  his 
liny  organ  pipes,  flaps  his  wings  with  a  velocity  which  sets  lire 
Vt  the  wooti,  ami  consumes  himself."— /itcAart/^on. 

(IR.">)  "On  the  shores  of  a  quadrangular  lake  stand  a  thou- 
sand gobliits,  made  of  stura,  out  of  which  aoula  predestined  to 
rnjoy  felicity  drink  the  cryulal  wave."— From  Chdtcaubrtanii\i 
Description  of  the  Mahomcttin  Paradise,  iu  his  Beauties  of 
Chriglianitt/, 

(18G)  RIcliardiion  tliinks  that  Pyrla  hud  Its  nnme  from  Suri, 
ft  beautiful  and  delicate  species  of  roHC,  for  which  that  country 
has  been  always  famous ;— hence,  Hurlstan,  the  Land  of  Rosea. 

(187)  "Tlie  number  of  liznrds  I  aaw  one  day  In  tho  great 
sourl  of  tho  Temple  of  the  !^un  at  Halbec  amounted  to  many 
IhuiiMinds;  tho  ground,  tho  wnlls,  ami  stones  of  the  rulm-d 
building,  vrcro  covered  with  them."— /;rucr. 

(188)  "Tlio  HjTlnx,  or  Pan*B  pipe,  Is  still  a  pasloral  Inntru- 
nent  in  Hyrla."— /Jim**/. 

M80)  "  Wild  been,  fri-qucnt  In  Pnh>»tlno,  In  hnlluw  tnmka  or 
branrJus  of  Uttn,  ami  the  clefts  of  the  rocks.  Tl»un  It  Ik  said, 
rl'ulm  \xxx\-,)  *  hunry  out  of  iht  $tony  rock.''  "-~Burder*$  OrXcn- 
Ul  Cuvloms. 


(190)  "The  river  Jordan  is  ou  both  sides  beset  with  iittlOj 
thick,  and  pleasant  woods,  among  which  thousands  of  night- 
ingales warblo  all  togethei."— TAcrcny(. 

(101)  The  Temple  of  the  Sun  at  Balbec. 

(19J)  '•  You  behold  there  a  considerable  number  of  a  remark- 
able species  of  beautiful  insects,  the  elegance  of  whose  appear- 
ance and  their  attire  procured  for  them  the  name  of  Damsels.'* 
—'Sonnini. 

(193)  Imaret,  '*  hospice  oii  on  logo  et  noiuTit,  gratis,  les  pi'^1^ 
rins  pendant  trois  jours." — Todcrint\  translated  by  the  Abbe  ds 
Cournatid. — See  also  Castclian''s  Mcsura  des  Olhomans,  torn  v. 
p.  145. 

(194)  *'i;uch  Turks  as  at  the  common  hours  of  piayrr  are  on 
the  road,  or  so  cinplujcd  as  ii<>\  to  find  conveiiiouce  to  ntleud 
the  mosques,  are  still  obliged  to  exL-cule  that  duty;  nor  are 
they  ever  known  to  fail,  whatever  business  tliey  are  then  about, 
but  pray  immediately  when  the  hour  alarms  them,  whatever  they 
are  i.bout,  in  that  very  j)lace  they  cliance  to  stand  on ;  insomuch 
that  when  a  janizary,  whom  you  have  to  guard  you  up  and 
down  the  city,  hears  the  notice  which  is  given  him  from  (he 
steeples,  ho  will  turn  about,  stand  still,  and  beckon  with  his 
hand,  to  tell  his  charge  ho  must  have  patienci?  for  a  while, 
when,  taking  out  his  handkerchief,  he  spreads  it  on  tlu;  grouml, 
sits  cross-legged  thereupon,  and  says  his  prayers,  though  in  tho 
open  market,  which  having  ended,  he  leaps  briskly  up,  salutes 
tlie  person  whom  he  undertook  to  convey,  and  renews  hia 
journey  with  the  mild  expression  of  Ohell  ffchnnum  ffhcH, 
or,  Come,  dear,  follov/  me." — Aaron  IliU's  Travels. 

(195)  The  Nucta,  or  Miraculous  Drop,  which  falls  in  Egypl 
precisely  on  St.  John's  day,  in  June,  iind  is  supposed  to  have 
the  eOcct  of  stopping  the  plague. 

(19G)  Tlio  Countrj-  of  Delight— the  name  of  a  province  in  tho 
kingdom  of  Jinnislan,  or  Fairy  ».nntt,  the  capital  of  wliict 
Is  called  the  City  of  Jewels.  Amberabad  is  another  of  th*> 
titles  of  Jinuislan. 

(197)  Tho  treo  Tooba,  Ihat  stands  in  Paradise,  in  the  palace 
of  .Mahomet.  Soo  Sale's  Prelim.  Disc. — ^Tooba,  says  D^Ucr- 
bc'tity  slgiiines  beatitude,  or  eternal  happiness. 

(198)  Ulahouict  is  described,  In  the  CM  eluipler  of  the  Koran, 
as  having  seen  tho  angel  (iabriel  "  hy  the  Iote-trei»,  boytuid 
which  there  is  uo  passing:  near  it  is  tlie  Garden  of  Fternal 
Abode."  This  tree,  say  the  commontalorrt,  atiuuls  in  the  sev 
enth  Heaven,  on  the  right  hand  of  the  Throne  of  God. 

(199)  "It  is  said  that  tho  i-ivers  or  streams  of  Pnsra  were 
reckoned  in  the  time  of  Pelal  hen  Abi  Itordeh,  and  tiniounted 
to  tho  number  of  ono  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  streamit." 
—Kbn  JJaukal. 

(200)  The  name  of  tho  javelin  with  which  the  Kasterns  exer- 
cise.   See  Casteilan-t  JUaurs  den  UthotnnnSj  toni.  iii.  p.  Ittl. 

(201)  -'This  account  excited  a  <le<!ilre  of  vl!«lting  tho  Hanyan 
llnspital,  as  I  lind  heard  much  (ff  their  benevolence  to  all 
klnda  of  nnlmah  Ihnt  were  either  alck,  lame,  or  Inlhrn,  llirougli 
ago  or  nccldent.  On  my  tirrivnl,  there  were  prenciitcd  to  my 
view  mnny  homes,  cows,  and  oxen,  In  ono  apnrtment;  in 
nmithor,  dog«,  oheep,  gonlN,  and  monkeys,  with  clean  Mraw  for 
them  to  repoHO  on.  Above  slntrH  were  depositories  for  soedii 
of  nituiy  xorln,  and  flot,  broad  dltthcH  for  w.nle.'  foi  the  uno 
of  tjlrd»  ami  ln*<'rls." — faraon'M  Travelt*. 

It  In  t>idd  thrit  all  aninmls  know  thi!  Itauynnu,  thiit  tho  moat 
Ihuid  approach  them,  and  that  birds  will  tly  nearer  to  tlicn 
thiin  to  oilier  people.— Heo  Grandpri, 


LALLA  EOOKH. 


77 


(202)  "  A  vcrj"  Trjigrant  grass  from  the  banks  of  the  Ganges, 
near  lle-idw;tr,  which  in  soiiu!  places  covers  wiiolo  acres,  and 
diffuses,  when  crushed,  a  stioiig  odor,"— iiir  fV.  Jones  on  tho 
Spikenard  of  the  Ancienls. 

C::03)  "Near  this  is  a  curious  hill,  called  Koh  Talism,  the 
Mountain  of  the  Talianian,  hucauao,  according  to  tho  traditions 
of  tho  country,  no  person  ever  succeeded  in  gaining  its  suni- 
niit." — h'inncir. 

(204)  "Tho  Arabians  believe  that  Iho  ostriches  hatch  Iheir 
young  by  only  looking  at  them.*' — /'.  yansUbe^  Hdat.  iVEgyptc, 

(205)  See  SaWs  Karav^  note,  vol.  ii.  p.  484. 
(2fl0)  Oriental  Tales. 

(207)  Ferishta.  "Or  rather,"  says  Scott^  upon  the  passage 
of  Ferishta.  from  which  this  is  taken,  "small  coins,  stamped 
with  the  figure  of  a  flower.  They  are  slill  used  in  India  to 
distribute  in  charily,  and,  on  occasion,  thrown  by  the  purse- 
bearers  of  tho  great  among  the  populace." 

(208)  The  fine  road  made  by  the  Emperor  Jchan-Guire  from 
Agra  to  Lahore,  planted  Willi  trees  on  each  side.  This  road 
13  250  leagues  in  length.  It  has  "■  little  pyramids  or  turrets," 
says  lientitry  "erected  every  half  league,  to  mark  the  ways, 
and  frequent  wells  to  afford  drink  to  passengers,  and  to  water 
the  young  trees." 

(209)  "The  Baya,  or  Indian  Gross-beak."— 5i>  fT.  Jones. 

(210)  "Here  is  a  large  pagoda  by  a  tank,  on  the  water  of 
which  float  multitudes  of  the  beautiful  red  lotus:  the  flower  is 
larger  than  that  of  the  wliite  water-lily,  and  is  tho  most  lov^jly 
of  the  nyrapha'as  I  have  seen."— JJ/rs.  QrahaiiCs  Journal  of  a 
Resideuce  in  India. 

(211)  "  On  les  voit  pers^cut^s  par  les  Khalifes  so  retirer  dans 
les  montagnea  du  Kerraan ;  plusieurs  choisirent  pour  retraite 
la  Tarl^irie  et  la  Chine  ;  d'autres  s'arretercnt  sur  les  bords  du 
Gauge,  a  Test  de  Delhi."~.V.  AnquctU.,  Mtmoires  do  I'Acad^. 
mie,  torn.  xxxi.  p.  .'14G. 

(212)  The  "  Agcr  ardens"  described  by  Kcmpfcr,  Ammnitat. 
ExoU 

(213)  "Cashmere  (says  its  historians)  had  its  own  princes 
1000  years  before  its  conquest  by  Akbar  in  1585.  Akbar  woukl 
have  found  some  diflicully  to  reduce  this  paradise  of  the  In- 
dies,  situated  as  il  is  within  such  a  fortress  of  mountains,  but 
its  monarch,  Vusuf-Khan,  was  basely  betrayed  by  hisUmrahs." 
— Pennant. 

(214)  Voltaire  tells  us  that  in  his  Tragedy,  "Les  Guebres," 
he  was  generally  supposed  to  have  alhided  to  tho  Jansenists. 
[  should  not  be  surprised  if  this  story  of  the  Fire-worshippers 
were  found  capable  of  a  similar  doubleness  of  application. 

(215)  The  Persian  Gulf,  sometimes  so  called^  which  separates 
the  shores  of  Persia  and  Arabia. 

(2IG)  The  present  Gombaroon,  a  town  on  tho  Persian  aide 
uf  the  Gulf. 

(217)  A  Moorish  instrument  of  music. 

(21P)  "  At  Gombaroon  and  other  places  in  Persia,  they  have 
towers  for  the  purpose  of  catching  the  wind,  and  cooling  the 
houses." — Le  Bruyn. 

(219)  "Iran  is  tho  true  general  namo  for  the  empire  of 
Persia."— .-ijiat.  Rea.^  Disc,  5, 


(220)  "On  the  blades  of  their  cimcters  somo  verse  from  tUa 
Koran  is  usually  inscribed."— /^ussf;. 

(221)  "There  is  a  kind  of  Rhododendrns  about  Trebiznnd, 
whose  flowers  the  bee  feeds  upon,  and  llie  honey  thence  drivei 
people  mad." — Toumifort. 

(222)  "Their  kings  wear  plumes  of  black  herons'  feathen 
upon  the  right  side,  as  a  badge  of  sovereignty." — Ilanway. 

(223)  "The  Founlaiu  of  Youth,  by  a  Mahometan  tradition,  is 
situated  in  some  dark  region  of  tho  East." — liichard.ion. 

(224)  Arabia  Felix. 

(225)  "In  the  midst  of  the  garden  is  tho  chiosk,  that  is,  a 
largo  room,  commonly  beaiitilled  with  a  flue  fountain  in  the 
midst  of  it.  It  is  raised  nine  or  ton  steps,  and  enclosed  with 
gilded  lattices,  round  which  vines,  jessamine?,  and  lume}- 
suckles,  make  a  surt  of  green  wall;  large  trees  are  planted 
round  this  place,  which  is  tho  scene  of  their  greatest  plea 
sures.'" — J^adij  M,  iV.  .Montagu, 

(226)  The  women  of  the  East  are  never  without  their  look- 
ing-glasses. "In  Barbary,"  says  S1i\ip^ -'•Wxcy  are  so  fond  of 
their  looking-glasses,  which  they  hang  upon  their  breasts,  that 
they  will  not  lay  them  aside,  even  when  alter  the  drudgery  of 
the  day  they  are  obliged  to  go  two  or  three  miles  with  a  pitcher 
or  a  goat's  skin  to  fetch  water." — Travels. 

In  other  parts  of  Asia  they  wear  little  looking-glasses  on 
their  thumbs.    "Hence  (and  from  the  lotas  being  considered 
the  emblem  of  beauty;  is  the  meaning  of  the  following  mut« 
intercourse  of  two  lovers  before  their  parents:^ 
"  •  He  with  salute  of  dof 'rence  due, 
A  lotus  to  his  forehead  press'd  ; 
She  raised  her  mirror  to  his  view. 
Then  turn'd  it  inward  to  her  breast.'" 

-Asiatic  Miscellany^  vol.  li. 

(227)  "They  say  that  if  a  snake  or  serpent  fix  hisejcs  on  the 
lustre  of  those  stones,  (emeralds,)  ho  immediately  becomes 
blind." — Ahmed  ben  Abdalaziz^  Treatise  on  Jewels. 

(228)  "  At  Gombaroon  and  the  Isle  of  Ormus  it  is  soraetimeg 
so  hot,  that  the  people  are  obliged  to  lie  all  day  in  the  water." 
— Marco  Polo. 

(229)  This  mountain  is  generally  supposed  to  be  inaccessible 
Struij  says,  *'  I  can  well  assure  the  reader  that  their  opinion  is 
not  true,  who  suppose  this  mount  to  be  inaccessible."  He 
adds,  that  "the  lower  part  of  the  nioiinlain  is  cloudy,  misty, 
and  dark,  the  middlemost  p;irt  very  cold,  and  like  clouds  of 
S[]ow,  but  the  upper  regions  perfectly  calm."' — It  was  on  this 
mouirtain  that  the  Aik  was  suppijsed  to  have  restL^d  alter  the 
Deluge,  and  part  of  it,  they  say,  exists  there  still,  wliich  J-'truy 
thus  gravely  accounts  for :—"  Whereas  none  can  remember 
that  tlie  air  on  the  top  of  the  hill  did  ever  change  or  was  sul)- 
ject  either  to  wind  or  rain,  which  is  pres;nned  to  be  the  re;i- 
son  that  tho  Ark  has  endured  su  long  withoi:t  being  rotten."^ 
See  CarrcrCs  Travels,  where  the  doctor  laugh.'  at  this  whole 
account  of  Mount  Ararat. 

(230)  In  one  of  the  books  of  the  Shah  Nameh,  when  Zal  (a 
celebrated  hero  of  Persi.a,  remarkable  for  his  white  hair) 
comes  to  the  terrace  of  his  mistress  Rodahver  at  night,  she 
lets  down  her  long  tresses  to  assist  him  in  his  ascent;— he, 
however,  manages  it  in  a  less  romaritic  way,  by  fixing  his 
crook  in  a  projecting  beam. — See  Chatnpion''s  Ferdosi. 

(231)  "  On  the  lofty  hills  of  Arabia  Petrsa  are  ri>ck-goat3."— 
J^'Ubiihr. 

(232)  "  Canim,  espece  de  psaltfirion,  avec  dea  cordes  de  boj 


78 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


aux ;  lea  dames  en  touchent  dang  lo  s^rail,  avec  dea  d^cailles 
armees  de  poinles  de  cooc." — Toderini^  trans,  by  De  CournaniL 

(233)  "They  (Ihe  Ghebers"!  lay  ao  much  slresa  on  their 
ca9hee,  or  girdle,  as  cot  to  dare  to  be  an  instant  without  it." — 
Groses  Voyage. — *' Le  jcme  hoinrae  nia  d'abord  la  chose; 
mais.  uyant  6ie  d6pouiII6  de  sa  robe,  et  la  large  ceinlure  qu'il 
portiil  corame  Ghebre,''  &c.  Ate— jy'/fcric/o/,  art  Agduani. 
"Pour  8C  distinsruer  des  Idolutres  de  I'lnde,  les  Guubres  se 
cei^ent  tons  d'un  cordon  du  laine,  on  de  poii  do  chamcau."— 
Encyclopedie  Fran-aise. 

D'Uerbelot  says  this  belt  was  generally  of  leather. 

(:!34)  *-They  s:ippo3e  the  Throne  of  the  Almi'^hty  is  seated 
in  the  sun,  and  hence  Ihi-ir  worship  of  that  himiiiary." — Han- 
tpi'j.  "  As  lo  lire,  the  (Jbebera  place  the  sprin'^-head  of  it  in 
that  irlobe  of  lire,  the  Sun,  by  thorn  callt-d  Mjlbrns,  or  Mihir, 
to  which  they  pay  the  hifrhest  reverence,  in  gratitude  for  the 
manifold  benefits  flowini?  from  its  ministerial  omniscience. 
But  Uiey  are  so  far  from  conroundimr  Im*  suburJination  of  the 
Servant  with  tlie  majesly  of  its  Creator,  that  they  not  only  at- 
tribute no  sort  of  sense  or  reasoning  to  llie  sun  or  fire,  in  any 
of  its  operations,  but  consider  it  as  a  purely  passive  blind  in- 
elrument.  directed  and  governed  by  the  immediate  impression 
on  it  of  the  will  of  God;  but  they  do  not  even  give  that  lumi- 
nary, iill-glorioiis  as  it  is,  more  tlian  tlic  second  rank  araongst 
his  works,  reserving  the  first  for  tliat  stupendous  production  of 
"iivi29  power,  tlie  mind  of  man." — Qrose.  Tiie  false  charges 
brought  against  the  rehgion  of  these  people  by  their  Mussul- 
mr.a  lyranls  is  but  one  proof  among  many  of  the  truth  of  this 
writer's  remark,  that  "calumny  is  often  added  to  oppression, 
If  but  for  the  sake  of  justifying  it." 

(23.>)  "The  Mamelukes  that  were  in  the  other  boat,  when  it 
#xs  dark  used  to  shoot  up  a  sort  of  fiery  arrows  into  Iho  air, 
which  in  some  measure  resembled  litihtning  or  falling  stars."— 
liaumgnrten, 

(236»  "  Within  the  enclosure  which  surrounds  this  monument 
(.at  (jualior)  is  a  small  tomb  to  the  memory  of  Tan-Sein.  a  mu- 
Bician  of  incomparable  skill,  who  Hourisheil  at  the  court  of  Ak- 
bar.  The  tomb  is  overshadowed  by  a  tree,  concerning  which 
n  nuperstitious  notion  prevails,  that  the  chewing  of  its  leaves 
will  give  an  extraordinary  melody  to  tho  voice." — .Yarrativr 
of  a  Journnj  from  .^^ra  to  Ou:rtn,  by  IV.  Jluntrr^  Esq, 

(237>  "  his  usual  to  place  a  small  white  triangular  (lag,  fixed 
tu  a  baniboi>  staff  of  ten  or  twelve  feet  long,  at  tho  place  where 
n  lig)->rh:is  destroyed  a  man.  It  is  common  for  the  passengers 
also  to  throw  each  a  Mtone  or  brick  near  the  spot,  so  that  in 
the  coufM!  of  a  little  time  a  pile  equal  to  a  good  wagon-load  is 
collecleil.  The  siu'ht  of  these  fiags  an<l  piles  of  stones  imparts 
a  certain  melancholy,  not  perhaps,  altogether  void  of  appre- 
hension.**—Ori«n/a/  FieJd  Sportt,  vol.  H. 

r^nP)  ''Tho  FiciiM  Imlica  Is  called  tho  Pagod  Tren  an  I  Tree 
of  Councils;  the  first,  from  tho  ldi»N  placed  under  its  shade ; 
thn  second,  becnuio  meetings  wi-ro  held  under  Its  cool 
hnmcheii.  Tn  some  places  it  ie  bellevod  to  bu  the  Imunt  of 
■peclres.  M  (he  ancient  i*prending  oaks  of  Wales  have  been  of 
fairies;  |[i  olherf  are  erected  beneath  11m.'  shade,  pillars  of  Mlnne, 
•JT  poitl^,  ele;:antty  carved,  and  ornamonled  with  the  most  beau* 
llful  porcelain  lo  supply  tho  tiso  of  mirrors."— rennanf. 

r2ri9»  Tho  PeMian  Giilf.— "To  Jlvo  for  pearls  In  tho  Green 
Bna,  or  Pemian  Gulf."— Vir  IV,  Jontg, 

(940)  Ifllands  tn  (he  Gulf. 

<3M»  OrHclemeh,  Iho  genuine  name  of  the  hen  llnml  at  the 
intrancA  of  the  Gulf,  commonly  called  Cnpo  Musnoldom. 
*T>(f  In'lians  whon  Ihrfjr  pau  tho  promoDtory,  throw  cocoa- 


nuts,  fruits,  or  flowers  into  tho  sea,  to  secure  a  propitiouB  voy- 
age."— ,Morier. 

f^-12)  "The  nightingale  sings  from  the  pomegranate-groves 
in  the  day-time,  and  from  the  loftiest  trees  at  nights."— iiu^scTa 
Aleppo. 

('242)  In  speaking  of  the  climate  of  Shiraz,  Francklin  says, 
"The  dew  is  of  such  a  pure  nature,  that  if  the  brightest  cimetcr 
should  be  exposed  to  it  all  night,  it  would  not  receive  the  least 
rust." 

(2-14)  The  place  where  the  Persians  were  finally  defeated  hr 
the  Arabs,  and  their  ancient  monarchy  destroyed. 

(■245)  Dorbend.— "■  Les    Turcs    appelent    celte    ville    Demii 
Capi,  Porte  de  Fer ;  ce  sent  les  Caspiu;  Portie  des  anciena." 
D'Hcrbe/vt, 

(■2tG)  The  Talpot  or  Talipot  tree.  "This  beautiful  palm-tree, 
which  grows  in  the  heart  of  Ihe  forests,  may  be  classed  among 
tho  loftiest  trees,  and  becomes  still  higher  when  on  tho  point 
of  bursting  forth  from  its  leafy  summit.  The  sheath  wliich 
then  envelopes  tho  flower  is  very  large,  and  when  it  bursts, 
makes  an  explosion  like  the  report  of  a  cannon."— y/ii/Tt&rr^. 

(247)  "  When  ihe  bright  cimeters  make  the  eyes  of  our  be 
roes  wink." — The  Moailakat,  Poem  of  Amra. 

(218)  Tahmuras,  and  other  ancient  kings  of  Persia;  whose 
adventures  in  Fairy-land  among  the  Peris  and  Divca  may  bo 
found  in  Richanlson's  curious  Dissertation.  The  grillhi  Si 
moorgh,  they  say.  took  somo  feathers  from  her  breast  for  Tah- 
muras, with  which  he  adorned  his  helmet,  and  t!-an&ir.;;tud 
them  afterwards  to  his  descendants. 

(,219)  This  rivulet,  says  Dandini,  is  called  the  Holy  River  from 
the  "cedar-saints"  among  which  it  rises. 

In  the  iMtres  F.difiantfs^  there  is  a  difierent  cause  assigned 
for  its  name  of  Holy.  "In  these  are  deep  caverns,  which  for- 
merly served  as  so  many  cells  for  a  great  number  of  recluses, 
who  had  chosen  these  retreats  as  the  luily  witnesses  upon  earth 
of  the  severity  of  their  penance.  Tho  tears  of  these  pious 
penitents  gave  tho  river  of  which  wo  have  just  treated  tho 
name  of  tlio  Holy  Utver." — See  Chdteaubriand''s  Deautir>H  nf 
Christianity. 

(250)  This  ruownlaiu  is  niy  own  rreiilion,  as  the  »'slupiMulo:i!» 
chain,"  of  wliicli  I  s  ippose  it  a  link,  doe^  n  it  exleuil  quite  so 
far  as  the  shores  of  the  Pi-rsian  t.'idf.  "Tliis  long  and  lofty 
range  of  mountains  rormerly  divided  Mediit  from  Assyria,  and 
now  forms  tlie  bornidary  of  the  Persian  and  Turkish  emi)irps. 
It  runs  parallel  with  the  river  Tigris  and  Persian  Gulf,  and  al- 
most disappearing  in  the  vieinily  of  tlomberoou,  (.Harmozln,) 
seems  once  inoi'e  to  rise  In  the  southern  districts  of  Kcrman, 
and  following  an  easterly  course  through  (Iih  centre  of  Meek* 
raun  and  llalouchistaii,  is  entirely  lost  in  Ihe  deserts  of  Sindo." 
—  h'innur\i  Persian  Empire. 

('iTfl)  These  birds  steep  In  tint  air.  They  are  most  common 
about  the  Capo  nf  Good  Hope. 

r2.'p2>  "There  Is  an  extraordinary  hill  In  this  neiuhborhoiid 
called  Kohe  Giihr.  or  Ihe  Guelire's  moinilaln.  It  rijtes  In  tm 
form  of  a  lofty  cupola,  and  on  the  s  nnrnil  i>f  it,  they  pny.  nrr 
the  remains  of  an  Atush  Kudu,  or  Fire  Temple.  It  Is  Hiipir* 
stilioiisly  held  to  bo  tho  residence  of  Deeves  or  Sprilen,  and 
many  mnrvelloin  storloit  are  recounted  of  the  injury  and  witch- 
craft sufTi'red  by  those  who  epi<iayed  In  former  dayr*  lo  ascend  or 
explore  it."— /V^in^rr'*  IteloochiKtan. 

('J'>3>  Tho  Ghebers  generally  built  their  loiuple«  i  ;oi  iuM«r 
raneouf  flro*. 


LALLA  KOOKn. 


79 


(in4)  "  At  the  city  of  Yozd,  in  Peraia,  which  ia  distinguished 
by  Ihn  appclliiliun  of  Ihi;  i»;in'ib  Ab:idut,  or  Seat  uf  Religion, 
the  (Im-biL's  are  pprrmlti-d  to  have  tm  Attish  Kudu  or  Tiro 
Temple  (wliich,  tliry  assert,  nas  hud  the  sacred  Iho  in  it  einco 
the  days  of  Zoroaster)  in  Itieir  own  compartment  of  the  city; 
but  for  tliis  indid^euce  they  arc  indebted  to  the  avarice,  not 
the  tolerance  of  tbo  Persian  i^ovcrnment,  which  taxes  them  at 
Iwenty-flvc  rupees  cacli  num."—  I'ottingcr''s  Beloochiatan. 

(355)  Ancient  heroes  of  Persia.  "Among  the  Cucbres  there 
are  some,  who  boast  their  descent  from  Uustam."— -S'/r/jAtn's 
Persia. 

(25G)  ^ce  Kussel's  account  of  tlie  panther's  attnckin? 
travellers  in  tlio  night  on  the  aca-slioro  about  tho  routs  of 
Lebanon. 

(257)  "  Among  other  ceremonies  tho  Magi  used  to  place 
upon  the  tops  of  high  towers  various  kinds  of  rich  viands,  upon 
which  it  was  supposed  the  Peris  and  the  spirits  of  thoir  de- 
parted heroes  regaled  themselves,"— iifcAarf/son. 

(S58)  Tn  tho  ceremonies  of  the  Ghcbcrs  round  their  Fire,  as 
described  by  Lord,  "the  Daroo,"  he  says,  "giveth  them  water 
to  drink,  and  a  pomegranate  leaf  to  chew  in  tho  mouth,  to 
Jleanse  Ihem  from  inward  uncleannessJ' 

(250)  "Early  in  the  morning,  they  (the  Parsees  or  Ghebers 
at  Ouhmi)  go  in  crowds  to  pay  their  devotions  to  the  Sun,  to 
whom  upon  all  tho  altars  there  are  spheres  consecrated,  mado 
by  iniigic,  resembling  the  circles  of  the  sun,  and  when  the  sun 
ri?es,  these  orbs  seem  to  be  inflamed,  and  to  turn  round  with  a 
great  noise.  They  have  every  one  a  censer  in  their  hands,  and 
oflbr  incense  to  the  sun." — Rabbi  Benjamin. 

(260)  "Nul  d'entre  eux  oserait  ae  parjurer,  quand  il  a  pris  i 
ttmoin  cet  tiOment  terrible  et  vengeur."— ^rtcf/dwjo.  Francaisc. 

(261)  "  A  vivid  verdure  succeeds  the  autumnal  rains,  and  the 
ploughed  fields  arc  covered  with  tlic  Persian  lily,  of  a  resplen- 
dent yellow  color." — Russefs  Aleppo. 

(263)  "U  is  observed,  with  respect  to  the  Sea  of  Ilerkend, 
that  when  it  is  tossed  by  tempestuous  winds  it  sparkles  lilte 
fli*e." — Travels  of  two  Mohammedans. 

(363>  A  kind  of  trumpet ;— it  "  was  that  used  by  Tamerlane, 
the  sound  of  whfch  is  described  as  uncommonly  dreadful,  and 
«io  loud  as  to  be  heard  at  the  distance  of  several  miles." — 
Richardson, 

(26-1)  "Mohammed  had  two  helmets,  an  interior  and  exte- 
rior one;  the  latter  of  which,  called  Al  Mawashah,  the  fillet, 
wreath,  or  wreathed  garland,  he  wore  at  the  battle  of  Ohod." — 
Universal  History, 

(2G5)  "They  say  that  there  are  apple-trees  upon  the  sides  of 
this  sea,  which  bear  very  lovely  fruit,  but  within  are  all  full  of 
ushes." — Thevcnot.  The  same  is  asserted  of  the  oranges  there  ; 
vide  fntman's  Travels  in  Asiatic  Turkey. 

"The  Aaphnlt  Luke,  known  by  the  name  of  tho  Dead  Sea,  is 
very  remarkable  on  account  of  the  considerable  proportion  of 
salt  which  it  contains.  In  this  respect  it  surpasses  e^ery  other 
known  water  on  the  surface  of  the  earth.  This  great  propor- 
tion of  bitter-tasted  salts  is  the  reason  why  neither  anima!  nor 
plant  can  live  in  this  water." — ElaproVCs  Chemical  Analysis 
of  tlie  Water  of  the  Dead  Sea,  Annals  of  Philosopliy,  January, 
1813.  Ilasselquist^  however,  doubts  the  truth  of  this  last  as- 
sertion, as  there  are  shcH-flsh  to  be  found  'n\  the  lake. 

Lord  Byron  has  a  similar  allusion  to  the  fruits  of  the  Dead 
Sea,  in  that  wonderful  display  of  genius,  his  third  Canto  of 
Childe  ilarold, — magnificent,  beyond  any  thing,  perhaps  that 
even  he  has  over  written. 


(2(;C)  "Tho  Suhrab  or  Water  of  tho  Desert  la  said  to  be 
caused  by  tlio  rarefaction  of  tho  atmosphere  from  extrerne 
heat;  and,  which  aucmcuts  the  delusion,  it  is  most  frequent  in 
hollows,  where  water  might  be  expected  to  lodge.  I  have 
seen  bushes  and  trees  reflected  in  it,  with  as  much  accuracy 
OS  though  it  had  been  tho  face  of  a  clear  and  still  lake."— 
Vottinger. 

"As  to  the  unbelievers,  their  works  are  like  a  vapor  in  a 
plain,  which  the  thirsty  traveller  tbinketh  to  be  water,  until 
when  he  cometh  thereto  he  liudclh  it  to  bo  nothing."— JTaran, 
chap.  24. 

(207)  "A  wind  which  prevails  in  February,  called  Bidmusk, 
from  a  small  and  odoriferous  flower  of  that  name." — "  The 
wind  which  blows  these  flowers  commonly  lasts  till  the  end  of 
the  month." — Le  Bruyn. 

(2G8)  "The  Biajiia  are  of  two  races:  the  one  is  settled  on 
Borneo,  and  are  a  rude  but  warlike  and  industrious  nation, 
who  reckon  themselves  the  original  possessors  of  the  island 
of  Borneo.  The  other  is  a  species  of  sea-gipsies  or  itinerant 
fishermen,  who  live  in  small  covered  boats,  and  enjoy  a  per- 
petual summer  on  the  eastern  ocean,  shifting  to  leeward  from 
island  to  island,  with  the  variations  of  the  monsoon.  In  some 
of  (heir  customs  this  singular  race  resemble  the  natives  of  the 
Maldivia  islands.  The  Maldivians  annually  launch  a  small 
bark,  loaded  with  perfumes,  gums,  flowers,  and  odoriferous 
wood,  and  turn  it  adrift  at  the  raercy  of  wind  and  waves,  as  an 
offering  to  the  Spirit  of  the  Winds;  and  sometimes  similar 
offerings  are  made  to  the  spirit  whom  they  term  the  King  of 
t-fie  Sea.  In  like  manner  the  Biajus  perform  their  offering  to 
the  god  of  evil,  launching  a  email  bark,  loaded  with  all  the 
sins  and  misfortunes  of  the  nation,  which  are  imagined  to  fall 
on  the  unhappy  crew  that  may  be  so  unlucky  as  first  to  meet 
with  \V—Dr.  Lcijde.n  on  the  Language  and  Literature  of  tho 
Indo-Chinese  Nations. 

(289)  "The  sweet-scented  violet  is  one  of  tho  plants  most  e»« 
teemed,  particularly  for  its  great  use  in  Sorbet,  which  they 
make  of  violet  sugar." — Hassclqnist. 

"The  sherbet  they  most  esteem,  and  which  is  drunk  bj 
the  Grand  Signer  himself,  is  made  of  violets  and  sugar."— 
Tavcrnier. 

(270)  "  Last  of  all  she  took  a  guitar,  and  sung  a  pathetic  air 
in  the  measure  called  Nava,  which  is  always  used  to  express 
the  lamentations  of  absent  lovers." — Persian  Talcs. 

(271)  "The  Easterns  used  to  set  out  on  their  longer  voyages 
with  music." — Harmer, 

(272)  "The  Gate  of  Tears,  the  straits  or  passage  into  the 
Red  Sea,  commonly  called  Babelmandel.  It  received  this 
name  from  the  old  Arabians,  on  account  of  the  danger  of  the 
navigation,  and  the  number  of  shipwrecks  by  which  it  was 
distinguished ;  which  induced  them  to  consider  as  dead,  and 
to  wear  mourning  for,  all  who  had  tho  boldness  to  hazard  the 
passage  through  it  into  the  Ethiopic  occa.u.'^^— Richardson, 

(273)  "I  have  been  told  that  whensoever  an  animal  falla 
down  dead,  one  or  more  vultures,  unseen  before,  instantly  ap- 
pear."— Pennant. 

(274)  "  They  fasten  some  writing  to  the  wings  of  a  Bagdat  or 
Babylonian  pigeon." — Travels  of  certain  Englishmen. 

(275)  "  The  Empress  of  Jehan-Guire  used  to  divert  herself 
with  feeding  tame  fish  in  her  canals,  some  of  which  were  man^ 
yeaj-3  afterwards  known  by  fillets  of  gold,  wnicn  she  claused  to 
be  put  round  them." — Harris. 

(276)  "  Le  Tespih,  qui  est  im  cbapelet,  compose  de  99  petitea 
boules  d'agathc,  de  jaspe,  d'arabre,  de  corail,  ou  d'autre  malier« 


80 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


pricicusc.  J'en  ai  vu  un  siiperbc  au  Seigneur  Jerpos  ;  il  6tait 
-le  belles  et  grosses  perle3  iiarfaitea  el  C's;ilc5,  estim6  treiile 
iflille  piaslrea."— Tijrffri/ir. 

(277)  The  meteors  that  Pliny  calls  "  faces." 

(27B)  "The  brilliant  Canopus, unseen  in  European  climules.'" 
— Broten* 

(379)  See  Wilford's  learned  Essays  on  the  Sacred  Isles  iu  the 
West 

(380)  A  precious  stone  of  the  Indies,  called  by  the  nncients 
Ccrnunium,  because  it  was  supposed  to  be  found  in  places 
where  thunder  had  fallen.  TerluUian  snys  it  has  a  glittering 
appear&nce,  as  if  there  had  been  fire  in  it;  and  the  author 
of  the  Dissertation  in  Harris's  Voyages,  supposes  it  to  be 
the  opal. 

0!81)  D^IIerhdoU  art.  Agduani. 

(2K!)  "The  Guebros  are  known  by  a  dark  yellow  color, 
which  the  men  affect  in  their  clothes." — Thevenot. 

(283)  "  The  Kolah,  or  cap,  worn  by  the  Persians,  is  made  of 
the  akin  of  the  sheep  of  Tartary.*'— /far/Hj. 

0^4)  A  frequent  imago  among  the  oriental  poets.  "The 
nightingales  warbled  their  enchanting  notes,  and  rent  the  thin 
veils  of  the  rose-bud  and  the  rose." — Jami^ 

(^S5)  ''illossoms  of  the  sorrowful  Nyctanthcs  give  a  durable 
color  to  i:ik." — Hemnrks  on  the  Kusbandry  of  Jiengal^  p.  200. 
Nilica  is  one  of  the  Indian  Tinmcs  of  this  flower.— AVr  IV. 
Jones.    The  Persians  call  il  Gul. — CarrerL 

0*6)  "  In  pnrU  of  Kcrman,  whatever  dates  are  shaken  fW)m 
the  treea  t)y  the  wind  they  do  not  touch,  bul  leave  them  for 
Ihose  who  have  nol  any,  or  for  travellers."— E6»  Haukat. 

f2P7l  The  two  t'.-rriblo  angels,  Monkir  and  Nnkir,  who  nro 
cnllM  '•the  Searchers  of  the  Grave"  in  the  "Creed  of  the 
orthodox  .Mahometans"  given  by  Ockley,  vol.  U. 

(SBfl)  "Tlio  Arabians  call  the  mandrake  *  the  Dovirs  candle,* 
on  account  of  its  shining  appearance  In  the  night."— itt'cA- 
ardaon. 

f280)  For  an  nccoimt  of  Ishmonie,  the  petrified  city  in  I'pper 
Kgypt,  where,  it  is  said,  there  are  many  elnlues  of  men,  women, 
itc,  lo  be  seen  to  this  day,  Bee  Pcrri/s  f'icw  of  the  I^evant. 

(2»r.)  ,T»8U8. 

(-91)  The  Ghfbcrs  say  that  when  Abraham,  their  great  Pro- 
phet, wan  thrown  into  the  lire  by  order  of  Nimrtxl.  the  flame 
turned  instantly  Into  "a  bed  of  roses,  where  the  cliild  sweetly 
repoHcd." — Tnrfrnirr. 

or  thi'lr  other  Proplict.  Zcironslrr,  there  in  a  stor)-  told  In 
Ition  f'rumrus,  Orut.  '.IQ.  that  the  love  of  wlndoni  unri  \lrtiio 
leadiii'^  him  to  n  s<illtary  life  upon  a  mountain,  ho  fuuntl  it  one 
d.iy  nil  In  n  Hume,  Mhlning  with  cetexlial  Are,  out  of  which  ho 
cnmc  without  any  hnrrn,  and  inHtltntcd  certain  sacrifices  to  God, 
who,  he  declared,  lln-n  appeared  to  him.— Vide  Patrick  on 
Kxodua,  ill.S. 

CSK)  "Tlift  nhcll  cnllcd  Pltankos,  common  to  India,  Afrlrn, 
Ind  the  Medilrrranenn.  and  xlill  iimmI  in  many  piirlft  ns  n  tniin* 
pit  Utr  hloMinu  ahirmfi  or  giving  signal*;  il  wmU  forth  a  deep 
and  bullow  •oiind."~/Vnnon(. 

OHRI)  ••  Tlir  nneit  ornnment  fur  the  horseii  in  mndo  of  ilx  largo 
Ijlog  lutwla  of  long  white  balr,  tokoo  out  of  tho  talU  of  wild 


oxen,  that  are  to  be  found  in  some  places  of  the  Indie*."— 
Thieve  nut. 

(294)  "The  angel  Israfil,  who  has  the  most  melodious  voict 
of  all  God's  creatures." — Saic. 

(29.1)  See  Iloole  upon  the  Story  of  Sinbad. 

(296)  "  In  this  thicket  upon  the  banks  of  the  Jordan  several 
sorts  of  wild  beasts  are  wout  to  harbor  themselves,  whose 
being  washed  out  of  the  covert  by  the  overllowings  of  the 
river,  gave  occasion  to  that  allusion  of  Jeremiah,  he  shtUl 
come  up  like  a  lion  from  the  swelling  of  Jordan.""^ — .MaundrelCa 
Aleppo, 

(297)  "This  wind  (the  Samoor)  so  softens  the  strings  of 
lutes,  that  they  can  never  be  tuned  while  it  lasts." — Stephen's 
Persia. 

(298)  "One  of  the  greatest  curiosities  found  in  tho  Persian 
Gulf  is  a  fish  which  the  English  call  Star-fish.  It  is  circular, 
and  at  night  very  luminous,  resembling  tho  full  moon  sur- 
rounded by  rays."— .l/ir:o  .-Ibu  Talcb. 

(-99)  For  a  description  of  the  merriment  of  the  dale-time, 
of  their  work,  their  tlances,  and  their  return  home  from  tlie 
palm-groves  at  the  end  of  autumu  with  the  fruits,  sec  A'ejii;)/<r, 
Jlmtenitat.  Eiot. 

(300)  Some  naturalists  have  imagined  that  amber  is  a  concre- 
tion of  the  tears  of  birds. — See  Trcroux^  Chambers. 

(301)  "The  bay  Kieselurke,  which  is  otherwise  called  the 
Golden  Bay,  the  sand  whereof  shines  as  flre." — Struy. 

(302)  "  Tho  application  of  whips  or  rods."— Z^hAoi.-!. 

(303)  Kempfer  mcMtions  such  nn  ofBccr  among  tho  attend- 
ants of  tho  King  of  Persia,  and  calls  him  "formx*  corporis  esti- 
mator." His  business  was,  at  slated  periods,  to  measure  Ihe 
ladies  of  the  Ilaram  by  a  sort  of  regulation-girdle,  whoso  limits 
it  was  not  thought  graceful  to  exceed.  If  any  of  them  outgrew 
this  standard  of  shape,  they  were  reduced  by  nbstinenco  till 
they  came  within  proper  bounds. 

(304)  Tho  Attock. 

"  Akbar  on  his  way  ordered  a  fort  to  be  built  upon  the  Nilab, 
which  he  called  Attock,  which  means  in  the  Indian  hmgungo 
Forbidden  ;  for,  by  the  superalilion  of  the  Hindoos,  it  was  held 
unlawful  to  cross  that  rivc-r." — Dow^s  Ilindostnn. 

(30.'))  "Tho  inhabitants  of  this  country  (Zinge)  arc  never 
aniicted  with  sadness  or  meluneholy  ;  on  this  subject  the  Sheikh 
Abu-al' Khrir-.'lzhari  has  the  following  distich  : — 

"^Who  is  tho  man  wlUiout  caro  and  sorrow,  (tell)  that  I 
may  rub  my  hand  to  him. 

"'(Rehold)  Iho  Zingians,  without  care  or  sorrow,  frolicsomo 
with  tipslness  and  mirth.' 

**Tho  phlhisophers  have  dlscovere<l  that  the  caune  of  this 
cheerfidness  proci-eds  (Yom  llie  infiueiice  of  tho  slur  Sohoil,  or 
Canopus,  wliich  rises  over  them  every  night. — Extract  from  a 
Grofrraphieal  Prrgiitn  J\titnuscnpty  cnlled  llfft  Jiklim^  or  ike 
Seven  i'limtiten,  translated  by  IV.  Ouaelei/y  F.sq. 

(300)  T\. :  Blur  S(thcll,  or  Caiu>pUB, 

(:W7)  "Tho  Il7,nrd  Stelllo.  The  Arab^  call  II  Mmdiin.  Tho 
Tiirlifl  Itlll  it,  for  they  linngine.  that  by  drellninu  ihu  nead  il 
mindcit  thoni  when  they  uny  their  prayers." — llattelqHist. 

(10H)  For  thewt  particulars  rcfperling  llu<<Hun  A(nl.iul  I  am 
indebted  to  tho  very  Inlereiitlng  Intruducllon  of  Mr  iL^lphlD' 
•lone't  work  upon  Caubul. 


LALLA  KOOKH. 


81 


(309)  "  A8  you  enter  at  that  Bazar,  without  tho  gate  of  Tia- 

masciio,  you  eee  tho  Crccn  Mosque,  so  culled  because  it  ]mtb  a 
Btoeple  faced  with  yreen  glazed  bricks,  which  rendtT  it  very 
resplendent ;  it  is  covered  at  top  with  a  pavilion  ol'  the  sanio 
Btufi*.  Tho  Turks  any  this  mosque  was  mado  in  that  place, 
because  Mahomet  being  come  so  far,  would  not  enter  tho 
iown,  saying  it  was  too  delicious." — Thcvenot.  This  reminds 
one  of  the  following  pretty  passage  in  lauac  Walton  :— "■  When 
I  sat  last  on  this  primrose  bank,  and  looked  down  Iheao  mead- 
ows, I  thouglit  of  lliem  as  Charles  the  Kmperor  did  of  t)ie  city 
of  Florence,  '  that  they  were  too  pleasant  to  be  looked  on,  but 
only  on  holidays.' " 

(310)  Nourmahal  aignifiea  Light  of  tho  Ilaram.  f^he  was 
sfterwards  called  Nourjehan,  or  the  Light  of  the  World. 

iJll)  See  note  275. 

(312)  "Haroun  Al  Raschid,  cinqui^me  Khalifedes  Abaasidea, 
s'etant  «n  jour  brouilI6,  avec  uno  de  ses  maitresses  nomraee 
Maridah,  qu'il  aimait  cependant  jusqu'a  Texces,  et  cette 
m^sintelligence  ayant  deja  duriie  quelque  tems,  comraenca  a 
B'cnnuyer.  Giafar  Barraaki,  son  favori,  qui  s'en  appercut, 
commanda  a  Abbas  ben  Ahnaf,  excellent  poele  de  ce  tems 
1.1,  de  composer  quelques  vera  sur  le  sujet  do  cette  brouillerie, 
Co  po'-te  extcuta  Tordre  de  Giafar,  qui  fit  cbauler  cea  vera  par 
MouHsali  en  presence  dii  Khalife,  et  ce  prince  fut  tellement 
louche  de  la  tendresse  dea  vers  du  poete,  et  de  la  douceur  de 
la  voix  du  musicicn,  quMl  alia  aussitdt  trouver  Maridah,  et  fit 
Da  paix  avec  eWe^—D""  Herbeiot. 

(313)  "The  rose  of  Kaahmire  for  Its  brilliancy  and  delicacy 
of  odor  has  long  been  proverbial  in  the  East." — Forster. 

(314)  "Tied  round  her  waist  the  zone  of  bells,  that  sounded 
with  ravishing  melody." — Song  of  Jayadeva. 

(315)  ''Tho  little  isles  in  the  Lake  of  Cachemire  are  set 
with  arbors  and  large-leaved  aepen-trees,  slender  and  tall."— 
Bcrnier. 

(31G)  "The  Tuckt  Suliman,  the  name  bestowed  by  the  Ma- 
hommetans  on  this  hill,  forms  one  side  of  a  grand  portal  to  tho 
Lake." — Forster. 

(317)  "The  Feast  of  Roses  continues  the  whole  time  of  their 
remaining  in  bloora."— See  Pietro  de  la  Falle. 

(318)  "Gul  sad  berk,  the  Rose  of  a  hundred  leaves.  I  be- 
lieve a  particular  species." — Ousclcy. 

(319)  Bcrnier. 

(320)  A  place  mentioned  in  the  Toozek  Jehangeery,  or  Me- 
moirs of  Jehan-Guire,  where  there  is  an  account  of  tho  beds  of 
Baifj'on-flowers  about  Cashmere. 

(321)  "It  is  the  custom  among  the  women  to  employ  the 
Waazeen  to  chant  from  the  gallery  of  the  nearest  minaret, 
which  on  that  occasion  is  illuniinaled,  and  the  women  assem- 
bled at  the  house  respond  at  iutcrvals  with  a  ziraleet  or  joyous 
p-horus." — Russd. 

(322)  "The  swing  is  a  favorite  pastime  in  the  East,  as  pro- 
moting a  circulation  of  air,  extremoly  refreshing  in  those  sul- 
try cVunalvs.^''— Richardson. 

"The  swings  are  adorned  with  festoons.  Tbia  pastime  is 
accompanied  with  music  of  voices  and  of  instruments,  hired 
l)y  the  miwti-rs  of  the  s\\  mss.''^— Thcvenot. 

(323j  "  At  the  keeping  of  the  Feast  of  Roses  we  beheld  an 
infinite  number  of  tents  pitched,  with  such  a  crowd  of  men, 
\'0L,  II. — 11 


women,   boys,  and   girls,  with   music,  danccB,"  &Cn  &c  — 

Jlcrljcrt. 

(324)  "  An  old  commentator  of  tho  Chou-King  says,  the  an- 
cients having  remarked  that  a  current  of  water  mad*?  some 
of  the  stones  near  its  banks  send  forth  a  sound,  they  detach- 
ed some  of  them,  and  being  cJianned  with  the  delightful 
sound  they  emitted,  constructed  King  or  musical  instruraenta 
of  them." — Grosicr. 

This  miraculouii  quality  has  been  attributed  also  to  the  shore 
of  Attica.  "IIujus  Jittus,  ait  Capellu,  concentum  musicum 
illisis  terrfo  luidis  reddcre,  quod  propter  tautam  eruditionis 
vim  puto  dictum." — J^uduv.  Vivcs  in  .iagu.8tin.dc  Civitat.  Det^ 
lib.  xviii.  c.  8. 

(325)  Jehan-Guire  was  the  son  of  the  Great  Acbar. 

(326)  In  the  wars  of  the  Dives  with  the  Peria,  whenever  the 
former  took  the  latter  priaonera,  "they  shut  them  up  in  irot. 
cages,  and  hung  them  on  the  highest  trees.  Here  thoyweie 
visited  by  their  companions,  who  brought  them  the  choices* 
odors." — Richardson. 

(327)  In  the  Malay  language  the  same  word  signifies  women 
and  flowers. 

(328)  The  capital  of  l?hadukiam.    See  note  19G. 

(329)  See  the  representation  of  the  Eastern  Cupid,  pinioned 
closely  round  with  wreaths  of  flowers,  in  PicarVs  Ceremonies 
Religieuses. 

(330)  "  Among  the  birds  of  Tonquin  is  a  species  of  goldfinch 
which  sings  so  melodiously  that  it  ia  called  the  Celestial  Bird. 
Its  wings,  when  it  is  perched,  appear  variegated  with  beauti- 
ful colors,  but  when  it  flies  they  lose  ail  their  splendor."— 
&r  osier. 

(331)  "  As  these  birds  on  the  Bosphorus  are  never  known  to 
rest,  they  aie  called  by  the  French  'les  amea  damnees.'"— 
Dalloway. 

(332)  "  You  may  place  a  hundred  handfuls  of  fragrant  herbs 
and  flowers  before  the  nightingale,  yet  he  wishes  not,  in  his 
constant  heart,  for  more  than  the  sweet  breath  of  his  beloved 
rose." — Jami. 

(333)  "He  is  said  to  have  found  the  great  Mantra^  spell  or 
talisman,  through  which  he  ruled  over  the  elements  and  spirits 
of  ail  denominations." —  IVilford. 

(334)  "The  gold  jewels  of  Jinnie,  which  are  called  by  the 
Arabs  El  llerrez,  from  the  supposed  charm  they  contain." — 
Jackson. 

(335)  *' A  demon,  supposed  to  haunt  woods,  fcc,  in  a  human 
shape." — Richardson, 

(336)  The  name  of  Jehan-Guire  before  his  accession  to  th« 
throne. 

(337)  "  Hemasagara,  or  the  Sea  of  Gold,  with  flowers  of  the 
brightest  gold  color."— Sir  fV.  Jones. 

(338)  "  This  tree  (the  Nagacesara)  is  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful on  earth,  and  the  delicious  odor  of  its  blossoms  justly  givei 
them  a  place  in  the  quiver  of  Caraadeva,  or  the  God  of  Love." 
—  Sir  ft'.  Jones. 

(339)  "  The  Malayans  style  the  tube-rose  (Polianthes  tubero 
sa)  Sandal  Malarn,  or  the  Mistress  of  the  Night."— Pen na»«. 

(340)  The  people  of  tbo  Batta  couotry  in  Stimalra,  (Qf  vhick 


82 


MOOKE'S  WORKS. 


Zamara  is  one  of  the  ancicnl  names.)  "when  not  engaged  in 
war,  lead  an  idle,  inactive  life,  passing  the  day  in  playing  on  a 
kind  of  flute,  crowned  with  gai-lauds  of  flowers,  among  which 
the  globe-amaronthus,  a  native  of  the  country,  mostly  prevails." 
— mVarsdctt, 

(341)  The  largest  and  richest  sort  (of  the  Jarabii,  or  rose- 
apple)  is  called  Amrita,  or  iinraortaU  and  the  myihologisls  of 
Tibet  apply  the  same  words  to  a  celestial  tree,  bearing  am- 
brosial fruit." — Sir  fV.  Jones. 

(342)  Sweet  basil,  called  Rayhan  in  Persia,  and  generally 
foimd  in  churchyards. 

-  The  women  in  Egypt  go,  at  least  two  days  in  the  week,  to 
pray  and  weep  at  the  sepulchres  of  the  dead  ;  and  the  custom 
then  is  to  throw  upon  the  tombs  a  sort  of  herb  which  the 
Arabs  call  rihan,  ajid  which  is  our  sweet  basil."— .VaiV/ff, 
Lett.  10. 

(343)  '•  In  the  Great  Desert  are  found  many  stalks  of  lavender 
and  rosemary." — JJsiat  lies. 

(344)  "The  almond-tree,  with  white  flowers,  blossoms  on  the 
bare  branches." — Ilasselquist, 

^315)  An  herb  on  Mount  Libanus,  which  is  said  to  communi- 
cate a  yellow  golden  hue  to  the  teeth  of  the  goats  and  uther 
auiinals  that  graze  upon  It. 

Xifbuhr  thinks  this  may  be  the  herb  which  the  Eastern 
olLbymitj^s  look  to  as  a  means  of  making  gold.  *•  Most  of  those 
alch\  mical  enthusiasts  think  themselves  sure  of  success,  if 
they  could  but  Und  out  the  herb*  which  gilds  the  teeth  and 
pives  a  yellow  color  to  tho  flesh  of  the  sheep  that  eat  it. 
£veQ  the  oil  of  this  plant  must  bo  of  a  golden  color.  It  is 
calliHl  llascKischat  ed  dab.''' 

raiht-r  Jerome  Dandini,  however,  asserts  that  the  teeth  of 
tho  goals  at  iMouDl  Libanus  are  of  a  stiver  color;  and  ndd», 
^  thid  cobflrins  to  me  that  which  1  observed  in  Cundia  :  t{>  wit, 
that  the  Aimats  that  live  on  Mount  Ida  eat  a  certain  herb, 
which  renders  their  teeth  of  a  golden  color  ;  which,  accordir)g 
to  my  judgment,  cannot  otherwise  proceed  than  frum  the 
mines  which  uro  under  ground."— Z^ani/mi,  Voyage  to  Mount 
Libanus. 

(340)  The  myrrh  country, 

(3t7)  "-This  idea  (of  deities  living  in  shells)  was  not  un- 
known !o  the  Greeks^  who  represent  tho  young  Neriles,  one  of 
the  Cupids,  08  living  in  BboUa  on  the  shores  o(  the  Ued  Sea."— 
lyil/urd. 

(348)  "  A  fiibuIouB  fountain,  where  instruments  arc  said  to 
bo  constantly  playing.'* — Hichardjon. 

(349)  "Tho  Pompadour  pigeon  Is  tho  species,  which,  by 
carrying  the  fruit  of  tho  cinnamon  to  ditlbrcnt  places,  is  a  great 
diHAcmlnutor  of  this  valuable  tree." — See  JJrouni's  Illustr., 
Tab.  1I». 

(350)  "  Whenever  our  pUrmure  arises  from  a  succession  of 
•ounds,  it  is  n  jturci-plion  of  a  complicaliil  nature,  miidu  up  of 
a  Bfn*atton  of  the  jiretHMit  sound  or  note,  and  on  ittra  or  ro- 

nembrunco  of  Ihe  foregoing,  while  their  mlxlnro  and  concur- 
*enco  produce  such  a  mysterious  delight,  as  noillicr  could  have 
(>roduccil  niono.  And  it  Is  often  heightened  by  an  nntlctpn- 
.lon  of  tlio  succeeding  notes.  Thus  HcnAc,  Memory,  ond  Imagl- 
Qiitlon.  nru  conjunctively  cmplnyed."— Orrran/  on  Tasto. 

This  is  c-jtnctty  llin  Kplcuroan  theory  of  I'leasuro,  as  cx- 
plaliird  by  C'lcrro:— '•<luoclrca  corpus  gamlere  tnnidlu,  du?n 
pr;iM*nl'>m  wnllrel  volupt:item  :  uiiiinuiu  <'t  pnineiileui  per- 
ctpcro  parlter  cum  corp.iro  ct  prosjdcoro  venienleni,  noc  pne- 
t«r<lam  pr'vKcAuoro  ittioro.** 


Madame  do  StaJl  accounts  upon  the  same  principle  for  tha 
gratification  we  derive  from  rhtjmc : — '*  Elle  est  fimage  de 
Pcsptrauce  et  d\i  souvenir.  Uu  son  nous  fail  drsirer  celui  qui 
doit  lui  repoiidre,  et  quand  le  second  reteiitit  il  nous  rappelle 
celui  qui  vieut  de  uoiis  echapper." 

(351)  ''Tbc  Persians  have  two  mornings,  the  Suobhi  Kazim 
and  the  Soobhi  Sadiijc,  the  false  and  the  real  daybreak.  They 
account  for  this  phenomenon  in  a  most  whimsical  manner. 
Tliey  say  tliut  as  the  sun  rises  from  behind  the  Ivohi  Qaf, 
^Mo.uit  Caucaaus.)  it  passes  a  hole  perforated  Ihrouyh  tliat 
mountain,  and  that  diu'ling  its  rays  through  it,  it  is  the  cause 
of  the  Soobhi  Kazim,  or  this  temporary  appearance  of  day- 
break. As  it  ascends,  the  earth  is  again  veiled  in  darkness, 
until  the  sun  rises  above  tho  mountain,  and  brings  with  it  the 
Soobhi  Sadig,  or  real  morning." — Scott  ff'amig.  He  thinks 
Milton  may  allude  to  this,  when  ho  says, — 

^'Ere  the  blabbing  Eastern  scout, 
The  nice  morn  on  the  Indiiui  steep 
From  her  cabin'd  loop-hole  peep." 

(352)  "  In  the  centre  of  the  plain,  as  it  approaches  the  Lakei 
oiHJ  of  the  Delhi  Emi)erors,  1  believe  Shah  Jehun,  constructed 
a  spacious  garden  called  the  Shalimar,  which  is  abundimtly 
stored  with  fruit-trees  and  flowering  shrubs.  Some  of  the 
rivulets  which  intersect  the  plain  are  led  into  a  canal  at  the 
back  of  the  garden,  and  flowing  thiough  its  cenlre.  or  occa- 
sionally tlirown  into  a  variety  of  water-works,  compose  tite 
chief  beauty  of  the  ShiJimar.  To  decorate  this  spot  the  Mogul 
Princes  of  India  have  displayed  an  equal  magnillcence  imd 
taste  ;  especially  Jehan  Gheer,  who,  with  the  enchanting  Noor 
Mahl,  made  Kashmire  his  usual  residence  during  the  summer 
months.  On  arches  thrown  over  the  canal  are  erected,  at 
cqunl  distances,  four  or  tlvc  suites  of  ajiartments,  each  consist- 
ing of  a  saloon,  with  four  rooms  at  the  angles,  where  tlio 
followers  of  the  court  attend,  and  the  yerxants  prepare  sher 
bets,  coffee,  and  the  hookah.  Tlie  frame  of  the  doors  of  tho 
principal  saloon  is  composed  of  pieces  of  a  stone  of  u  black 
color,  slreaiied  with  yellow  lines,  and  of  a  closer  grain  and 
higher  polish  than  porphj  ry.  They  were  taken,  it  is  said,  fi'oin 
a  Hindoo  temple,  by  ono  of  the  Mogid  princes,  und  ore  e» 
teemed  of  great  value." — Forster. 

(.3.53)  "Tho  watei-s  ofCachcmir  are  tho  more  renowned  from 
Its  being  supi>o3ed  that  the  Cachemirians  are  indebted  for 
their  beauty  to  them."— .'i/j  Yeidt. 

(354)  *'  From  him  I  received  the  following  litllo  (lazzel,  or 
Love  Song,  tho  notes  of  which  ho  cominitte<l  to  pa])er  from 
the  voice  uf  one  of  those  singing  girls  of  Cashmere,  who 
wonder  from  that  delightful  valley  over  the  viirious  ]iarls  of 
India." — Persian  Misceilanics, 

(355)  "The  roses  of  tho  Jinan  Nile,  or  Garden  of  tho  Nile  (at- 
tached to  the  J'^mperor  of  Morocco's  jiahice)  are  uneiiualled, 
and  mattresses  lu'o  made  of  their  leaves  U>r  tlut  nu-n  of  lank  to 
recline  upon." — Jackson. 

(350)  "Ud  the  tido  of  s  moiintalu  near  Paphot  Uioro  is  * 
cavern  which  produces  tho  most  beautiful  rock-cryt'tnl.  Oo 
account  of  its  brilliancy  it  has  been  called  the  Puphian  dift> 
moud." — .Manti. 

(337)  "Tliero  Is  a  part  of  Cnndnhar,  called  Perla,  or  Fuirj 
Land."— TA<rr**nof.  In  some  of  those  countries  to  the  north  of 
ludlOf  vogeloble  gold  Is  suppooed  to  be  jiroduced. 

(3.>8)  "Thcso  are  the  butterflies  which  nru  colled  in  (he 
Chtneso  language  Flying  Leaves.  S()me  of  Ihem  luivt'  such 
itltiriint,'  colore,  and  an*  so  viiriegated,  tliat  tin  y  tiiity  lie  called 
flying  flowers;  aiitl  Indued  they  uru  always  produced  in  tUe 
llocvt  floworganlctui."— /^UA«. 


LALLA  ROOKH. 


83 


(350')  "Tho  Arabian  women  wear  black  masks  with  lilLlo 
clasp,  prt'ltily  orilered." — Carrcri,  Niuljuhr  moiiliuna  llifir 
Bhowiug  but  one  eye  in  conversation. 

(360)  "  Tlie  golden  grapes  of  CasiXim.''''— Description  of  Persia. 

(361)  "The  iVuita  exported  from  Caubul  are  apples,  pears, 
pomegranates,"  Sg-c.—Elphinstpne. 

(363)  "  We  sat  down  xmdor  a  tr^o,  lii'cned  to  the  birds,  and 
talked  with  the  son  uf  our  Muliiiiaiiiuliir  about  our  country  and 
Caubul,  of  which  be  i^avc  an  eiicliiintiiig  account;  that  city  and 
Us  100,000  gardens,"  &.c.—Id. 

(363)  *^  The  manKUSteen,  the  most  delicate  food  in  tho  world  ; 
the  pride  of  the  Malay  islands." — Marsdcn. 

(364)  "  A  delicious  kind  of  apricot  called  by  the  Persians 
tokmek-shems,  signifying  sun's  secd^— Description  of  Persia. 

(365)  "Sweetmeats,  in  a  crystal  cup,  consisting  of  rose-leaves 
ia  conserve,  with  lemon  of  Visna  cherry,  orange  flowers,"  &c. 
— Russcl. 

(3GG)  "  Antelopes  cropping  the  fresh  berries  of  Erac."— The 
Moallakatf  Poem  of  Tarafa. 

(367)  "  Mauri-,<5[a-Siraa,  an  island  near  Formosa,  supposed  to 
have  been  sunk  in  the  sea  for  the  crimes  of  its  inhabitants. 
The  vessels  which  the  fishermen  and  divers  bring  up  from 
it  are  sold  at  an  immense  price  in  China  and  Japan."— See 
Kempfer, 

(368)  Persian  Tales. 

(3G9)  The  white  wine  of  Kishma. 

(370)  "  The  king  of  Zeilan  is  said  to  have  the  very  finest  ruby 
Ihat  was  ever  seen.  Kublai-Khan  sent  and  offered  the  value 
of  a  city  for  it,  but  the  King  answered  he  would  not  give  it  for 
the  treasure  of  the  world." — Marco  Polo. 

(371)  The  Indians  feign  that  Cupid  was  Ci'st  seen  floating 
down  the  Ganges  on  the  Nympha'a  Nelnmbo. — See  Pennant. 

(372)  Teflis  is  celebrated  for  its  natural  warm  baths. — See 
Kbn  Haukal,  * 

(373)  «  The  Indian  Syrinda,  or  guitar." — Sijmcz. 

(374)  "  Around  the  exterior  of  the  Dewan  Khafs  (a  building 
of  3hah  Allum's)  in  the  cornice  are  the  following  lines  in 
letters  of  gold  upon  a  ground  of  whTte  marble — *  //  there  be  a 
oaradise  upon  earth-,  it  is  this,  it  is  this.''  " — Francklin. 

(375)  "  Delightfvd  are  the  flowers  of  the  Amra  trees  on  the 
mountain-tops,  while  Uie  murmuring  bees  pursue  their  vo- 
luptuous toil." — Song  of  Jayadcva. 

(37G)  "  The  Nisan  or  drops  of  spring  rain,  which  they  believe 
to  produce  pearls  il  they  fall  into  shells."— ii/cA a rtf son. 

(377)  For  an  account  of  tho  share  which  wine  had  in  the  fall 
of  the  angels,  see  Mariti. 

C^78)  The  Angel  of  Slusic.    See  note  294. 

(379)  The  Iludhud,  or  Lapwing,  is  supposed  to  have  tho 
power  of  discovering  water  under  groimd. 

(380)  See  p.  45. 

(381)  "The  Chinese  had  formerly  the  ajt  of  painting  on  the 
ildea  of  porcelain  vessels  fish  and  other  animals,  which  we:y 


oijy  perceptible  when  tlip  vessel  was  full  of  Bomo  liquor. 
They  call  this  species  Kia-tt  m,  that  is,  azure  is  put  in  prcss."*^ — 
on  account  uf  the  manner  in  which  the  axuro  is  laid  on." — 
*'Tliey  are  evoj'y  now  and  tlmn  trying  to  recover  tho  art  ofthia 
magical  painting,  but  to  no  purpose."— /J ;/«/i. 

(382)  An  eminent  carver  of  Idols,  said  in  Ihe  ICoran  to  be 
father  to  Abraham.  "  I  have  such  a  lovely  idol  as  is  not  to  b6 
met  with  in  tlie  house  of  Azc." — Uafr.. 

f3c33)  Kacliiniie  be  Nazoer. — Forstcr. 

(384)  "The  pardimable  superstition  of  tho  sequestered  In 
habitants  has  multiplied  the  places  of  worship  of  Mahadec,  of 
Ilescban,  and  of  Brarna.  All  Cashmere  is  holy  Jand,  and  mi- 
raculous fountains  abound." — Major  liennct^s  Memoirs  of  a 
Map  of  Ilindoslan. 

Jeban-fiuire  mentions  "a  fountain  in  Cashmere  called  Tlr- 
nagh,  which  siynilies  a  snake;  probably  because  some  large 
snaUe  had  formerly  been  seen  there." — "  During  the  lifetime 
of  my  father,  I  went  twice  to  this  fountain,  which  is  about 
twenty  coss  from  the  city  of  Cashmere.  Tho  vestiges  of  places 
of  worship  and  sanctity  are  to  be  traced  without  number 
amongst  the  ruins  and  the  caves  which  are  interspersyd  in 
its  neighborhood." — Toozek  Jcliavgccry. — Vide  Asiat.  Misc.j 
vol.  ii. 

There  is  another  account  of  Cashmere  by  Abul-Fazil,  the 
author  of  the  Ayin-.Acbaree,  "  who,"  says  Major  Rennet^  "ap- 
pears to  have  caught  some  of  the  enthusiasm  of  the  valley,  by 
his  description  of  the  huly  places  in  it." 

(385)  "  On  a  standing  roof  of  wood  is  laid  a  covering  of  fine 
earth,  which  shelters  the  building  from  the  great  quantity  of 
snow  that  falls  in  the  winter  season.  This  fence  communi- 
cates an  equal  warmth  in  winter,  as  a  refreshing  coulness 
in  the  summer  season,  when  tlie  tops  of  the  houses,  which 
are  planted  with  a  variety  of  flowers,  exhibit  at  a  distance 
tho  spacious  view  of  a  beautifully-checkered  parterre."— 
Furster. 

(386)  "Two  hundred  slaves  there  are,  who  have  no  other 
office  than  to  hunt  the  woods  and  marshes  for  triple-colored 
tortoises  for  the  King's  Vivary.  Of  the  shells  of  these  also 
lanterns  are  made." — P'incent  Ic  Blanc  s  Travels. 

(387)  For  a  description  of  the  Aurora  Borealis  as  it  appears 
to  these  hunters,  vide  Encycloptedia. 

(388)  This  wind,  which  is  to  blow  from  Syria  Damascena,  is, 
according  to  the  Mahometans,  one  of  the  signs  of  the  Last 
Day's  approach. 

Another  of  the  signs  is,  "Great  distress  in  the  world,  so 
that  a  man  wlien  he  passes  by  another's  grave  shall  saj, 
\Vould  to  Cod  I  were  in  his  jilace!" — Saie.''s  Pre'iminarj' 
Discourse. 

(3B9)  "  On  Mahommed  Shaw's  return  to  Koolburga,  (tho 
capital  of  Dekkan,)  he  made  a  great  festival,  and  mounted  this 
throne  with  much  pomp  and  magnilicence.  calling  it  Firozeh, 
or  Cerulean.  I  have  heard  of  some  old  persons,  who  saw  tho 
throne  Firozeh  in  the  reign  of  Sultan  Mamood  Bhamenec,  de- 
scribe it.  They  say  that  it  was  in  length  nine  feet,  and  threo 
in  breadth;  made  of  ebony,  covered  with  plates  of  pure  gold, 
and  set  with  precious  stones  of  immense  value.  Every  prince 
of  tho  house  of  llharaenee,  who  possessed  this  throne,  made  a 
point  of  adding  to  it  some  rich  stones ;  so  that  when,  in  the 
reign  of  Sultan  Mamood,  it  was  taken  to  pieces,  to  remove 
some  of  the  jewels  to  be  set  in  vases  and  cups,  the  jewellers 
valued  it  at  one  corore  of  oons  (nearly  four  millions  sterling.) 
I  leai'ued  also  tliat  it  wrws  called  Firozeh  from  being  partly 
enamelled  of  a  sky-blue  color,  which  was  in  time  totally  coiv 
coaled  by  tho  number  of  jewels." — Fcrishta. 


JUYEIILE  POEMS. 


PREFACE 

BY      THE       EDITOR.' 


The  PoeiiH  which  I  take  the  liberty  of  publisli- 
hig,  were  never  intended  by  the  author  to  pass 
beyond  the  circle  of  his  friends.  He  tliought,  with 
some  justice,  that  what  are  called  Occasional  Poems 
must  be  always  insipid  and  uninteresting  to  the 
greater  part  of  tlieir  readers.  The  particular  situ- 
ations in  which  they  were  written ;  the  character 
of  the  author  and  of  his  associates;  all  these  pecu- 
liarities must  be  known  and  felt  before  wo  can 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  such  compositions.  This 
consideration  would  h.ave  always,  I  believe,  pre- 
vented the  author  liimself  from  submitting  these 
trifles  to  the  eye  of  dispassionate  criticism:  and  if 
their  posthi  mous  introduction  to  the  world  be  in- 
justice to  his  memory,  or  intrusion  on  the  public, 
the  error  must  be  imjiuted  to  the  injudicious  par- 
tiality of  friendship. 

Mr.  Little  died  in  his  one  and  twentieth  year; 
und  most  of  these  Pocma  were  written  at  so  early 
a  period  that  their  errors  may  lay  claim  to  some  in- 
dul<,'cnce  from  the  critic.  Their  author,  as  uii.ini- 
l<itious  as  hidolent,  scarce  ever  looked  beyond  the 
moment  of  composition ;  but,  in  general,  wrote  as 
he  pleased,  careless  whether  he  pleased  as  he  wrote. 
It  may  likewise  be  remembered,  that  they  were  all 
the  productions  of  an  ago  when  the  passions  very 
often  /;ive  a  coloring  too  warm  to  the  imagination ; 
and  this  m.ay  palliate,  if  it  cannot  excuse,  that  air 
of  levity  which  pervades  so  many  of  them.  'J'lic 
"aurea  h'gge,  s'ei  i)iaco  ei  lice,"  ho  too  much  pur- 
mied,  and  too  much  inculcates.  Few  can  regret 
this  more  sincerely  than  myself;  and  if  my  friend 
had  lived,  the  judgment  of  riper  years  would  have 
shostcncd  his  mind,  and  tempered  the  luxuriance  of 
lb  fnncy. 

Mr.  f.iTTLE  gave  much  of  hiu  time  to  the  study 


of  the  amatory  writers.  If  ever  he  expected  to 
find  in  the  ancients  that  delicacy  of  sentiment,  and 
variety  of  fancy,  wliieh  are  so  necessary  to  retina 
and  animate  the  poetry  of  love,  he  was  much  dis- 
appointed. I  know  not  any  one  of  them  who  can 
be  regarded  as  a  model  in  that  style ;  Osid  madp 
love  like  a  rake,  and  Propertius  like  a  schoolm.aster 
The  mythological  allusions  of  the  latter  are  called 
erudition  by  his  commentators;  but  such  ostentn 
tious  display,  upon  a  subject  so  simple  as  love, 
would  be  now  esteemed  vague  and  puerile,  and 
was  even  in  his  own  times  pedantic.  It  is  aston- 
isliing  that  so  many  critics  should  have  preferred 
him  to  the  gentle  and  toucliing  Tibnlhis;  but 
those  defects,  I  believe,  wliich  a  common  reader 
condemns,  have  been  regarded  as  beauties  by  those 
erudite  men,  the  eommentators;  who 'find  a  tieM 
for  their  ingenuity  and  research,  in  Ids  Grecian 
learning  and  quaint  obscurities. 

Tibullus  abounds  with  touches  of  fine  and  natu- 
ral feeling.  The  idea  of  his  unexpected  return  to 
Delia,  "Tunc  veniam  subito,"'  &c.,  is  imagined 
with  all  the  delicate  ardor  of  a  lover;  and  the 
sentiment  of  "  nee  te  posse  carero  velim,"  however 
colloquial  (ho  expression  may  have  been,  is  natural 
and  from  the  heart.  But  the  poet  of  Verona,  in 
my  o])inioii,  possessed  more  genuine  feeling  than 
any  of  them.  His  life  was,  I  believe,  unfortunate; 
his  associates  were  wild  and  ahamloned  ;  and  the 
warmth  of  his  n.'iture  look  too  nuuh  advantage  of 
the  latitude  which  the  morals  of  those  times  so 
criminally  allowed  to  the  passions.  All  this  de- 
praved his  imagination,  and  made  it  the  slave  of  his 
senses.  Hut  still  a  native  sensibility  is  often  very 
warmly  perceptible;  and  when  he  touches  the 
chord  of  pathos,  ho  reaches  iramedi.atcly  the  heart 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


85 


They  wlio  have  felt  tlio  sweets  of  return  to  a  homo 
from  which  they  liavu  long  been  absent,  will  con- 
fess the  beauty  of  those  simple,  unaffected  lines : — 

O  quid  8oIiiti8  est  bcatiiia  curia! 
Cum  mens  onus  repunit,  ac  peregrino 
Laboi-e  fcssi  venimua  Larera  ud  nostrum 
Desidcratoque  acquiosciiQua  locto. 

Canri.  xxix. 

His  sorrows  on  the  death  of  his  brother  are  the 
very  tears  of  poesy ;  and  wlien  he  complains  of  the 
ingratitude  of  mankind,  even  the  inexperienced  can- 
not but  sympathize  with  him.  I  wish  I  were  a 
poet ;  I  should  then  endeavor  to  catch,  by  transla- 
tion, the  spirit  of  those  beauties  which  I  have 
always  so  warmly  admired.' 

It  seems  to  have  been  peculiarly  the  fate  of  Ca- 
tullus, that  the  better  and  more  valuable  p.art  of  his 
poetry  has  not  reached  us ;  for  there  is  confessedly 
nothing  in  his  extant  works  to  authorize  the  epithet 
"  doctus,"  so  universally  bestowed  upon  him  by  the 
ancients.  If  time  had  suffered  his  other  writings  to 
escape,  we  perhaps  should  have  found  among  them 
some  more  purely  amatory;  but  of  those  we  possess, 
can  there  be  a  sweeter  specimen  of  warm,  yet 
chastened  description,  than  his  loves  of  Acme  and 
Septimius  1  and  the  few  little  songs  of  dtiUiance  to 
Lesbia  are  distinguislied  by  such  an  exquisite  play- 
fulness, that  they  have  always  been  assumed  as 
models  by  the  most  elegant  modern  Latinists.  Still, 
it  must  be  confessed,  in  the  midst  of  all  these 
beauties. 


-  Medio  de  fonto  leporum 


Surgit  amori  aliquid,  quod  in  ipsis  tloribus  an^at.* 

It  has  often  been  remarked,  tkat  the  ancients 
knew  nothing  of  gallantry  ;  and  we  are  sometimes 
told  there  was  too  much  sincerity  in  their  love  to 
allow  them  to  trifle  thus  with  the  semblance  of  pas- 


sion. But  I  cannot  percei^'e  that  they  were  any 
thing  more  constant  than  tho  moderns;  they  felt  ali 
the  same  dissipation  of  the  heart,  though  they  knew 
not  those  seductive  graces  by  which  gallantry 
almost  teaches  it  to  be  amiable.  Wotton,  the 
learned  advocate  for  the  moderns,  deserts  them  in 
considering  this  point  of  comparison,  and  praises 
the  ancients  for  their  ignorance  of  such  refinements. 
But  he  seems  to  have  collected  his  notions  of 
gallantry  from  the  insipid  fadeurs  of  the  French 
romances,  which  have  nothing  congenial  with  the 
graceful  levity,  tho  "  grata  protcrvitas,"  of  a  Roches- 
ter or  a  Sedlcy. 

As  far  as  I  can  judge,  the  early  poets  of  our 
own  language  were  the  models  which  Mr.  Little 
selected  for  imitation.  To  attain  their  simplicity 
("  a;vo  rarissima  nostro  simplicitas'')  was  his  fond- 
est ambition.  He  could  not  have  aimed  at  a  grace 
more  difficult  of  attainment ;'  and  his  life  was  of 
too  short  a  date  to  allow  him  to  perfect  such  a 
taste ;  but  how  far  he  was  likely  to  have  succeeded, 
the  critic  may  judge  from  his  productions. 

I  have  found  among  his  papers  a  novel,  in  rather 
an  imperfect  state,  which,  as  soon  as  I  have  ar- 
ranged and  collected  it,  shall  be  submitted  to  the 
public  eye. 

Where  Mr.  Little  was  born,  or  what  is  the 
genealogy  of  his  parents,  are  points  in  which  very 
few  readers  can  be  interested.  His  life  was  one 
of  those  humble  streams  which  have  scarcely  a 
name  in  the  map  of  life,  and  the  traveller  may  pass 
it  by  without  inquiring  its  source  or  direction. 
His  character  was  well  known  to  all  who  were  ac- 
quainted with  him ;  for  ho  Imd  too  raiich  vanity  to 
hide  its  virtues,  and  not  enough  of  art  to  conceal 
its  defects.  The  lighter  traits  of  his  mind  m.ay  be 
traced  perliaps  in  liis  writings;  but  tho  lew  for 
which  he  was  valued  live  only  in  the  remembrance 
of  his  friends. 

T.  M, 


MOORE'S  WOKKS. 


JOSEPH  ATKIXSOi\,   ESQ. 


Mr  DEAR  Sm, 

I  FEEL  .1  very  sincere  pleasure  in  dodieating 
to  you  the  Second  Edition  of  our  friend  Little's 
Poems.  I  am  not  unconscious  that  there  are  many 
in  the  collection  which  pcrh:ips  it  would  be  prudent 
to  have  altered  or  omitted;  and,  to  s;iy  tlie  truth,  I 
more  than  once  revised  them  for  that  purpose  ;  but, 
I  know  not  why,  I  distrusted  eitlier  my  heart  or  my 
judgment;  and  the  consequence  is,  you  have  them 
in  their  orirrinal  form : 

Non  po.ssunt  noslros  mull:r,  Fausline,  litune 
Etueudaxc  Jucos  ;  uua  littu'a  pulesU 


I  am  convinced,  however,  tliat,  thougli  not  quite 
a  casuiste  reldche,  you  have  charity  enough  to  for- 
give such  inoffensive  follies:  you  know  that  the 
pious  Beza  was  not  the   less  revered  for  those 
sportive  Juvenilia  which  he  published  under  a  fic- 
titious name;  nor  did  the  levity  of  Berabo's  poems 
prevent  him  from  making  a  very  good  cardinal. 
Believe  me,  my  dear  Friend, 
With  the  truest  esteem, 
Yours, 

T.  JL' 


JUVENILE  rOEMS. 


FRAGMENTS  OF  COLLEGE  EXERCISES. 
Nobilitos  sola  est  alqiio  uuica  virtus. — Jcv. 

Mark  those  proud  boasters  of  a  splendid  line, 
Like  gilded  ruins,  mould'ring  while  they  shine. 
How  heavy  sits  that  weight  of  alien  show. 
Like  martial  helm  upon  an  infant's  brow; 
Those  borrow'd  splendors,  whose  contrasting  liglit 
Throws  back  the  native  shades  in  deeper  night. 

AHk  tiic  jjroud  train  who  glory's  shade  pursue. 
Where  are  the  arts  by  vvliieh  that  glory  grew? 
The  genuine  virtues  that  with  caglc-gaze 
Sought  young  Renown  in  all  her  orient  blaze! 
Where  is  the  heart  by  chymie  truth  refined, 
Th'  exploring  soul,  whose  eye  had  read  mankind? 
Where  are  the  links  that  twined,  with  heavenly  art. 
His  country's  interest  round  the  p.itriot's  lie.'irt? 


JiiRtnm  lii'llum  qiilbun  DcccsHflrltim,  ot  pta  arina  qnibiiB  nulln 
liht  In  itrinU  ri-linr|nltiir  iip<.|. —  I.IVT. 

»  •  •  •  * 

In  there  no  c.tll,  no  consecrating  cause, 
Approved  by  lleav'n,  ordain'd  by  naturc'n  laws, 


Where  justice  flies  the  lierald  of  our  w.ay.    ' 
And  truth's  pure  beams  upon  the  banners  i)lay  ? 

Yes,  there's  a  call  sweet  as  an  angel's  breath 
To  slumb'iiiig  babes,  or  innocence  in  death: 
And  urgent  as  the  tongue  of  Iloav'n  within. 
When  the  mind's  balance  trembles  upon  sin. 

Oh!  'tis  our  country's  voice,  wliose  claim  should 

meet 
An  echo  in  the  soul's  most  deep  retreat; 
Along  the  heart's  responding  chords  should  run, 
Nor  let  a  tone  there  vibrate — but  the  one ! 


VARIETY. 

Ask  what  prevailing,  ple.ising  power 
.Mlures  the  sportive,  wai\dering  beo 

To  roam,  nntired,  from  (lower  to  (lower. 
He'll  ti'll  you,  'tis  variety. 

Look  Nature  round,  her  fentures  trace. 

Her  KC.'isons,  nil  her  changes  see; 
And  own,  upon  Creation's  face, 

The  greatest  charm's  viirioty 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


87 


For  me,  ye  gracious  powers  above ! 

Still  let  uie  ro:iin,  iinfix'd  and  free; 
In  all  things, — but  the  nymph  I  love, 
I'll  change,  and  taste  variety, 

But,  Patty,  not  a  world  of  charms 
Could  e'er  estrange  my  heart  froin  thee  ;- 

No,  let  me  ever  seek  those  arms, 
There  still  I'll  find  variety. 


TO  A  BOY,  WITH  A  WATCH. 

WRITTEN    FOa   A   FRIEND. 

Is  it  not  sweet,  beloved  youth, 

To  rove  through  Erudition's  bowers, 

And  cull  the  golden  fruits  of  truth. 
And  gather  Fancy's  brilliant  ilowersi 

And  is  it  not  more  sweet  than  this. 
To  feel  thy  parents'  hearts  approving, 

And  pay  them  back  in  sums  of  bliss 
The  dear,  the  endless  debt  of  loving? 

It  must  be  so  to  thee,  my  youth ; 

With  this  idea  toil  is  lighter ; 
This  sweetens  all  the  fruits  of  truth. 

And  makes  the  flower  of  fancy  brighter. 

The  little  gift  we  send  thee,  boy, 

May  sometimes  teach  thy  soul  to  ponder. 

If  indolence  or  siren  joy 

Should  ever  tempt  that  soul  to  wander. 

'Twill  tell  thee  that  the  winged  day 

Can  ne'er  be  cliain'd  by  man's  endeavor; 

That  life  and  time  shall  fade  aw.ay. 

While  heav'n  and  virtue  bloom  for  ever. 


SONG. 


If  I  swear  by  that  eye,  you'll  allow, 

Its  look  is  so  shifting  and  new, 
Th.it  the  oath  I  might  t.ake  on  it  now 

The  very  ne.xt  glance  would  undo. 

Those  babies  that  nestle  so  sly 

Such  thousands  of  arrows  have  got, 

That  an  oath,  on  the  glance  of  an  eye 
Such  as  yours,  may  be  off  in  a  shot. 

Should  I  swear  by  the  dew  on  your  lip. 
Though  each  moment  the  treasure  renews, 

If  my  constancy  wishes  to  trip, 

I  may  kiss  off  the  oath  when  I  choose. 


Or  a  sigh  may  disperse  from  that  flow'r 
Both  the  dew  and  the  oath  that  are  there; 

And  I'd  make  a  new  vow  every  hour. 
To  lose  them  so  sweetly  in  air. 

But  clear  up  the  heav'n  of  your  brow. 
Nor  fancy  my  faith  is  a  feather; 

On  my  heart  I  will  pledge  you  ray  vow. 
And  thoy  both  must  be  broken  together 


To 


Remember  him  thou  leav'st  behind, 
Whose  heart  is  warmly  bound  to  thee, 

Close  as  the  tend'rest  links  can  bind 
A  heart  as  warm  as  heart  can  be. 

Oh !  I  hni  long  in  freedom  roved, 

Though  many  seem'd  my  soul  to  share; 

'Twas  passion  when  I  t!;ought  I  loved, 
'Twas  fancy  when  I  thought  them  fair. 

Ev'n  she,  my  muse's  early  theme, 
Beguiled  me  only  while  she  warm'd ; 

'Twas  young  desire  that  fed  the  dream, 
And  reason  broke  vvh.at  passion  form'd. 

But  thou — ah  !  better  hid  it  been 
If  I  had  still  in  freedom  roved. 

If  I  had  ne'er  thy  be.autiis  seen. 

For  then  I  never  shou!d  have  loved. 

Then  .all  the  pain  which  l:)vcrs  feel 
Kad  never  to  this  heart  been  known ; 

But  then,  the  joys  that  loveru  ste.al. 
Should  tliey  have  ever  been  my  own  ? 

Oh !  trust  me,  when  I  swear  thee  this, 
Dearest !  the  pain  of  loving  thee. 

The  very  pain  is  sweeter  blit\« 
Then  passion's  wildest  ecstacy. 

Th.at  little  cage  I  would  not  part. 
In  which  my  soul  is  prison'd  now, 

For  the  most  light  and  winged  heart 
That  wantons  on  the  passing  vow. 

Still,  my  beloved !  still  keep  in  mind. 
However  far  removed  from  me. 

That  there  is  one  thou  le.av'st  behind. 
Whose  heart  respires  for  only  thee ! 

And  though  ungenial  ties  have  bound 

Thy  fate  unto  another's  care. 
That  arm,  which  clasps  thy  bosom  round. 

Cannot  confine  the  heart  that's  them 


88 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


No,  no!  that  heart  is  only  mine 

Uv  ties  all  other  ties  aljove, 
Por  I  have  wed  it  at  a  slirine 

Where  we  have  liad  no  priest  but  Love 


SOXO. 

When  Time,  wlio  steals  our  years  away, 

Shall  steal  our  pleasures  too. 
The  mem'ry  of  the  past  will  stay. 

And  halt'  our  joys  renew. 
Then,  Julia,  when  thy  beauty's  flofr'r 

Shall  feel  the  wintry  air, 
Remembrance  will  recall  the  hour 

When  thou  alone  wert  fair. 
Then  talk  no  more  of  future  gloom; 

Our  joys  .shall  always  last; 
For  Hope  shall  brijjhten  days  to  come, 

And  Mem'ry  gild  the  past. 

Come,  Chloe,  fill  the  genial  bowl 

I  drink  to  Love  and  thee: 
Thou  never  canst  decay  in  soul, 

Thou'lt  still  be  young  for  me. 
And  as  thy  lips  the  tear-drop  chase, 

Which  on  my  cheek  they  find. 
So  hope  shall  steal  away  the  trace 

That  sorrow  leaves  behind. 
Then  fill  the  bowl — away  with  gloom  ! 

Onr  joys  shall  .always  last; 
For  Hope  shall  brighten  days  to  come. 

And  Jlem'ry  gild  the  past. 

But  mark,  at  thought  of  future  years 

Wlien  love  shall  lose  its  soul, 
.My  Chloe  drops  her  timid  te.ars, 

They  mingle  with  my  bowl. 
How  like  this  bowl  of  wine,  my  fair. 

Our  loving  life  shall  fleet; 
Though  tears  m.ay  sometimes  mingle  tliere, 

The  draught  will  still  bo  sweet. 
Then  fill  the  cup — away  with  gloom! 

Our  joys  shall  alw.ays  Last  ; 
For  Hope  will  briglitcn  d.ays  to  como, 

And  Mem'ry  gild  the  past. 


SONO. 


And  can  you  think  my  love  is  chill, 

Nor  fi.\'d  on  you  alone? 
And  can  you  rend,  by  doubting  still 

A  heart  so  much  your  own? 

To  you  my  soul's  aftections  move. 

Devoutly,  warmly  true ; 
My  life  has  been  a  task  of  love, 

One  long,  long  thought  of  you. 
If  all  )'our  tender  faith  bo  o'er. 

If  still  my  truth  you'll  try; 
Alas,  I  know  but  one  proof  more— 

I'll  bless  your  name,  and  die ! 


Have  you  not  seen  the  timid  tear. 
Steal  trembling  from  mine  eye? 

Have  you  not  mark'd  the  Hush  of  fenr, 
Or  caught  the  murmur'd  sigh! 


REUBEN  AND  ROSE. 

A  TALE    OF   ttOMANCE. 

The  darkness  that  hung  upon  Willumberg's  walls 
Had  long  been  remember'd  with  awe  and  dismay 

For  years  not  a  sunbeam  had  play'd  in  its  halls. 
And  it  seem'd  as  shut  out  from  the  regions  of  day. 

Though  the  valleys  were  brighten'd  by   many  a 
beam, 
Yet  none  could  the  woods  of  that  castle  illume; 
And  the  lightning,  which  fiash'd  on  the  neigliboring 
stream, 
Flew  back,  as  if  fearing  to  enter  the  glooiu  ! 

"Oh!  when  shall  this  horrible  darkness  disperse!" 
Said    Willumberg's    lord    to    the    Seer    of  the 
Cave  ;— 
"It  can  never  dispel,"  said  the  wizard  of  verse, 
"Till  the  bright  star  of  chivalry  sinks  in  the 
wave !" 

And  who  was  the  bright  star  of  chivalry  then? 

Who  could  be  but  Reuben,  the  flower  of  tlic  age? 
For  Reuben  was  first  in  the  combat  of  men. 

Though  Youth  had  scarce  written  his  n.amc  op 
her  page. 

For  Willumberg's  daughter  his  young  heart  had 

boat,— 

For  Rose,  who  was  bright  as  the  spirit  of  dawn, 

When  with  wand  dropping  diamonds,  ami   silvery 

feet, 

It  walks  o'er  the  flow'rs  of  the  mountain  and  lawn. 

Must  Rose,  then,  from  Reuben  So  fatally  sever? 

Sad,  sad  wore  the  words  of  the  Seer  of  the  Cava 
That  larkncss  should  covit  that  c:islle  for  ever. 

Or  lleubon  bo  sunk  in  the  merciless  wave! 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


89 


To  the  wizard  sho  flew,  saying,  "  Tell  iiic,  oli,  tell ! 
"  Shall  my  Reuben  no  more  bo  restored  to  my 
eyes?" 
*  Yes,  yea — when  a  spirit  shall  toll  the  great  bell 
"Of  the  mouldering  abbey,  your  Reuben  shall 
rise !" 

Twice,  thrice   he   repeated  "  Your  Reuben   shall 
rise !" 
And  Rose  felt  a  moment's  release  from  her  pain ; 
And  wiped,  while  slie  listen'd,  the  tears  from  her 
eyes. 
And  hoped  she  might  yet  see  her  hero  again. 

That  hero  could  smile  at  the  terrors  of  death. 
When  he  felt  that  he  died  for  the  sire  of  his  Rose ; 

To  the  Oder  he  flew,  and  there,  plunging  beneath. 
In  the  depth  of  the  billows  soon  found  his  re- 
pose.— 

How  strangely  the  order  of  destiny  falls? — 
Not  long  in  the  waters  the  warrior  lay, 

When  a  sunbeam  was  seen   to  glance  over  the 
walls, 
And  the  castle  of  Willumberg  bask'd  in  the  ray ! 

All,  all  but  the  soul  of  the  maid  was  in  light. 
There  sorrow  and  terror  lay  gloomy  and  blank  : 

Two  days  did  she  wander,  and  all  the  long  night, 
In  quest  of  her  love,  on  the  wide  river's  bank. 

Oft,  oft  did  she  pause  for  the  toll  of  the  bell. 
And  heard  but  the  breathings  of  night  in  the  air ; 

Long,  long  did  she  gaze  on  the  watery  swell. 
And  saw  but  the  fo.am  of  the  white  billow  there. 

And  often  as  midnight  its  veil  would  undraw, 
As  she  look'd  at  the  light  of  the  moon  in  the 
stream. 
She  thought  'twas  his  helmet  of  silver  she  saw. 
As  the  curl  of  the  surge  glitter'd  high  in  the 
beam. 

And  now  the  third  night  was  begemming  the  sky ; 

Poor  Rose,  on  the  cold  dewy  margent  reclined. 
There  wept  till  the  tear  almost  froze  in  her  eye. 

When — hark! — 'twas  the  bell  that  came  deep 
in  the  wind ! 

Khe  startled,   and   saw,   through   tlic   glimmering 
shade, 
A  form  o'er  the  waters  in  majesty  glide ; 
She  knew  'twas  her  love,  though  his  cheek  was  de- 
cay'd. 
And  his  helmet  of  silver  was  wash'd  by  the  tide. 
%'OL.  n. — 12 


Was  this  what  the  Seer  of  the  Cave  had  foretold? — 
Dim,  dim  through  the  phantom  the  moon  shot  a 
gleam ; 

'Twas  Reuben,  but,  ah !  he  was  deathly  and  cold, 
And  fleeted  away  like  the  spell  of  a  dream! 

Twice,  thrice  did  ho  rise,  and  as  often  slie  thought 
From  the  bank  to  embrace  him,  but  vain  her  en- 
deavor! 

Then,  plunging  beneath,  at  a  billow  she  caught. 
And  sunk  to  repose  on  its  bosom  for  ever! 


DID  NOT. 

'TwAs  a  new  feeling — something  more 
Than  we  had  dared  to  own  before. 

Which  then  we  hid  not; 
We  saw  it  in  each  other's  eye. 
And  wish'd,  in  every  half-breathed  sigh, 

To  speak,  but  did  not. 

She  felt  my  lips'  impassion'd  touch — 
'Twas  the  first  time  I  dared  so  much. 

And  yet  she  chid  not ; 
But  whisper'd  o'er  my  burning  brow, 
"Oh!  do  you  doubt  I  love  you  now?" 

Sweet  soul !  I  did  not. 

Warmly  I  felt  her  bosom  thrill, 
I  press'd  it  closer,  closer  still. 

Though  gently  bid  not ; 
Till — oh !  the  world  hath  seldom  heard 
Of  lovers,  who  so  nearly  errd, 

And  yet,  who  did  not. 


That  wrinkle,  when  first  I  espied  it 
At  once  put  my  heart  out  of  pain ; 

Till  the  eye,  that  was  glowing  beside  it 
Disturb'd  my  ideas  again. 

Thou  art  just  in  the  twilight  at  present. 
When  wom.an's  declension  begins; 

When,  fading  from  all  that  is  pleasant, 
She  bids  a  good  niglit  to  her  sins. 

Yet  thou  still  art  so  lovely  to  me, 
I  would  sooner,  my  exquisite  mother! 

Repose  in  the  sunset  of  thee. 
Than  bask  in  the  noon  of  another. 


90 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


MKS. 


ON  BOMB  CALimSIES  AGAI:<ST  EEB  CHASACIXE. 

Is  not  t]iy  mind  a  gentle  mind  ? 
Is  not  that  heart  a  heart  refined  ? 
Hast  thou  not  every  gentle  grace, 
We  love  in  woman's  mind  and  face  1 
And,  oil !  art  thou  a  shrine  for  Sin 
To  hold  her  hateful  worship  in? 

No,  no,  be  happy — dr)'  that  tear — 
Though  some  thy  heart  hath  harbor'd  near, 
May  now  repay  its  love  with  blame ; 
Though  man,  who  ought  to  shield  thy  fame, 
Ungenerous  man,  be  first  to  shun  thee ; 
Though  all  the  world  look  cold  upon  thee, 
Yet  shall  thy  pureness  keep  thee  still 
TJnharm'd  by  that  surrounding  chill; 
Like  the  famed  drop,  in  crystal  found,' 
Floating,  while  all  was  froz'n  around, — 
Unehill'd,  unchanging  shall  thou  be, 
Safe  in  thy  own  sweet  purity. 


ANACREONTIC. 

—  Id  lathrymas  vcrterat  onine  menim. 

Tib.  lib.  i.  eleg.  2. 

Press  the  grape,  and  let  it  pour 
Around  the  board  its  purple  shower; 
And,  while  the  drops  my  goblet  steep, 
I'll  think  in  woe  the  clusters  weep. 

Weep  on,  weep  on,  my  pouting  vine  ! 
lleav'n  grant  no  tears,  but  tears  of  wine. 
Weep  on  ;  and,  as  thy  sorrows  flow, 
I'll  taste  the  lu.\ury  of  woo. 


When  I  loved  you,  I  can't  but  allow 
I  had  m.any  nn  exquisite  minute ; 

But  the  scorn  that  I  feel  for  you  now 
Hath  even  more  luxury  in  it. 

Thus,  whether  we're  on  or  we're  oflT, 
Home  witchery  seems  to  nwait  you ; 

To  love  you  was  pleasant  enough, 
And,  oh !  'tis  delicious  to  hate  yon ! 


TO  JULIA. 

n<    ALLCSION   TO   SOITE   ILLIBEKAI.   CainOISll& 

Why,  let  the  stingless  critic  chide 
With  all  that  fume  of  v.icant  pride 
Which  mantles  o'er  the  pedant  fool, 
Like  vapor  on  a  stagnant  pool. 
Oh !  if  the  song,  to  feeling  true, 
Can  please  th'  elect,  the  sacred  few. 
Whose  souls,  by  Taste  and  Nature  taught, 
Thrill  with  the  genuine  pulse  of  thought— 
If  some  fond  feeling  maid  like  thee. 
The  warm-eyed  child  of  Sympathy, 
Sh.all  say,  while  o'er  my  simple  theme 
She  languishes  in  Passion's  dream, 
"  He  was,  indeed,  a  tender  soul — 
"No  critic  Law,  no  chill  control, 
"  Should  ever  freeze,  by  timid  art, 
"  The  ilowings  of  so  fond  a  heart !" 
Yes,  soul  of  Nature  !  soul  of  Love  ! 
Th.at,  liov'ring  like  a  snow-wing'd  dove, 
Breathed  o'er  my  cradle  warblings  wild, 
And  hail'd  rao  Passion's  warmest  child, — 
Grant  me  the  tear  from  Beauty's  eye. 
From  Feeling's  breast  the  votive  sigh; 
Oh!  let  my  song,  my  mem'ry,  find 
A  shrine  within  the  tender  mind ; 
And  I  will  smile  when  critics  cliide, 
And  I  will  scorn  the  fume  of  pride 
Which  mantles  o'er  the  pedant  fool. 
Like  vapor  round  some  stagnant  pool ! 


TO  JULIA. 

Mock  nic  no  more  with  Love's  beguiling  dream, 

A  drc.am,  I  find,  illusory  as  sweet: 
One  smile  of  friendship,  n.ay,  of  cold  esteem, 

Far  dearer  were  than  passion's  bland  deceit ! 

I've  heard  you  oft  eternal  truth  declare ; 

Your  heart  was  only  mine,  I  once  believed. 
Ah !  shall  I  sjiy  th.at  all  your  vows  were  nir  ? 

And  must  I  say,  my  hopes  were  all  deceived? 

Vow,  then,  no  longer  that  our  souls  are  twined, 
That  all  our  joys  are  fidl  with  mutual  zeal; 

Julia! — 'lis  pity,  pity  makes  you  kind; 
You  know  I  love,  and  you  would  seem  to  feel. 

But  shall  I  still  go  seek  within  IIiohk  arms 
A  joy  in  which  alfeclion  takes  no  p  irt  ? 

No,  no,  farewi'll !  you  give  ine  but  your  charms, 
When  ]  had  fondiv  thought  you  gave  your  heart 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


91 


THE  SURINE. 


Ms  fates  lad  destined  me  to  love 
A  long,  Icng  pilgrimage  of  love ; 
And  many  an  altar  on  my  way 
Has  lured  my  pious  steps  to  stay ; 
For,  if  the  saint  was  young  and  fair, 
I  turn'd  and  sung  ray  vespers  there. 
This,  from  a  youthful  pilgrim's  fire, 
Is  what  your  pretty  saints  require : 
To  pass,  nor  tell  a  single  bead. 
With  them  would  be  profane  indeed ! 
But,  trust  me,  all  this  young  devotion 
Was  but  to  keep  my  zeal  in  motion; 
And,  cv'ry  humbler  altar  past, 
I  now  have  reach'd  the  shrine  at  last ! 


TO  A  LADY, 

WITH   SOME    MANCSCaiPT   POEMS, 
ON    LEAVING   THE    COUNTSV. 

When,  casting  many  a  loolc  behind, 
I  leave  the  friends  I  cherish  here — 

Perchance  some  other  friends  to  find. 
But  surely  finding  none  so  dear — 

Ilaply  the  little  simple  page, 

Which  votive  thus  I've  traced  for  thee. 
May  now  and  then  a  look  engage, 

And  steal  one  moment's  thought  for  me. 

But,  ob !  in  pity  let  not  those 

Whose  hearts  are  not  of  gentle  mould, 
Let  not  the  eye  that  seldom  flows 

With  feeling's  tear,  my  song  behold. 

For,  trust  mo,  they  who  never  melt 
With  pity,  never  melt  with  love ; 

And  such  will  frown  at  all  I've  felt, 
And  all  my  loving  lays  reprove. 

And  if,  perhaps,  some  gentler  mind, 

Which  rather  loves  to  praise  than  blame. 

Should  in  my  page  an  interest  find,- 
And  linger  kindly  on  my  name; 

Tell  me — or,  oh  !  if,  gentler  still. 
By  female  lips  my  name  be  blest : 

For,  where  do  all  affections  thrill 
So  sweetly  as  in  woman's  breast? — 


Tell  her,  that  he  whose  loving  themes 
Her  eye  indulgent  wanders  o'er. 

Could  sometimes  wake  from  idle  dreams 
And  bolder  flights  of  fancy  soar; 

That  Glory  oft  would  claim  the  lay, 
And  Friendship  oft  his  numbers  move ; 

But  whisper  then,  that,  "  sooth  to  say, 
"  His  sweetest  song  was  giv'n  to  Love !" 


TO  JULIA. 

Though  Fate,  my  girl,  may  bid  us  part, 
Our  souls  it  cannot,  shall  not  sever; 

The  heart  will  seek  its  kindred  heart, 
And  cling  to  it  as  close  as  ever. 

But  must  we,  must  we  part  indeed  ? 

Is  all  our  dream  of  rapture  over  ? 
And  does  not  Julia's  bosom  bleed 

To  leave  so  dear,  so  fond  a  lover  ? 

Does  she  too  mourn  ? — Perhaps  she  may ; 

Perhaps  she  mourns  our  bliss  so  fleeting. 
But  why  is  Julia's  eye  so  gay. 

If  Julia's  heart  like  mine  is  beating? 

I  oft  have  loved  tliat  sunny  glow 

Of  gladness  in  her  blue  eye  gleaming — 

But  can  the  bosom  bleed  with  woe, 
Wliile  joy  is  in  the  glances  beaming? 

No,  no ! — Yet,  love,  I  will  not  chide ; 

Although  your  heart  were  fond  of  roving. 
Nor  that,  nor  all  the  world  beside 

Could  keep  your  faithful  boy  from  loving. 

You'll  soon  be  distant  from  his  eye. 

And,  with  you,  all  that's  worth  posse'smg. 

Oh !  then  it  will  be  sweet  to  die, 
When  life  has  lost  its  only  blessing ! 


T» 


Sweet  lady,  look  not  thus  again : 
Those  bright  deluding  smiles  recall 

A  maid  remember'd  now  with  pain, 
Who  was  my  love,  my  life,  my  all  I 

Oh !  while  this  heart  bewilder'd  took 
Sweet  poison  from  her  thrilling  eye, 

Thus  would  she  smile,  and  lisp,  and  look, 
And  I  would  hear,  and  gaze,  and  sigh  1 


92 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Yes,  I  did  love  her — wildly  love — 

She  was  her  sex'a  best  deceiver ! 
And  oft  she  swore  she'd  never  rove— 

And  I  was  destined  to  believe  her ! 

Then,  lady,  do  not  wear  the  smile 

Of  one  whose  smile  could  thus  betray  • 

Alas!  I  tliink  the  lovely  wile 
Again  could  steal  my  heart  away. 

For,  when  those  spells  that  charm'd  my  mind, 

On  lips  so  pure  as  thine  I  see, 
I  fear  the  heart  which  she  resign'd 

Will  err  again,  and  fly  to  thee ! 


NATURE'S  LABELS. 


A   FB.\GM£NT. 


1.V  vain  we  fondly  strive  to  trace 

The  soul's  reflection  in  the  face ; 

In  vain  wo  dwell  on  lines  and  crosses, 

Crooked  mouth,  or  short  proboscis; 

Boobies  have  look'd  as  wise  and  bright 

As  Plato  or  the  Stagirite: 

And  many  a  sage  and  learned  skull 

Has  peep'd  through  whidowa  dark  and  dull. 

Since  then,  though  .irt  do  all  it  can, 

We  ne'er  can  re.ach  tlie  inward  man, 

Nor  (howsoc'er  "  learn'd  Thebans"  doubt) 

Tlie  inward  woman,  from  without, 

Melhinks  'twere  well  if  Nature  could 

(And  Nature  could,  if  Nature  would) 

Some  pithy,  short  description  write. 

On  tablets  large,  in  black  and  white. 

Which  she  might  hang  about  our  throttles. 

Like  l;ibels  upon  pliysic-bottlcs  ; 

And  where  all  men  might  read — but  stay — 

As  di.aletic  sages  say. 

The  argument  most  apt  and  ample 

For  common  use  is  the  example. 

For  insUmcc,  then,  if  Nature's  care 

H.id  not  portray'd,  in  lines  so  fair. 

The  inward  soul  of  Lucy  Landon, 

This  is  the  label  ulie'd  h.'ivc  pinn'd  on. 

I.ADEL    FIOST. 

Witiiin  this  form  there  lies  enshrined 

The  purest,  brightest  gem  of  mind. 

Though  Feeling'H  liand  may  sometimes  throw 

Upon  its  charms  the  shndo  of  woe, 

Thn  luslrn  of  the  gem,  when  veil'd. 

Shall  be  but  mellow'd,  not  concenl'd 


Now,  sirs,  imagine,  if  you're  able. 
That  Nature  wrote  a  second  label, 
They're  her  own  words, — at  least  suppose  so- 
And  boldly  pin  it  on  Pomposo. 

LABEL   SECOND 

When  I  composed  the  fustian  brain 
Of  this  redoubted  Captain  Vain, 
I  had  at  hand  but  few  ingredients. 
And  so  was  forced  to  use  expedients. 
I  put  therein  some  small  discerning, 
A  grain  of  sense,  a  grain  of  learning ; 
And  when  I  saw  the  void  beliind, 
I  fiU'd  it  up  with — froth  and  wind 
***** 


TO  JULIA 

ON    BEE    BIKTUDAT. 

When  Time  was  entwining  the  garland  of  yeais, 
Which  to  crown  my  beloved  was  given. 

Though  some  of  the  leaves  might  be  sullied  with 
tears, 
Yet  the  flow'rs  were  all  gather'd  in  heaven. 

And  long  may  this  garland  be  sweet  to  the  eye. 

May  its  verdure  for  ever  be  new ; 
Young  Love  shall  enrich  it  with  many  a  sigh, 

And  Sympathy  nurse  it  with  dew. 


A  REFLECTION  AT  SEA 

See  how,  beneath  the  moonbeam's  smile, 
Yon  little  billow  heaves  its  breast. 

And  foams  and  sparkles  for  awhile, — 
Then  murmuring  subsides  to  rest. 

Tiius  man,  the  sport  of  bliss  and  care, 
lUsps  on  Time's  eventful  sea; 

And,  having  swell'd  a  moment  there, 
Thus  melts  into  eternity  I 


CLORIS  AND  FANNY. 

Cl.oitis!  if  I  were  Persia's  king, 

I'd  make  my  graceful  i|Uoen  of  tliei-; 

While  Fanny,  wild  and  artless  thing, 
Should  but  thy  huinblo  handmaid  bo. 

There  is  but  oiw  objection  in  it — 
That^  verily,  I'm  muoh  afraid 

I  sliduld,  in  some  unlucky  minute, 
Forsake  the  iiiistress  for  tliu  moid. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


THE  SHIELD. 

Say,  did  you  not  Iiear  a  voice  of  death! 

And  did  you  not  mark  tlie  paly  form 
Wliicli  rode  on  the  silvery  mist  of  the  heath, 

And  sung  a  gliostiy  dirge  in  the  storm? 

VV.as  it  the  wailing  bird  of  the  gloom, 

That  shrieks  on  the  house  of  woe  all  night? 

Or  a  sluv'ring  fiend  tliat  flew  to  a  tomb, 

To  howl  and  to  feed  till  the  glance  of  light? 

'Twas  not  the  death-bird's  cry  from  the  wood, 
Nor  shiv'ring  fiend  that  hung  on  the  blast ; 

'Twas  the  shade  of  Helderic — man  of  blood — 
It  screams  for  the  guilt  of  days  that  are  past. 

See,  how  the  red,  red  lightning  strays, 

And  scares  the  gliding  ghosts  of  the  heath  ! 

Now  on  the  leafless  yew  it  plays, 

Where  hangs  the  shield  of  this  son  of  death. 

That  shield  is  blushing  with  murd'rous  stains ; 

Long  has  it  hung  from  the  cold  yew's  spray ; 
It  is  blown  by  storms  and  wash'd  by  rains, 

But  neither  can  take  the  blood  away! 

Oft  by  that  yew,  on  the  blasted  field. 
Demons  dance  to  the  red  moon's  light ; 

While  the  damp  boughs  creak,  and  the  swinging 
shield 
Sings  to  the  raving  spirit  of  night ! 


TO  JULIA. 

WEEPING. 

Oh  !  if  your  tears  are  giv'n  to  care", 
If  real  woe  disturbs  your  peiice. 

Come  to  my  bosom,  weeping  fair! 
And  I  will  bid  your  weeping  cease. 

But  if  with  Fancy's  vision'd  fears. 
With  dreams  of  woe  your  bosom  thrill ; 

You  look  so  lovely  in  your  tears. 
That  I  must  bid  you  drop  them  still. 


DREAMS. 
To    

In  slumber,  I  prithee  how  is  it 
That  souls  are  oft  taking  the  air. 

And  paying  each  other  a  visit, 
While  bodies  are  heaven  knows  where  ? 


Last  night,  'tis  in  vain  to  deny  it 
Your  Soul  took  a  fancy  to  roani, 

For  I  heard  her,  on  tiptoe  so  quiet. 
Come  ask,  whether  mine  was  at  home. 

And  mine  let  lier  in  with  delight. 

And  they  talk'd  and  they  laugh'd  the  time 
through ; 
For,  when  souls  come  together  at  night, 

There's  no  saying  wliat  they  mayn't  do! 

And  your  little  Soul,  heaven  bless  her! 

Had  much  to  complain  and  to  say, 
Of  how  sadly  you  wrong  and  oppress  her 

By  keeping  her  prison'd  all  day. 

"  If  I  happen,"  said  she,  "  but  to  steal 
"  For  a  peep  now  and  then  to  her  eye, 

"  Or,  to  quiet  the  fever  I  feel, 
"Just  venture  abroad  on  a  sigh; 

"  In  an  instant  she  frightens  me  in 

"With  some  phantom  of  prudence  or  teriot 

"  For  fear  I  should  stray  into  sin, 
"  Or,  what  is  still  worse,  into  error! 

"  So,  instead  of  displ.iying  my  gr-ices, 
"  By  daylight,  in  language  and  mien, 

"  I  am  shut  up  in  corners  and  places, 
"  Where  truly  I  blush  to  be  seen !" 

Upon  hearing  this  piteous  confession, 
My  Soul,  looking  tenderly  at  her. 

Declared,  as  for  grace  and  discretion, 
He  did  not  know  much  of  the  matter ; 

"  But,  to-morrow,  sweet  Spirit !"  he  said, 
"  Be  .at  home  after  midnight,  and  then 

"  I  will  come  wlien  your  Lady's  in  bed, 
"  And  we'll  talk  o'er  the  subject  again. 

So  she  wliisper'd  a  word  in  his  ear, 
I  suppose  to  her  door  to  direct  him. 

And,  just  after  midnight,  my  dear. 
Your  polite  little  Soul  may  expect  hiic 


TO  ROSA, 

WBITTSN    DDBING    ILLKE8S. 

The  wisest  soul,  by  anguish  torn, 
Will  soon  unlearn  the  lore  it  knew ; 

And  when  tlie  shining  casket's  worn, 
The  gem  within  will  t.arnisli  too. 


94 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


But  love'3  an  essence  of  the  soul, 

Which  sinks  not  with  this  chain  of  clay; 

Which  throbs  beyond  the  cliill  contro" 
Of  with'ring  pain  or  pale  decay. 

And  surely,  when  the  touch  of  Death 
Dissolves  the  spirit's  earthly  ties, 

Love  still  attends  th'  immortal  breath, 
And  makes  it  purer  for  the  skies ! 

Oh  Rosa,  when,  to  seek  its  sphere. 
My  soul  shall  leave  this  orb  of  men. 

That  love  which  form'd  its  treasure  here. 
Shall  be  its  best  of  treasures  then ! 

And  as,  in  fabled  dreams  of  old. 
Some  air-born  genius,  child  of  time. 

Presided  o'er  each  star  that  roU'd, 

And  track'd  it  through  its  path  sublime ; 

So  thou,  fair  planet,  not  unled, 

Shalt  tlirougli  thy  mortal  orbit  stray  ; 

Thy  lover's  shade,  to  tliee  still  wed, 
Shall  linger  round  thy  earthly  way. 

Let  other  spirits  range  the  sky, 
And  play  around  each  starry  gem ; 

I'll  b.ask  beneath  that  lucid  eye, 
Norenvy  worlds  of  anns  to  them. 

And  when  that  heart  shall  cease  to  beat. 
And  when  that  breath  at  length  is  free, 

Then,  Rosa,  soul  to  soul  we'll  meet, 
And  mingle  to  eternity  ! 


SONG. 


The  wreath  you  wove,  the  wreath  you  wove 

Is  fair — but  oh,  how  fair. 
If  Pity's  hand  had  stol'n  from  Love 

One  leaf  to  mingle  there ! 

If  every  rose  with  gold  wore  tied, 

Did  gems  for  dewdrops  fall. 
One  faded  leaf  where  Love  h.ad  sigh'd 

Were  sweetly  worth  them  all. 

The  wreath  you  wove,  the  wreath  you  wove 

Our  emblem  well  may  be; 
ItH  bloom  in  yourM,  but  liopclcsH  Lovo 

Must  keep  its  (ears  for  mc. 


THE  SALE  OF  L0VE3. 

I  DREAMT  that,  in  the  Paphian  groves. 

My  nets  by  moonlight  laying, 
I  caught  a  flight  of  wanton  Loves, 

Among  the  rose-bods  playing. 
Some  just  had  left  their  silv'ry  shell, 
Wliile  some  were  full  in  feather ; 
So  pretty  a  lot  of  Loves  to  sell, 
Were  never  yet  strung  together. 
Come  buy  my  Loves, 
Come  buy  my  Loves, 
Ye  dames  and  rose-lipp'd  misses ! — 
They're  new  and  bright, 
The  cost  is  light. 
For  the  coin  of  this  isle  is  kisses. 

First  Cloris  came,  with  looks  sed.ite, 
Their  coin  on  her  lips  was  ready ; 
"  I  buy,"  quoth  she,  "  my  Love  by  weight, 

"Full  grown,  if  you  please,  and  steady." 
"  Let  mine  be  light,"  said  Fanny,  "  pr.ay — ■ 

"  Such  Lasting  toys  undo  one ; 
"  A  light  little  Love  that  will  last  to-day,^ 
"  To-morrow  I'll  sport  a  new  one." 
Come  buy  my  Loves, 
Come  buy  my  Loves, 
Ye  dames  and  rose-lipp'd  ini^aco. — 
There's  some  will  keep. 
Some  light  and  cheap. 
At  from  ten  to  twenty  kisses. 

The  learned  Prue  took  a  pert  young  tiling. 

To  divert  her  virgin  Muse  with. 
And  pluck  sometimes  a  quill  from  his  wing, 

To  indite  licr  billet-doux  with. 
Poor  Cloe  would  give  for  a  wcU-Hedgcd  pair 

Her  only  eye,  if  you'd  ask  it; 
And  Tabitha  begg'd,  old  toothless  fair, 

For  the  youngest  Love  in  the  basket. 
Come  buy  ray  Loves,  &c.  &.C. 

But  one  w.as  left,  when  Sus.an  came. 

One  worth  them  all  together; 
At  siglit  of  lior  dear  looks  of  shame, 
lie  smiled,  and  pruned  his  feather. 
She  wiah'd  the  boy — 'twas  more  than  whim— 

Iler  looks,  her  sighs  bctray'd  it ; 
But  kisses  were  not  enough  for  him, 
I  ask'd  a  heart,  and  she  paid  it ! 
Good-by,  my  Loves, 
(iood-by,  my  Loves, 
'Twould  make  you  sniilo  to've  seen  ns 
I'irst  trade  for  this 
Sweet  child  of  bliss, 
And  llion  nuTHo  the  lioy  bctwein  us. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


95 


TO 

But  for  you  to  be  buried  in  books — 

Ah,  Fanny,  they're  pitiful  sages, 

Who  could  not  in  one  of  your  looks 

The  world  had  just  begun  to  steal 

Read  more  than  in  millions  of  pages. 

Each  hope  that  led  me  lightly  on  ; 

I  felt  not,  as  I  used  to  feel, 

Astronomy  finds  in  those  eyes 

And  life  grew  dark  wlieii  love  was  gone. 

Better  light  than  she  studies  above  ; 

And  Music  would  borrow  your  sighs 

No  eye  to  mingle  sorrow's  tear, 

As  the  melody  fittest  for  Love. 

No  lip  to  mingle  pleasure's  breath, 

No  circling  arms  to  draw  me  near — 

Your  Arithmetic  only  can  trip 

'Twas  gloomy,  and  I  wish'd  for  death. 

If  to  count  your  own  cliarms  you  endeavor; 

And  Eloquence  glows  on  your  lip 

But  when  I  saw  that  gentle  eye. 

When  you  swear,  that  you'll  love  me  for  ev« 

Oh !  something  seem'd  to  tell  me  then, 

That  I  was  yet  too  young  to  die. 

Thus  you  see,  what  a  brilliant  alliance 

And  hope  and  bliss  might  bloom  again. 

Of  arts  is  assembled  in  you ; — 

A  course  of  more  exquisite  science 

With  every  gentle  smile  that  cross'd 

JIan  never  need  wish  to  pursue.  ■ 

Your  kindling  cheek,  you  lighted  homo 

Some  feeling,  which  my  heart  had  lost, 

And,  oh ! — if  a  Fellow  like  me 

And  peace,  which  far  had  learn'd  to  roam. 

Jlay  confer  a  diploma  of  hearts, 

With  my  lip  thus  I  seal  your  degree, 

'Twas  then  indeed  so  sweet  to  live, 

My  divine  little  Mistress  of  Arts! 

Hope  look'd  so  new  and  Love  so  kind, 

That,  though  I  mourn,  I  yet  forgive 

The  ruin  tliey  have  left  behind. 

I  could  have  loved  you — oh,  so  well  1 — 

ox    THE 

The  dream,  that  wishing  boyhood  knows. 

DEATH  OF  A  LADY.     ' 

Is  but  a  bright,  beguiling  spell. 

That  only  lives  while  passion  glows: 

Swi'ET  Spirit!  if  thy  airy  sleep 

Nor  sees  my  tears  nor  hears  my  sighs, 

But,  when  this  early  flush  declines. 

Then  will  I  weep,  in  anguish  weep, 

When  this  heart's  sunny  morning  fleets. 

Till  the  last  heart's  drop  fills  mine  eye^ 

You  know  not  then  how  close  it  twines 

Round  the  first  kindred  soul  it  meets. 

But  if  thy  sainted  soul  can  feel. 

* 

And  mingles  in  our  misery ; 

Yes,  yes,  I  could  have  loved,  as  one 

Then,  then  my  breaking  heart  I'll  seal^ 

Who,  while  his  youth's  enchantments  fall. 

Thou  shalt  not  hear  one  sigh  from  me. 

Finds  something  dear  to  rest  upon, 

Which  pays  him  for  the  loss  of  all. 

The  beam  of  morn  was  on  the  stream, 

But  sullen  clouds  the  day  deform : 

Like  thee  was  that  young,  orient  beam, 

TO 

Like  death,  alas,  that  sullen  storm  ! 

Never  mind  how  the  pedagogue  proses, 

Thou  wert  not  form'd  for  living  here, 

You  want  not  antiquity's  stamp; 

So  link'd  thy  soul  was  with  the  sky ; 

A  lip,  that  such  fragrance  discloses, 

Yet,  ah,  we  held  thee  all  so  dear. 

Oh !  never  should  smell  of  the  liimp. 

We  thought  thou  wert  not  form'd  to  di« 

Old  Cloe,  whose  withering  kiss 

H.ath  long  set  the  Loves  at  deflance, 

Now,  done  with  the  science  of  bliss, 

May  take  to  the  blisses  of  science. 

96 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


DTCONSTAK^CT. 

AsD  do  I  then  wonder  that  Julia  deceives  me, 
When  surely   there's   nothing   in   nature   more 
common  ? 
She  vows  to  be  true,  and  while  vowing  she  leaves 
me — 
And  could  I  expect  any  more  from  a  woman  ] 

Oh,  woman !  your  heart  is  a  pitiful  treasure ; 

And  Mahomet's  doctrine  was  not  too  severe, 
When  he  held  that  you  were  but  materials  of  plea- 
sure. 

And  reason  and  thinking  were  out  of  your  sphere. 

By  your  heart,  when  the  fond  sighing  lover  can  win 

it. 
He  thinks  that  an  age  of  anxiety's  paid  ; 
But,  oh,  while  he's  blest,  let  him  die  at  the  minute — 
If  he  live  but  a  day,  he'll  be  surely  betray'd. 


THE  NATAL  GEXIUS. 


To 


THE    MOR.MN'Q    OF    HER    Dir.TUDAY. 

\«  witching  slumbers  of  the  night, 
I  dreamt  I  was  the  airy  sprite 

That  on  thy  natjil  moment  smiled ; 
And  thought  I  wafted  on  my  wing 
Tiiuse  flow'rs  which  in  Elysium  spring. 

To  crown  my  lovely  mortal  child. 

With  olive-brancli  I  bound  thy  head. 
Heart's  ease  along  thy  path  I  shed, 

NVhich  was  to  bloom  through  all  thy  years; 
Nor  yet  did  I  forget  to  bind 
Love's  roses,  with  his  myrtle  twined. 

And  dcw'd  by  sympathetic  tears. 

Such  was  the  wild  but  precious  boon 
Which  Fancy,  at  her  magic  noon, 

H.ndc  mc  to  Non.i's  imago  p.ay  ; 
And  were  it  thus  my  fate  to  be 
Thy  little  guardian  deity. 

How  blest  around  thy  steps  I'd  play ! 

Thy  life  sliould  glide  in  peace  along. 
Calm  as  some  lonely  sliephi-rd's  song 

That's  hcaril  iil  ilislnnce  in  Iho  grovo; 
No  cloud  Hhould  ever  dim  thy  sky, 
No  thorns  along  thy  pathway  lie. 

But  nil  ho  beauty,  piHicis  and  Iov«. 


Indulgent  Time  should  never  bring 
To  thee  one  blight  upon  his  wing, 

So  gently  o'er  thy  brow  he'd  fly ; 
And  death  itself  should  but  be  felt 
I  jko  that  of  daybeams,  when  they  melt, 

Bright  to  the  last,  in  evening's  sky ! 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS, 

SUPPOSED   TO   BE   WKnTEN    BY   JDUA, 
ON   THE    DEATH    OF    UHR   BROTHER. 

Though  sorrow  long  has  worn  my  heart; 

Though  every  day  I've  counted  o'er 
Hath  brought  a  new  and  quick'ning  sm.art 

To  wounds  tliat  rankled  fresh  before , 

Though  in  my  earliest  life  bereft 
Of  tender  links  by  nature  tied ; 

Though  hope  deceived,  and  pleasure  left ; 
Though  friends  betr.ay'd  and  foes  belied; 

I  still  had  hopes — for  hope  will  stay 

After  the  sunset  of  delight; 
So  like  the  star  which  ushers  day. 

We  scarce  can  think  it  her.alds  night ! — ■ 

I  hoped  tliat,  after  .all  its  strife, 

I\Iy  weary  heart  at  length  should  rest, 

And,  fainting  from  the  waves  of  life, 
Find  harbor  in  a  brother's  breast. 

That  brother's  breast  was  warm  with  truth. 
Was  bright  with  honor's  purest  r.iy; 

He  was  the  dearest,  gentlest  youth — 
Ah,  why  tlien  was  he  torn  away  ? 

lie  sliuuld  have  stiiy'd,  have  linger'd  here 
To  soothe  his  Julia's  every  woe; 

He  should  have  chased  e.acli  bitter  tear, 
.'Vnd  not  have  caused  those  tears  to  How. 

We  saw  within  his  soul  expand 
The  fruits  of  genius,  nursed  by  t.aste; 

While  Science,  with  a  fost'ring  hand, 
Ujion  his  brow  her  chaplet  placed. 

Wv  saw,  by  bright  degrees,  his  mind 
(irow  rich  in  nil  that  makes  men  dear; — 

lOnli^'htcn'd,  social,  and  relined, 
Iji  friendshi|i  linn,  in  lovo  sincere. 

Such  was  the  youth  we  loved  so  well, 
And  HUch  the  hopes  that  fate  denied  ; — 

We  loved,  but  nli !  could  scarcely  tell 
IIow  de»p,  how  dearly,  till  he  ilind  ! 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


97 


Close  as  the  fondest  links  could  strain, 

Thus  let  us  leave  the  bower  of  love. 

Twiijed  vvitli  iny  very  heart  ho  ^ow ; 

Where  we  have  loiler'd  long  in  bliss  • 

And  by  that  iiite  which  breaks  the  chain, 

And  you  may  down  Ihal  pathway  rove, 

The  heart  is  almost  broken  too. 

While  I  shall  take  my  way  through  tkia. 

TO   THE    LARGE   AND    BEAUTIFOL 

ANACREONTIC. 

MISS 

IR    ALLUSION   TO    SOME    PiRTNERSIlIl-   IN    A    lOTTEBT    SHARE. 

"  She  never  look'd  so  kind  before — 

IMPIIOMPTU. 

"  Yet  why  the  wanton's  smile  recall  ? 
"  I've  seen  this  mtchery  o'er  and  o'er, 

— Ego  para tiro. 

"  'Tis  heartless,  vain,  and  heartless  all !" 

In  wedlock  a  species  of  lottery  lies, 

Where  in  blanks  and  in  prizes  we  deal ; 

Thus  I  said  and,  sighing,  drain'd 

But  how  comes  it  that  you,  such  a  capital  prize, 

The  cup  which  she  so  late  had  tasted  ; 

Should  so  long  have  remaiu'd  in  the  wheel  ? 

Upon  whose  rim  etill  fresh  remain'd 

The  breath,  so  oft  in  falsehood  wasted. 

If  ever,  by  Fortune's  indulgent  decree. 

• 

To  me  such  a  ticket  should  roll, 

1  took  the  harp,  and  would  have  sung 

A  sixteenth,  Heav'n  knows!  were  sufficient  for 

As  if  'twere  not  of  her  I  sang ; 

me; 

But  still  the  notes  on  Lamia  hung — 

For  what  could  /  do  with  the  whole  ? 

On  whom  but  Lamia  could  they  hangi 

A  DREAM. 

1  THOUGHT  this  heart  enkindled  lay 
On  Cupid's  burning  shrine  : 

I  thought  he  stole  tliy  heart  away. 
And  placed  it  near  to  mine. 

I  saw  thy  heart  begin  to  melt. 
Like  ice  before  the  sun  ; 

Till  both  a  glow  congenial  felt, 
And  mingled  into  one ! 


TO 


With  all  my  soul,  then,  let  us  part. 
Since  both  are  anxious  to  be  free  ; 

And  I  will  send  you  home  your  heart. 
And  you  will  send  back  mine  to  me. 

We've  had  some  happy  hours  together. 
But  joy  must  often  change  its  wing ; 

And  spring  would  be  but  gloomy  weather. 
If  we  had  nothing  else  but  spring. 

'Tis  not  that  I  expect  to  find 

A  more  devoted,  fond,  and  true  one, 

With  rosier  cheek,  or  sweeter  mind — 
Enough  for  me  tliat  she's  a  new  one. 
VOL.  n. — 13 


Those  eyes  ot  hers,  that  noatnig  sntne. 
Like  diamonds  in  some  Eastern  river 

That  kiss,  for  wliicli,  if  worlds  were  mine, 
A  world  for  every  kiss  I'd  give  her. 

That  frame  so  delicate,  yet  warm'd 
With  flushes  of  love's  genial  hue  ; — 

A  mould  transparent,  as  if  form'd 
To  let  the  spirit's  light  shine  through. 

Of  these  I  sung,  and  notes  and  words 

Were  sweet,  as  if  the  very  air 
From  Lamia's  lip  hung  o'er  the  chords. 

And  Lamia's  voice  still  warbled  there ! 

But  when,  al.as,  I  turn'd  the  theme. 
And  when  of  vows  and  oaths  I  spoke, 

Of  truth  and  hope's  .seducing  dream — 
The  chord  beneath  my  finger  broke. 

False  harp !  false  wom.an ! — such,  oh,  such 
Are  lutes  too  frail  and  hearts  too  willing ; 

Any  hand,  whate'er  its  touch. 

Can  set  their  chords  or  pulses  thrilling. 

And  when  that  thrill  is  mo.st  awake, 

And  when  you  think  Heav'n's  joys  await  j'ou, 

The  nymph  will  change,  the  chord  will  break — 
Oh  Love,  oh  Music,  how  I  hate  you ! 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


TO  JULIA. 

I  SAW  the  peasant's  hand  unkind 
From  yonder  oak  t!;e  ivy  sever ; 

ThfV  seem'd  in  very  being  twined ; 
Yet  now  tlie  oak  is  fresh  as  ever ! 

Not  so  the  widow'd  ivy  shines : 
Torn  from  its  dear  and  only  stay, 

In  drooping  widowhood  it  pines, 
And  scatters  all  its  bloom  avAiy. 

Thus,  Julia,  did  our  hearts  entwine, 
Till  F'ate  disturb'd  their  tender  ties  : 

Thus  gay  indifference  blooms  in  thine, 
While  mine,  deserted,  droops  and  dies! 


HYMN 
OF   A   VIRGIN   OF   DELPHI, 

AT    THE    TOMB    Of    BEE    ItOTHEB. 

Oh,  lost,  for  ever  lost — no  more 

Shall  Vesper  light  our  dewy  way 
Along  the  rocks  of  Crissa's  shore, 

To  hymn  the  f  iding  fires  of  day  ; 
No  more  to  Tempu's  distant  vale 

In  holy  musings  shall  we  roam. 
Through  summer's  glow  and  winter's  gale. 

To  bear  the  mystic  chaplets  home.' 
Twas  then  my  soul's  expanding  zeal. 

By  nature  warm'd  and  led  by  thee, 
In  every  breeze  w-as  taught  to  feel 

The  breathings  of  a  Deity. 
Guide  of  my  heart!  still  hovering  round. 

Thy  looks,  thy  words  are  still  my  own — 
I  .see  thee  raising  from  the  ground 

Some  laurel,  by  the  winds  o'erthrown. 
And  hear  thee  say,  "  This  humble  bough 

"  Was  planted  for  a  doom  divine  ; 
"  And,  though  it  droop  in  languor  now, 

"  Shall  flourish  on  the  Delphic  shrine ! 
"Thus,  in  the  vale  of  earthly  sense, 

"Though  sunk  awhile  the  spirit  lies, 
"  A  viewless  hand  shall  cull  it  therico, 

"To  bloom  immortal  in  the  skies!" 

All  that  the  young  should  feel  and  know, 

By  thee  was  taught  so  sweetly  well, 
Thy  words  fell  soft  as  vernal  snow, 

And  all  was  brightness  where  they  fell ! 
Fond  soother  of  my  infant  tear, 

Fond  sharer  of  my  infant  joy, 
l»  not  thy  shade  still  lingering  hero? 

Am  I  not  still  tliy  soorH  employ  ? 


Oh  yes — and,  as  in  former  days, 

When,  meeting  on  the  sacred  mount, 
Our  nymphs  awaked  their  choral  lays. 

And  d.inced  around  Cassotis'  fount; 
As  then,  'twas  all  thy  wish  and  care, 

That  mine  should  be  the  simplest  mien, 
My  lyre  and  voice  the  sweetest  there. 

My  foot  the  lightest  o'er  the  green : 
So  still,  each  look  and  step  to  mould. 

Thy  guardi.an  care  is  round  me  spread, 
Arranging  every  snowy  fold. 

And  guiding  every  mazy  tread. 
And,  when  I  lend  the  hymning  choir. 

Thy  spirit  still,  unseen  and  free. 
Hovers  between  my  lip  and  lyre. 

And  weds  them  into  harmony. 
Flow,  Plistus,  flow,  thy  murmuring  wave 

Shall  never  drop  its  silv'ry  tear 
Upon  so  pure,  so  blest  a  grave. 

To  memory  so  entirely  dear! 


SYMPATHY. 

TO    JULIA. 

-  sine  mo  sit  nulla  Venua. 


Suf.nou. 


Our  hearts,  my  love,  were  form'd  to  bo 
The  genuine  twins  of  Sympathy, 

They  live  with  one  sensation  : 
In  joy  or  grief,  but  most  in  love. 
Like  chords  in  unison  they  move, 

.\nd  thrill  with  like  vibration. 

How  oil  I've  heard  thee  fondly  say. 
Thy  vital  pulse  shall  cease  to  play 

When  mine  no  more  is  moving; 
Since,  now,  to  feci  a  joy  alone 
Were  worse  to  thee  than  feeling  none: 

So  twinn'd  are  we  in  loving 


THE  TEAR. 

On  beds  of  snow  the  inomibcain  slept, 
And  chilly  was  the  midnight  gloom, 

When  by  Ihc  damp  grave  F.llen  wept — 
Fond  maid!   it  was  hor  l.uiihir's  tomb! 

A  warm  tear  gush'd,  (he  wintry  nir 
Congeal'd  it  as  it  llow'd  away; 

All  night  it  lay  an  ice-ilrop  there, 
At  morn  it  glitter'd  in  the  ray. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


99 


An  angel,  wancl'i-ingf  from  lier  sphere 

ELEaiAO  STANZAS. 

Wlio  saw  tills  briglit,  this  frozen  gem, 

To  dew-eyeil  Pity  brought  the  tear, 

Sicjuvat  perire. 

And  hung  it  on  her  diadem! 

When  wearied  w;  etches  sink  to  sleep, 

How  heavenly  soft  their  slumbers  lie ! 

How  sweet  is  de.ith  to  those  who  weep, 

To  those  who  weep  and  long  to  die ! 

THE  SNAKE. 

Saw  you  the  soft  and  grassy  bed. 

Where  flow'rets  dock  the  green  earth's  breast! 

My  love  and  I,  the  other  day, 

'Tis  there  I  wish  to  lay  my  head. 

Within  a  myrtle  arbor  lay. 

'Tis  there  I  wish  to  sleep  at  rest. 

When  near  us,  from  a  rosy  bed. 

A  little  Snake  put  forth  its  head. 

Oh,  let  not  tears  embalm  my  tomb, — 

None  but  the  dews  at  twilight  given! 

"  See,"  said  the  maid,  with  thoughtful  eyes — 

Oh,  let  not  sighs  disturb  the  gloom, — 

"  Yonder  the  fatal  emblem  lies! 

None  but  the  whisp'ring  winds  of  he.ave 

"  Who  could  expect  such  hidden  harm 

"  Beneath  the  rose's  smiling  charm  ?" 

Never  did  grave  remark  occur 

LOVE  AND  MARRIAGE. 

Less  d-propos  than  this  from  her. 

Eque  brevi  verbo  ferre  perenne  malum. 

I  rose  to  kill  the  snake,  but  she. 

Skcusdus,  eleg  tU. 

Half-smiling,  pray'd  it  might  not  be. 

Still  the  question  I  must  parry, 

"  No,"  said  the  maiden — and,  alas. 

Still  a  wayward  truant  prove : 

Her  eyes  spoke  volumes,  while  she  said  it — 

Where  I  love,  I  must  not  marry ; 

"  Long  as  the  snake  is  in  the  grass. 

Where  I  marry,  cannot  love. 

"  One  maij,  perhaps,  have  cause  to  dread  it : 

"  But,  when  its  wicked  eyes  appear. 

Were  she  fairest  of  creation, 

"  And  when  we  know  for  what  they  wink  so. 

With  the  least  presuming  mind; 

"One  must  be  very  simple,  dear. 

Learned  without  affectation ; 

"  To  let  it  wound  one — don't  you  think  so  ?" 

Not  deceitful,  yet  refined; 

Wise  enough,  but  never  rigid; 

Gay,  but  not  too  lightly  free ; 

Chaste  as  snow,  and  yet  not  frigid; 

TO  ROSA. 

Fond,  yet  satisfied  with  me  : 

Is  the  song  of  Rosa  mute  ? 

Were  she  all  this  ten  times  over. 

Once  such  lays  inspired  her  lute  ! 

All  that  heav'n  to  earth  allows, 

Never  doth  a  sweeter  song 

I  should  be  too  much  her  lover 

Steal  the  breezy  lyre  along. 

Ever  to  become  her  spouse. 

When  the  wind,  in  odors  dying, 
Woos  it  with  enamor'd  sighing. 

Love  will  never  bear  enslaving; 

Summer  garments  suit  him  best ; 

Is  my  Ros.a's  lute  unstrung  ? 

Bliss  itself  is  not  worth  having, 

Once  a  tale  of  peace  it  sung 

If  we're  by  compulsion  blest. 

To  her  lover's  throbbing  breast — 

Then  was  he  divinely  blest ! 

Ah  !  but  Rosa  loves  no  more. 

Therefore  Rosa's  song  is  o'er ; 

ANACREONTIC. 

And  her  lute  neglected  lies ; 

I  fill'd  to  thee,  to  thee  I  drank. 

And  her  boy  forgotten  sighs. 

I  nothing  did  but  drink  and  fill : 

Silent  lute — forgotten  lover — 

The  bowl  by  turns  was  bright  and  blank. 

Rosa's  love  and  song  are  over  I 

'Twas  drinking,  filling,  drinking  still. 

100 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


At  length  I  bid  im  artist  paint 

Then  tell  me,  why,  tiwu  child  of  air ! 

Tliy  image  in  tliis  ample  cup, 

Does  slumber  from  her  eyelids  rove  ? 

Tliat  I  might  sec  the  dimpled  saint, 

What  is  her  liearl's  impassion'd  care  ?— 

To  whom  I  quafTd  my  nectar  up. 

Perliaps,  oh  sylph  !  perliaps,  'tis  love. 

Behold,  how  bright  that  purple  lip 

Now  blushes  through  the  wave  at  me ; 

Every  roseate  drop  I  sip 

THE  "WONDER. 

Is  just  like  kissing  wine  from  thee. 

Come,  tell  me  where  the  maid  is  found. 

And  still  I  drink  the  more  for  this ; 

For,  ever  when  the  draught  I  drain, 
Thy  lip  invites  another  kiss, 

Whose  heart  can  love  witliout  deceit. 
And  I  will  range  the  world  around. 
To  sigli  one  moment  at  her  feet. 

And — in  the  nectar  flows  again. 

Oh !  tell  me  where's  her  sainted  home. 

So,  here's  to  thee,  my  gentle  dear. 
And  may  that  eyelid  never  shine 
Beneath  a  darker,  bitterer  tear 

What  air  receives  her  blessed  sigh, 
A  pilgrimage  of  years  I'll  roam 

To  catch  one  sparkle  from  her  eye ! 

Than  bathes  it  in  this  bowl  of  mine ! 

And  if  her  check  be  smooth  and  bright. 

While  truth  within  her  bosom  lies, 

I'll  gaze  upon  her  morn  pod  night, 

THE  SURPRISK 

Till  my  heart  leave  me  througli  my  eye» 

Chloris,  I  swear,  by  all  I  ever  swore, 
That  from  this  hour  I  shall  not  love  thee  more. — 
"What!    love   no   more?    Oh!    why   this  alter'd 
vow  ?" 

Sliow  me  on  earth  a  thing  so  rare, 
I'll  own  all  miracles  are  true ; 

To  make  ono  maid  sincere  and  fair, 
Oh,  'tis  the  utmost  Heav'n  can  do ! 

Because  I  cannot  love  thee  more — than  noiv! 

LYIXG. 

Che  cun  le  lor  bugio  pajun  ilivini. — Xauro  (T^reano. 

TO  MISS   

1  DO  confess,  in  many  a  sigh, 

es  nca  asking  the  autiiob  wuv  she  had  sleepless 

NIGHTS. 

My  lips  liave  breathed  you  many  a  lie; 
And  wlio,  with  sucli  delights  in  view. 

Would  lose  tliem,  for  a  lie  or  two? 

I'll  .isk  the  sylpli  wlio  round  thee  flies, 

And  in  tliy  breath  his  pinion  dips. 

Nay, — look  not  thus,  with  brow  reproving; 

Who  suns  him  in  thy  radiant  eyes. 

Lies  arc,  my  dear,  the  soul  of  loving. 

And  faints  upon  thy  sighing  lips : 

If  half  we  tell  the  girls  were  true, 

If  half  we  swear  to  think  and  do. 

I'll  ask  him  where's  the  veil  of  sleep 

Were  aught  but  lying's  bright  ilhision. 

That  used  to  shade  thy  looks  of  light ; 

This  world  would  bo  in  strange  confusion. 

And  why  those  eyes  their  vigil  keep. 

If  ladies'  eyes  were,  every  one, 

When  other  suns  are  sunk  in  night? 

As  lovers  swc.ir,  a  radiant  sun. 

Astronomy  must  leave  the  skies. 

And  I  will  say — her  angel  breast 

To  learn  her  lore  in  ladies'  eyes. 

Has  never  throbb'd  with  guilty  sling; 

Oh,  no — believe  me,  lovely  girl. 

Her  bosom  is  the  sweetest  nest 

When  nature  turns  your  teelh  lo  pearl, 

Where  Slumber  could  repose  his  wing ! 

^'our  neck  In  snow,  your  eyes  to  (ire. 

Your  aniber  looks  to  golden  wire. 

And  I  will  say — her  checks  that  flush, 

Then,  only  then  can  Heaven  decree, 

Ijke  vernal  roses  in  the  sun. 

That  you  should  live  for  only  nie. 

Have  ne'er  by  shame  been  Uiuglil  to  blush, 

Or  I  for  you,  as  night  and  morn. 

Except  for  what  her  eyes  have  done  I 

We've  swearing  kiss'd,  and  kissing  sworn. 

JUVENILE  POEMS. 


101 


And  now,  my  gcntlo  hints  to  clear, 

"  Of  things  sublime,  of  nature's  birth, 

For  once  I'll  tell  you  truth,  my  dear. 

"  Of  all  that's  briglit  in  heaven  or  earth. 

Whenever  you  may  chance  to  meet 

"  Oh,  think  tluit  she,  by  whom  'twas  given, 

Some  loving  youth,  whose  love  is  sweet, 

"  Adores  thee  more  than  earth  or  heaven !" 

Long  aa  you're  false  and  he  believes  you. 

Long  as  you  trust  and  he  deceives  you, 

Yes — dearest  L;iinp,  by  every  charm 

So  long  the  blissful  bond  endures. 

On  wliich  thy  midnight  beam  has  hung;' 

And  while  he  lies,  his  heart  is  yours: 

The  head  reclined,  the  graceful  arm 

But,  oh!  you've  wholly  lost  the  youth 

Across  the  brow  of  ivory  flung; 

The  instant  that  he  tells  you  trutli. 

The  heaving  bosom,  partly  hid. 

The  sever'd  lips'  unconscious  sighs. 
The  fringe  th.at  from  the  half-shut  lid 

ANACREONTIC. 

Adown  the  cheek  of  roses  lies : 

Feiend  of  my.  soul,  this  goblet  sip, 

By  these,  by  all  that  bloom  untold. 

'Twill  chase  that  pensive  tear ; 

And  long  as  all  shall  charm  my  heart, 

'Tis  not  so  sweet  as  woman's  lip. 

I'll  love  my  little  Lamp  of  gold — 

But,  oh !  'tis  more  sincere. 

My  Lamp  and  I  shall  never  part 

Like  her  delusive  beam. 

'Twill  steal  away  thy  mind : 

And  often,  as  she  smiling  said. 

But,  truer  than  love's  dream, 

In  fancy's  hour,  thy  gentle  rays 

It  leaves  no  sting  behind. 

Sliall  guide  my  visionary  tread 

Through  poesy's  enchanting  maze. 

Come,  twine  the  wreath,  thy  brows  to  shade  ; 

Thy  flame  sh.ill  light  the  page  refined. 

These  flow'rs  were  cuU'd  at  noon; — 

Where  still  we  catch  the  Chian's  breath. 

Like  woman's  love  the  rose  will  fade. 

Where  still  the  bard,  though  cold  in  death, 

But,  ah!  not  half  so  soon. 

Has  left  his  soul  unquench'd  behind. 

For  though  the  flower's  decay'd. 

Or,  o'er  tky  humbler  legend  shine, 

Its  fragnance  is  not  o'er: 

Oh  man  of  Ascra's  dreary  glades !'° 

But  once  when  love's  betray 'd. 

To  whom  the  niglitly  warbling  Nine 

Its  sweet  life  blooms  no  more. 

A  wand  of  inspiration  g.ave. 

Pluck'd  from  the  greenest  tree,  th.at  shades 

The  crystal  of  Castalia  s  w.ave. 

THE  PHILOSOPHER  ARISTIPPUS,» 

Then,  turning  to  a  surer  lore. 

TO  A  LAMP 

We'll  cull  the  sages'  deep-hid  store ; 

WHICH    HAD    BEEN    GIVEN    HIM   BY    LAIS. 

From  Science  steal  her  golden  clew. 

And  every  mystic  path  pursue, 

Dulcis  coDSCia  lectuli  lucema. 

Where  Nature,  far  from  vulgar  eyes. 
Through  labyrinths  of  wonder  flies. 

JiARTiiL.,  lib.  xiv.  epig.  39. 

"  Oh  !  love  the  Lamp,"  (my  Mistress  said,) 

'Tis  thus  my  heart  sh.all  learn  to  know 

"  The  ftiithful  Lamp  that,  many  a  night. 

How  fleeting  is  this  world  below, 

"  Beside  thy  Lais'  lonely  bed 

Where  all  that  meets  the  morning  light. 

"  Has  kept  its  little  watch  of  light. 

Is  changed  before  the  fall  of  night ! 

"  Full  often  has  it  seen  her  weep. 

I'll  tell  thee,  as  I  trim  thy  fire. 

"  And  fix  her  eye  upon  its  flame. 

"  Swift,  swift  the  tide  of  being  runs. 

"  Till,  weary,  she  has  sunk  to  sleep. 

"  And  Time,  who  bids  thy  flame  expire 

"  Repeating  her  beloved's  name. 

"  Will  also  quench  yon  heaven  of  suns." 

"  Then  love  the  Lamp — 'twill  often  lead 

Oh,  then  if  earth's  united  power 

"  Thy  step  through  learning's  sacred  way  ; 

Can  never  ch.iin  one  feathery  hour; 

"  And  when  those  studious  eyes  shall  read. 

If  every  print  we  leave  to-day 

"  At  midnight,  b^  its  lonely  ray, 

To-morrow's  wave  will  sweep  away ; 

102 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Who  pauses  to  inquire  of  heaven 
Why  were  the  fleeting  treasures  given, 
The  sunny  days,  the  shady  nights, 
And  all  their  brief  but  dear  delights. 
Which  heaven  has  made  for  man  to  use, 
And  man  should  think  it  crime  to  lose  ? 
Wlio  that  has  cuU'd  a  fresh-blown  rose 
Will  ask  it  why  it  breathes  and  glows. 
Unmindful  of  the  blushing  ray. 
In  which  it  shines  its  soul  away ; 
Unmindful  of  the  scented  sigh. 
With  which  it  dies  and  loves  to  die  ? 

Pleasure,  thou  only  good  on  earth  ?" 
One  precious  moment  given  to  thee — 

Oh !  by  my  Lais'  lip,  'tis  worth 
The  sage's  immortality. 

Then  far  be  all  the  wisdom  hence, 
That  would  our  joys  one  hour  delay ! 

Alas,  the  feast  of  soul  and  sense 

Love  calls  us  to  in  youth's  bright  day. 
If  not  soon  tasted,  fleets  away. 

Ne'er  wert  thou  form'd,  my  Lamp,  to  shed 

Thy  splendor  on  a  lifeless  page ; — 
Whatc'er  my  blushing  L.iis  said 

Of  thoughtful  lore  and  studies  sage, 
'Tw.is  mockery  all — her  glance  of  joy 
Told  me  thy  de.ircst,  best  employ.'^ 
And,  soon  as  night  shall  close  the  eye 

Of  heaven's  young  wanderer  in  the  west ; 
When  seers  are  gazing  on  the  sky, 

To  find  tlieir  future  orbs  of  rest; 
Then  shall  I  take  my  trembling  w.-iy. 

Unseen  but  to  those  worlds  above. 
And,  led  by  thy  mysterious  ray. 

Steal  to  the  night-bower  of  my  love. 


TO  MRS. 


OM   DEB   DEAUTIFin.  TaANSLATIOM  OF 
VOITCRE'S  KISS. 

Mon  finio  Hiir  mon  l^vro  (tnlt  Ion  touUi  ciitlt^ro, 
I'uur  savuuror  lo  mid  qui  siir  la  v6tro  tutt ; 

Mnii  on  mo  rcllrunl,  olio  roRta  dorrlrrc, 
Tanl  (Jo  cu  iluux  plaitir  I'amorco  lik  retlnlt. 

VOITUM. 

IIow  hcav'niy  was  the  pool's  doom, 
To  breathe  lii»  spirit  through  a  kiss; 

And  loHe  within  so  sweet  n  tomb 
The  trembling  messenger  of  bliss! 


And,  sure  his  soul  returned  to  feel 
That  it  again  could  ravish'd  be ; 

For  in  the  kiss  that  thou  didst  steal. 
His  life  and  soul  have  fled  to  thee. 


RONDEAU. 

"  Good  night !  good  night !" — And  is  it  so  ' 

And  must  I  from  my  Rosa  go? 

Oh  Rosa,  say  "  Good  night !"  once  more, 

And  I'll  repeat  it  o'er  and  o'er. 

Till  the  first  glance  of  dawning  light 

Shall  find  us  saying,  still,  "  Good  night." 

And  still  "  Good  night,"  my  Rosa,  say — 
But  whisper  still,  "  A  minute  stay ;" 
And  I  will  stay,  and  every  minute 
Shall  have  an  age  of  transport  in  it ; 
Till  Time  himself  shall  stay  his  flight. 
To  listen  to  our  sweet  "  Good  night." 

'•Good  night!"  you'll  murmur  with  a  sigh. 

And  tell  me  it  is  time  to  fly : 

And  I  will  vow,  will  swear  to  go. 

While  still  that  sweet  voice  murmurs  "  No !" 

Till  Bhiniber  seal  our  weary  sight — 

And  then,  my  love,  my  soul,  "  Good  night !" 


SONG. 


Wiiv  docs  azure  deck  the  sky  ? 

'Tis  to  be  like  thine  eyes  of  blue 
Why  is  red  the  rose's  dye  ? 

Because  it  is  thy  blushes'  hue. 
All  that's  fair,  by  Love's  decree. 
Has  been  made  resembling  thoo! 

Why  is  falling  snow  so  white, 
But  to  be  like  thy  bosom  fair? 

Why  nro  solar  beams  so  bright  1 

That  they  m.iy  seem  thy  golden  n.'url 

All  that's  bright,  by  Love's  decree. 

Has  been  made  resembling  thoo  ! 

Why  are  nature's  beauties  felt? 

Oh!  'tis  thine  in  her  we  see! 
Wliy  has  music  power  to  melt? 

Oh  !  because  it  speaks  like  Ihcc. 
All  that's  sweet,  by  Love's  decree, 
llns  been  made  resembling  thee  I 


JUYENILB  POEMS. 


103 


TO  ROSA. 

Like  one  who  trusts  to  summer  skies, 

And  puts  his  little  bark  to  sea, 
Is  he  who,  lured  by  smiling  eyes. 

Consigns  his  simple  heart  to  thee. 
For  fickle  is  the  summer  wind. 

And  sadly  may  the  bark  be  toss'd; 
For  thou  art  sure  to  change  thy  mind. 

And  then  the  wretched  heart  is  lost! 


WRITTEN  IN  A  COMMONPLACE  BOOK, 

CALLED 
"THE  BOOK  OF  FOLLIES;" 

IM    WmCH    EVERT    ONE   TU&T   OPENED   IT   WAS   TO    COMTRIBUTK 
80METU1NO. 

TO  THE   BOOK    OF  FOLUES. 

This  tribute's  from  a  wretched  elf. 
Who  hails  thee,  emblem  of  jiimself. 
The  book  of  life,  which  I  have  traced, 
Has  been,  like  thee,  a  motley  waste 
Of  follies  scribbled  o'er  .and  o'er, 
One  folly  bringing  hundreds  more. 
Some  have  indeed  been  writ  so  neat, 
In  characters  so  fair,  so  sweet, 
That  those  who  judge  not  too  severely, 
Have  siiid  they  loved  such  follies  de.arly : 
Yet  still,  O  book  !  the  allusion  stands; 
For  these  were  penn'd  hy  female  hands: 
The  rest — alas!  I  own  the  truth — 
Have  all  been  scribbled  so  uncouth 
That  Prudence,  witli  a  with'ring  look. 
Disdainful,  flings  aw.ay  the  book. 
Like  thine,  its  pages  here  and  there 
Have  oft  been  stain'd  with  blots  of  care ; 
And  sometimes  hours  of  peace,  I  own. 
Upon  some  fairer  leaves  have  shone. 
White  as  the  snowings  of  that  heav'n 
By  which  those  hours  of  pe.ace  wore  given. 
But  now  no  longer — such,  oh,  such 
The  blast  of  Disappointment's  touch! 
No  longer  now  those  hours  appear; 
E.ach  leaf  is  sullied  by  a  tear  : 
Blank,  blank  is  ev'ry  page  with  care. 
Not  ev'n  a  folly  brightens  there. 
Will  they  yet  brighten? — never,  never! 
Then  shut  th?  book,  O  God,  for  ever! 


TO  ROSA. 

Sat,  why  should  the  girl  of  my  soul  bo  in  tears 

At  a  meeting  of  rapture  like  this. 
When  the  glooms  of  the  past  and  the  sorrow  of 
years 

Have  been  paid  by  one  moment  of  bliss? 

Are  they  shed  for  that  moment  of  blissful  delight. 

Which  dwells  on  her  memory  yet? 
Do  they  flow,  like  the  dews  of  the  love-breathing 
night. 

From  the  warmth  of  the  sun  that  h.as  set? 

Oh !  sweet  is  the  tear  on  that  Languishing  smile. 

That  smile,  which  is  loveliest  then ; 
And  if  such  are  the  drops  th.at  delight  can  beguih;, 

Thou  shalt  weep  them  again  and  again. 


LIGHT  SOUNDS  THE  HARP, 

Light  sounds  the  harp  when  the  comb.at  is  over, 
When  heroes  are  resting,  and  joy  is  in  bloom ; 
When  laurels  hang  loose  from  the  brow  of  the 
lover. 
And  Cupid  makes  wings  of  the  w.arrior's  plume. 
But,  when  the  foe  returns, 
Again  the  hero  burns; 
High  flames  the  sword  in  his  hand  once  more : 
Tlie  clang  of  mingling  arms 
Is  then  the  sound  that  charms, 
And  brazen  notes  of  war,  th.at  stirring  trumpets 

pour; — 
Then,  again  comes  the  harp,  when  the  combat  is 
over — 
When  heroes  are  resting,  and  joy  is  in  bloom — 
When  laurels  hang  loose  from  the  brow  of  the 
lover. 
And  Cupid  m.akes  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume. 

Light  went  the  harp  when  the  War-God,  reclining, 

Lay  lull'd  on  the  white  arm  of  Beauty  to  rest. 
When   round    his    rich    armor   the    myrtle    hung 
twining. 
And  flights  of  young  doves  made  his  helmet  their 
nest. 

But,  when  the  Kattle  came. 
The  hero's  eye  breathed  flame : 
Soon  from  his  neck  the  white  .arm  was  flung; 
While,  to  his  wak'ning  ety. 
No  other  sounds  were  dear 
But  brazen  notes  of  war,  by  thousand  trumpets 
sung. 


104 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


But  then  came  the  light  harp,  when  danger  was 
ended, 
And  Beauty  once  more  luU'd  the  War-God  to 
rest; 
When  tresses  of  gold  with  his  laurels  lay  blended, 
And  flights  of  yourg  doves  made  his  helmet  their 
nest. 


FROM 

THE  GREEK  OF  MELEAGER. 

Fell  high  the  cup  with  liquid  flame, 
And  speak  my  Heliodora's  name. 
Repeat  its  magic  o"er  and  o'er. 
And  let  the  sound  ray  lips  adore. 
Live  in  the  hreeze,  till  every  tone, 
And  word,  and  breath,  speaks  her  alone. 

Give  me  the  wreatli  that  withers  there, 

It  was  but  last  delicious  night. 
It  circled  her  luxuriant  hair. 

And  cauglit  her  eyes'  reflected  liglit. 
Oh !  haste,  and  twine  it  round  my  brow : 
'Tis  all  of  her  Ihat's  loft  me  now. 
And  sec — cich  rosebud  drops  a  tear, 
To  find  tlie  nymph  no  longer  here — 
No  longer,  wlicre  such  lie.avenly  cl.arms 
As  liers  should  be — within  tliese  arns. 


SONG. 


Flt  from  the  world,  O  Bessy !  to  me. 

Thou  wilt  never  find  any  sincerer; 
I'll  give  up  the  world,  O  Bessy !  for  thee, 

I  can  lutver  meet  any  that's  dearer. 
Thi'n  tell  me  no  more,  willi  a  tear  and  a  sigh. 

That  our  loves  will  be  censured  by  many ; 
All,  all  have  (heir  follies,  nnd  wlio  will  deny 

Th.it  ours  is  the  sweetest  of  any  ? 

When  your  lip  has  met  mine,  in  communion  .so 
sweet. 

Have  we  felt  as  if  virtue  forbid  it? — 
Hnvc  we  felt  as  if  heav'n  denied  lliem  to  meet? — 

No,  rather  'twas  heav'n  that  did  iL 
So  innocent,  love,  is  the  joy  we  llicn  sip, 

So  little  of  wrong  is  tlicre  in  it, 
Tliat  I  wi^h  all  my  errors  were  lodged  on  your  lip, 

And  I'd  kins  tlicni  nway  in  n  minute. 


Then  come  to  your  lover,  oh!  fly  to  his  shed. 

From  a  world  which  I  know  thou  despisest ; 
And  slumber  will  hover  as  light  o'er  our  bed 

As  e'er  on  the  couch  of  the  wisest. 
And  when  o'er  our  pillow  the  tempest  is  driven. 

And  thou,  pretty  innocent,  fearest, 
I'll  tell  thee,  it  is  not  the  chiding  of  he.iven, 

'Tis  only  our  lullaby,  dcirest. 

And,  oh !  while  we  lie  on  our  deathbed,  my  love. 

Looking  back  on  the  scene  of  our  errors, 
A  sigh  from  my  Bessy  shall  plead  then  above. 

And  Death  be  disarm'd  of  his  terrors. 
And  each  to  the  other  embracing  will  s.iy, 

"  Farewell !  let  us  hope  we're  forgiven." 
Thy  last  fading  glance  will  illumine  tlie  w.iy. 

And  a  kiss  be  our  passport  to  heaven' 


THE  RESEMBLANCE. 

TO  cercand'  io. 

Donna,  quont^  e  possibile,  in  altnii 
La  deslata  rostra  forma  ^-ora. 

PxTRARC.  SonnetL  H, 

Yes,  if 'twere  any  common  love, 
That  led  my  pliant  heart  astray, 

I  grant,  there's  not  a  power  above. 
Could  wipe  the  faithless  crime  awav. 

But,  'twas  my  doom  to  err  with  one 

In  every  look  so  like  to  thee 
That,  undcrneatli  yon  blessed  sun. 

So  fair  there  are  but  thou  .and  she. 

Both  born  of  beauty,  at  a  birth, 

She  held  with  thine  a  kindred  sway, 

And  wore  the  only  slmpe  on  earth 

That  could  have  lured  my  soul  to  stray 

Then  blame  me  not,  if  false  I  be, 
'Twas  love  that  waked  the  fond  e-xcess: 

My  heart  had  been  more  true  to  thee. 
Had  mine  eye  prized  thy  beauty  less 


FANNY.  DEAREST. 

Yes!  had  I  leisure  tO  sigh  nnd  mourn, 
Fanny,  dearest,  for  thee  I'd  sigh; 

And  every  smile  on  my  cheek  should  turn 
To  tears  when  thou  art  nigh. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


105 


Hut,  between  love,  and  wine,  and  sleep, 

So  busy  a  life  I  HvP; 
That  even  the  time  it  would  tiike  to  weep 

Is  more  than  my  lieart  can  give. 
Then  bid  me  not  to  despair  and  pine, 

Fanny,  dearest  of  all  the  de.ars! 
The  Love  that's  order'd  to  bathe  in  wine. 

Would  be  sure  to  take  cold  in  tears. 

Reflected  briglit  in  this  heart  of  mine, 

Fanny,  dearest,  thy  image  lies; 
But,  ah,  the  mirror  would  cease  to  shine. 

If  dimm'd  too  often  with  sighs. 
They  lose  the  half  of  beauty's  light. 

Who  view  it  through  sorrow's  tear; 
And  'tis  but  to  see  thee  truly  bright 

That  I  keep  my  eye.beam  clear. 
Then  wait  no  longer  till  tears  shall  flow, 

Fanny,  dearest — the  hope  is  vain ; 
If  sunshine  cannot  dissolve  thy  snow, 

I  shall  never  attempt  it  with  rain. 


THE  RING. 

TO 

No — I.ady !  Lady !  keep  the  ring : 
Oil !  think,  how  many  a  future  year. 

Of  placid  smile  and  downy  wing, 
May  sleep  within  its  holy  spliere. 

Do  not  disturb  their  tranquil  dream. 

Though  love  hath  ne'er  the  myst'ry  warm'd ; 

Vet  heaven  will  shed  a  soothing  beam. 
To  bless  the  bond  itself  hath  form'd. 

But  then,  that  eye,  that  burning  eye, — 
Oh  !  it  doth  ask,  with  witching  power. 

If  heaven  can  ever  bless  the  tie 
Where  love  in  wreathes  no  genial  flower? 

Away,  away,  bewildering  look, 

Or  all  the  boast  of  virtue's  o'er; 
Got — hie  thee  to  the  sage's  book. 

And  learn  from  him  to  feel  no  more. 

1  cannot  Wiirn  thee:  every  touch. 

That  brings  my  pulses  close  to  thine. 

Tells  me  I  want  thy  aid  as  much — 
Ev'n  more,  alas,  than  thou  dost  mine. 

Yet,  stay, — one  hope,  one  eflbrt  yet — 
A  moment  turn  those  eyes  away. 

And  let  me,  if  I  can,  forget 

The  light  that  leads  my  soul  astray. 

VOL.  II. — 14 


Thou  say'st,  th:it  we  were  born  to  meet. 

Th.at  our  hearts  bear  one  common  seal ; — 
Think,  Lady,  think,  how  m.an's  deceit 

Can  seem  to  sigh  and  feign  to  feel. 

When,  o'er  thy  face  some  gleam  of  thought, 
Like  diiybeams  through  the  morning  air, 

Ilatli  gr.idual  stole,  and  I  have  caught 
The  feeling  ere  it  kindled  there; 

The  sympathy  I  then  betr.iy'd, 
Perh.ips  was  but  the  child  of  art. 

The  guile  of  one,  who  long  hath  play'd 
With  all  these  wily  nets  of  heart. 

Oh !  thine  is  not  my  earliest  vow ; 

Though  few  the  years  I  yet  have  told. 
Canst  thou  believe  I've  lived  till  now. 

With  loveless  heart  or  senses  cold  ? 

No — other  nymphs  to  joy  and  p.iin 

This  wild  and  wandering  heart  hath  moved; 
With  some  it  sported,  wild  and  vain. 

While  some  it  dearly,  truly,  loved. 

The  cheek  to  thine  I  fondly  lay. 
To  theirs  hath  been  as  fondly  laid ; 

The  words  to  thee  I  warmly  say. 
To  them  have  been  as  warmly  said. 

Then,  scorn  at  once  a  worthless  heart. 
Worthless  alike,  or  fix'd  or  free ; 

Think  of  the  pure,  bright  soul  thou  art. 
And — love  not  me,  oh  love  not  me. 

Enough — now,  turn  thine  eyes  again  ; 

What,  still  that  look  and  still  th.at  sigh ! 
Dost  thou  not  feel  my  counsel  then  ? 

Oh !  no,  beloved, — nor  do  I. 


THE  INVISIBLE  GIRL. 

They  try  to  persuade  me,  my  dear  little  sprite. 
That  you're  not  a  true  daughter  of  ether  and  liglit, 
Nor  have  any  concern  with  those  fjxnciful  forms 
That  dance  upon  rainbows  and  ride  upon  storms; 
That,  in  short,  you're  a  woman;  your  lip  and  youi 

eye 
As  mortal  as  ever  drew  gods  from  the  sky. 
But  I  icill  not  believe  tliem — no.  Science,  to  /ou. 
I  have  long  bid  a  last  and  a  careless  adieu : 
Still  flying  from  Nature  to  study  her  laws. 
And  dulling  del'ght  by  exploring  its  cause. 


106 


MOOKE'S  WORKS. 


Yon  forget  how  superior,  fur  mortals  below, 

Is  the  fiction  they  dream  to  the  truth  that  the}- 

know. 
Oh!  who,  that  h.is  e'er  enjoy'd  r.apfure  complete, 
Would  ask  how  we  feel  it,  or  why  it  is  sweet ; 
How  rays  are  confused,  or  how  particles  fly 
Throuijh  the  medium  refined  of  a  glance  or  a  sigh; 
Is  there  one,  who  but  once  would  not  rather  have 

known  it, 
Than  written,  with  Harvey,  whole  volumes  upon  it? 

As  for  you,  my  sweet-voiced  and  invisible  love. 
You  must  surely  be  one  of  those  spirits,  that  rove 
Ey  the  bank  where,  at  twilight,  the  poet  reclines. 
When  the  star  of  the  west  on  his  solitude  sliines. 
And  the  magical  fingers  of  fancy  have  hung 
Hvery  breeze  witli  a  sigh,  every  leaf  with  a  tongue. 
Oh  !  hint  to  him  then,  'tis  retirement  alone 
Can  h.allow  his  harp  or  ennoble  its  tone  ; 
Like  you,  with  a  veil  of  seclusion  between, 
His  song  to  the  world  let  him  utter  unseen. 
And  like  yon,  a  legitimate  cliild  of  the  spheres. 
Escape  from  the  eye  to  enrapture  the  ears. 

Sweet  spirit  of  mystery !  how  I  should  love. 
In  the  wearisome  w.ays  I  am  fated  to  rove. 
To  have  you  thus  ever  invisibly  nigh. 
Inhaling  for  ever  your  song  and  your  sigli ! 
Jlid  tlie  crowds  of  the  world  and  the  murmurs  of 

care, 
I  might  sometimes  converse  with  my  nymph  of  the 

air. 
And  turn  with  dist.iste  from  the  clamorous  crew. 
To  steal  in  the  pauses  one  whisper  from  you. 

Then,  come  and  be  near  me,  for  ever  be  mine. 
We  sh.all  hold  in  the  air  a  communion  divine. 
As  sweet  as,  of  old,  w.as  imagined  to  dwell 
In  the  grotto  of  Num.i,  or  Socrates'  cell. 
And  ofl,  at  those  lingering  moments  of  night, 
Wlien  the  heart's  busy  thoughts  have  put  slumber 

to  Might, 
You  shall  come  to  my  pillow  and  tell  me  of  lo\  e, 
•Such  ns  angel  to  angel  might  whisper  above. 
Sweet  spirit !  nnd  then,  could  you  borrow  the  tone 
Of  Ihnt  voice,  to  my  car  like  some  fairy-song  known. 
The  voice  of  the  one  upon  earth,  who  has  twined 
Willi  her  being  for  ever  my  heart  and  my  mind. 
Though  lonely  and  far  from  the  light  of  her  smile. 
An  exile,  and  weary  and  hopeless  the  while. 
Could  you  shed  for  a  moment  her  voice  on  my  car, 
I  will  think,  for  that  moment,  that  Cara  is  near; 
riint  she  comes  with  ronsoling  enchantment  to 

H|H'ak, 
And  kisses  my  eyelid  and  brculheti  on  my  ciiook, 


And  tells  me,  the  night  shall  go  rapidly  by, 
For  the  dawn  of  our  hope,  of  our  heaven  is  nigli 

Fair  sfiirit  I  if  such  be  your  magical  power. 
It  will  lighten  the  lapse  of  full  many  an  hour; 
And,  let  fortune's  realities  frown  as  they  will, 
Hope,  fancy,  and  Cara  may  smile  for  me  still. 


THE  RING." 

A    TALE. 

Aunulu9  ille  viri. — Ovid,  .iiiwr,  lib.  ii.  elcg.  16. 

The  happy  day  at  lengtli  arrived 

When  Rupert  was  to  wed 
The  fairest  maid  in  Saxony, 

And  take  her  to  his  bed. 

As  soon  as  morn  was  in  the  sky, 

Tlie  feast  and  sports  began  ; 
The  men  admired  tho  happy  m.aid. 

The  maids  the  happy  man. 

In  many  a  sweet  device  of  mirth 

The  day  was  i)ass"d  along ; 
And  some  tho  featly  dance  amused, 

And  some  the  dulcet  .song. 

The  younger  maids  with  Isabel 
Pis])orted  through  the  bowers. 

And  deck'd  her  robe,  and  crown'd  her  head 
With  motley  bridal  flowers. 

The  matrons  all  in  rich  attire, 

Within  the  ca.stlc  walls. 
Sat  listening  to  the  choral  strains 

That  echo'd  llu'OMgh  the  halls. 

Young  Rupert  and  his  friends  n'|inir'd 

Unto  a  spacious  court, 
To  strike  the  bounding  teniii'^-hall 

In  feat  and  manly  spnrt. 

The  liridi'groom  on  his  finger  wore 

'i"he  wedding-ring  so  bright. 
Which  was  to  grace  the  lily  hand 

Of  Isabel  that  night. 

And  fearing  he  might  break  the  gem. 

Or  lose  it  in  the  play, 
Mr  loipk'd  around  (he  court,  to  see 

Where  he.  the  rmg  might  lay. 


i 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


107 


Now  in  tlie  court  .1  stufuo  stood, 
VVhic'Ii  tliero  full  lonjf  had  been; 

It  niij,'lit  a  Meatlicn  goddess  be, 
Or  else,  a  Heathen  queen. 

And  now  the  priest  has  join'd  their  bands. 

The  hours  of  love  advance: 
Rupert  abnost  forgets  to  think 

Upon  the  morn's  mischance. 

Upon  its  marble  finj^or  then 
lie  tried  the  riri<f  to  fit; 

And,  thinking  it  was  safest  there, 
Thereon  he  fasten'd  it. 

Within  the  bed  fair  Isabel 
In  blushing  sweetness  lay. 

Like  flow'rs,  hnlf-open'd  by  the  dawn. 
And  waiting  for  the  day. 

And  now  the  tennis  sports  went  on, 
Till  they  were  wearied  all, 

And  messengers  .announced  to  them 
Their  dinner  in  tlie  hall. 

And  Rupert,  by  her  lovely  side. 
In  youthful  beauty  glows. 

Like  Phccbus,  wlien  he  bends  to  cast 
His  beams  upon  a  rose. 

Young  Rupert  for  his  wedding-ring 

Unto  the  statue  went ; 
But,  oh,  how  shoclc'd  was  lie  to  find 

The  marble  finger  bent ! 

And  here  my  song  would  leave  them  both, 

Nor  let  the  rest  be  told. 
If  'twere  not  for  the  horrid  tale 

It  yet  has  to  unfold. 

The  hand  w.as  closed  upon  the  ring 
With  firm  and  mighty  clasp ; 

In  vain  he  tried,  and  tried,  and  tried. 
He  could  not  loose  the  grasp! 

Soon  Rupert,  'twixt  his  bride  and  him, 
A  death-cold  carcass  found  ; 

He  saw  it  not,  but  thought  ho  felt 
Its  arms  embrace  him  round. 

Then  sore  surprised  was  Rupert's  mind — 

As  well  his  mind  might  be ; 
"  I'll  come,"  quoth  he,  "  at  night  again, 

"  When  none  are  here  to  see." 

He  started  up,  and  then  return'd. 
But  found  the  phantom  still ; 

In  vain  he  shrunk,  it  clipp'd  him  round, 
With  damp  and  deadly  chill ! 

He  went  unto  the  feast,  and  much 

He  thought  upon  his  ring ; 
And  marvell'd  sorely  what  could  mean 

So  very  strange  a  thing! 

And  when  he  bent,  the  earthy  lips 

A  kiss  of  horror  gave  ; 
'Twas  like  the  smell  from  charnel  vaults, 

Or  from  the  mould'ring  grave! 

The  feast  was  o'er,  and  to  the  court 

He  hied  without  del.ay. 
Resolved  to  break  the  marble  hand 

And  force  the  ring  away. 

ril-fated  Rupert .' — wild  and  loud 
Then  cried  he  to  his  wife, 

"  Oh  !  save  me  from  this  horrid  fiend, 
"  My  Is.ibel !  my  life !" 

But,  mark  a  stranger  wonder  still — 
The  ring  was  there  no  more. 

And  yet  the  marble  hand  ungrasp'd, 
And  open  as  before ! 

But  Is.abel  had  nothing  seen. 

She  look'd  around  in  vain; 
And  much  she  mourn'd  the  m.ad  conceit 

That  rack'd  her  Rupert's  br.ain. 

He  search'd  the  base,  and  all  the  court. 

But  nothing  could  he  find; 
Then  to  the  castle  hied  he  back 

With  sore  bewilder'd  mind. 

At  length  from  this  invisible 
These  words  to  Rupert  c.Tme: 

(Oh  God!  while  ho  did  hear  the  words 
What  terrors  shook  his  frame !) 

Within  he  found  them  all  in  mirth, 
The  night  in  dancing  flew; 

The  youth  another  ring  procured. 
And  none  the  adventure  knew. 

"Husband,  husband,  I've  the  liig 
"  Thou  gav'st  to-day  to  me  : 

"  And  thou'rt  to  me  for  evsr  wed, 
"  As  I  am  wed  to  thee  !" 

108 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


And  all  the  niglit  the  demon  lay 

Cold-chilling  by  his  side, 
And  strain'd  him  with  such  deadly  grasp, 

He  thought  he  should  have  died. 

But  when  the  dawn  of  day  was  near, 

The  horrid  phantom  fled, 
And  left  th'  affrighted  youth  to  weep 

Bv  Isabel  in  bed. 

And  all  that  day  a  gloomy  cloud 
Was  seen  on  Rupert's  brows  ; 

Fair  Isabel  was  likewise  sad, 
But  strove  to  cheer  her  spouse. 

And,  as  the  day  advanced,  he  thought 

Of  coming  night  with  fear : 
Alas,  that  he  should  dread  to  vievf 

The  bed  that  should  be  dear! 

At  length  the  second  night  arrived, 
Again  their  couch  they  press'd ; 

Poor  Rupert  hoped  that  all  was  o'er, 
And  look'd  for  love  and  rest. 

But  oh  !  when  midnight  came,  again 

The  fiend  was  at  his  side. 
And,  as  it  strain'd  him  in  its  grasp, 

With  howl  exulting  cried: — 

"  Husband,  husband,  I've  the  ring, 
"  The  ring  thou  gav'st  to  me ; 

"  And  thou'rt  to  me  for  ever  wed, 
"  As  I  am  wed  to  thee !" 

In  agony  of  wild  despair, 

He  started  from  the  bed ; 
And  thus  to  his  bcwildcr'd  wife 

The  trembling  Rupert  said  : 

Oh  Isabel !  dost  thou  not  seo 

"  A  shape  of  horrors  here. 
That  strains  me  to  its  deadly  kiss, 

"And  keeps  rao  from  my  dear?" 

"  No,  no,  my  love !  my  Rupert,  I 

"  No  shape  of  horrors  see  ; 
"  And  much  I  mourn  the  phantasy 
"  That  keeps  my  dear  from  mo." 

Tliis  night,  just  like  the  night  before, 

In  terrors  pass'd  nwny. 
Nor  did  the  demon  vanish  thencu 

Boforo  the  dawn  of  day. 


Said  Rupert  then,  '•  My  Isabel, 

"  Dear  partner  of  my  woe, 
"To  Father  Austin's  holy  cave 

"  This  instant  will  I  go  " 

Now  Austin  was  a  reverend  man, 

Who  acted  wonders  maint^ — 
Whom  all  the  country  round  believed 

A  de\'il  or  a  saint ! 

To  Father  Austin's  holy  cave 

Then  Rupert  straightway  went ; 
And  told  him  all,  and  ask'd  him  hovr 

These  horrors  to  prevent. 

The  Father  heard  the  youth,  and  then 

Retired  awhile  to  pray  ; 
And,  having  pray'd  for  half  an  hour, 

Thus  to  the  youth  did  say : 

"  There  is  a  place  where  four  roads  meet, 

"  Which  I  will  tell  to  thee  ; 
"  Be  there  this  eve,  at  fall  of  night, 

"  And  list  what  thou  slialt  see. 

"  Thou'lt  see  a  group  of  figures  pass 

"  In  strange  disorder'd  crowd, 
'•Travelling  by  torchlight  through  the  roac's, 

"  Willi  noises  strange  and  loud. 

"  And  one  that's  high  above  the  rest, 

"  Terrific  towering  o'er, 
"  Will  in.ake  thee  know  him  at  a  glance, 

"  So  I  need  say  no  more. 

"  To  him  from  nio  these  tablets  give, 

"  They'll  quick  be  understood ; 
"  Thou  need'st  not  fear,  but  give  them  straight, 

"  I've  scrawl'd  them  with  my  blood  I" 

The  nightfall  came,  and  Rupert  all 

In  pale  amazement  went 
To  where  the  cross-ro.ids  mot,  as  he 

Was  by  the  Father  sent. 

And  lo!  a  group  of  figures  came 

Til  strange  disorder'd  crowd. 
Travelling  hy  torchlight  through  the  r  Jiids, 

With  noises  strange  and  loud. 

And,  as  the  gloomy  train  .•idvaiu'cd, 

Rupert  beheld  from  far 
A  female  form  of  wanton  micii 

High  seated  on  a  car. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


109 


And  Rupert,  as  he  gazed  upon 

TO 

Tlie  loosely  vested  dame, 



Tlioui'lit  of  the  marble  statue's  look, 

ON    8E1CINH    HER    WITH    A    WniTQ    VEIL   AND    A    RICH    OmDII, 

For  hers  was  just  the  same. 

I'uT  ofi'llie  vestal  veil,  nor,  oh! 

IJehind  her  walk'd  a  hideous  form. 

Let  weeping  angels  view  it ; 

With  eyeballs  llasliing  death; 

Your  clieeks  belie  its  virgin  snow. 

Whene'er  ho  breathed,  a  sulphur'd  smoke 

And  blusli  repenting  through  it. 

Came  burning  in  his  breath. 

Put  oflfthe  fatal  zone  you  wear; 

The  sliining  pearls  around  it 

He  seem'd  tlie  first  of  all  the  crowd. 

Are  tears,  that  fell  from  Virtue  there. 

Terrific  towering  o'er ; 

The  hour  when  Love  unbound  it. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Rupert,  "  this  is  he, 

"  And  I  need  ask  no  more." 
Then  slow  ho  went,  and  to  this  fiend 

■WRITTEN  m  THE  BLANK  LEAP 

The  tablets  trembhng  gave, 

OF 

WIio  look'd  and  read  them  with  a  yell 

A  LADY'S  COMMONPLACE  BOOK. 

That  would  disturb  the  grave. 

Heee  is  one  leaf  reserved  for  me. 

And  when  he  saw  the  blood-scrawl'd  name, 

From  all  thy  sweet  memorials  free ; 

His  eyes  with  fury  siiine ; 

And  here  my  simple  song  might  tell 

"  I  thought,"  cries  he,  "  his  time  was  out, 

The  feelings  tliou  must  guess  so  welL 

"  But  he  must  soon  be  mine !" 

But  could  I  thus,  within  thy  mind, 

One  little  v.acant  corner  find. 

Then  darting  at  the  youth  a  look 
Which  rent  his  soui  with  fear, 

Where  no  impression  yet  is  seen. 
Where  no  memorial  yet  hath  been, 

Oh !  it  should  be  my  sweetest  care 

He  went  unto  the  female  fiend. 

To  write  my  name  for  ever  there ! 

And  whisper'd  in  her  ear. 

The  female  fiend  no  sooner  heard 

Than,  with  reluctant  look. 

TO 

The  very  ring  that  Rupert  lost, 

MRS.  BL . 

She  from  her  finger  took. 

TVKITTEN    IN    HER    ALBCM. 

And,  giving  it  unto  the  youth. 

They  say  that  Love  had  once  a  book, 

With  eyes  that  breathed  of  hell, 

(Tlie  urchin  likes  to  copy  you,) 

She  said,  in  that  tremendous  voice. 

Where,  all  who  came,  the  pencil  took, 

Which  he  remember'd  well : 

And  wrote,  like  us,  a  line  or  two. 

"  In  Austin's  name  take  back  the  ring, 

'Twas  Innocence,  the  maid  divine. 

"  The  ring  thou  gav'st  to  me ; 

Who  kept  this  volume  bright  and  fair. 

"  And  thou'rt  to  me  no  longer  wed. 

AnA  saw  that  no  unhallow'd  line 

"  Nor  longer  I  to  thee." 

Or  thought  profone  should  enter  there ; 

He  took  the  ring,  the  rabble  pass'd, 

And  daily  did  the  pages  fill 

He  home  return'd  again ; 

With  fond  device  and  loving  lore. 

His  wife  was  then  tlie  happiest  fair. 

And  every  leaf  she  turn'd  was  still 

The  happiest  he  of  men 


More  bright  than  that  she  turn'd  before. 

Beneath  the  touch  of  Hope,  how  soft. 
How  light  the  magic  pencil  ran  ! 

Till  Fear  would  come,  alas,  as  oft. 

And  tr<^mbling  close  what  Hope  beg.in. 


110 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


A  tear  or  two  had  dropp'd  from  Grief, 
And  Jealousy  would,  now  and  then, 

Raffle  in  haste  some  snow-white  leaf, 
Wliich  Love  had  still  to  smooth  again. 

But,  ah!  there  came  a  blooming  hoy, 
^^^lo  often  tum'd  the  pages  o'er. 

And  wrote  therein  sueh  words  of  joy. 
That  all  who  read  them  sigh'd  for  more. 

And  Pleasure  was  this  spirit's  name, 
And  though  so  soft  his  voice  and  look, 

i'et  Innocence,  whene'er  he  came. 
Would  tremble  for  her  spotless  book. 

I'or,  oft  a  Bacchant  cup  he  bore, 

With  earth's  sweet  nectar  sparkling  bright ; 
And  much  she  fcar'd  lest,  mantling  o'er. 

Some  drops  should  on  the  pages  light. 

And  so  it  chanced,  one  luckless  night. 

The  urchin  let  that  goblet  fall 
O'er  the  fair  book,  so  pure,  so  white, 

And  sullied  lines  and  marge  and  all  I 

In  vain  now,  touch'd  with  shame,  he  tried 
To  wash  those  fatal  stains  away ; 

Deep,  deep  had  sunk  the  sullying  tide. 
The  leaves  grew  darker  every  day. 

And  Fancy's  sketches  lost  their  liue, 
And  Hope's  sweet  lines  were  all  effaced. 

And  Love  himself  now  scarcely  knew 
What  Love  himself  so  lately  traced. 

At  length  tlie  urchin  Pleasure  fled, 
(For  how,  alas !  could  Pleasure  stiy  ?) 

And  Love,  wliile  many  a  tear  he  shed, 
Reluctant  Hung  the  book  away. 

The  index  now  alone  remains, 

Of  all  the  pages  spoil'd  by  Pleasure, 

And  though  it  bears  some  carlhy  stains, 
Vet  Memory  counts  the  leaf  a  Ire.nsurc. 

And  oft,  they  say,  she  scans  it  o'er. 
And  oft,  by  this  memorial  aided, 

Brings  back  the  p.iges  now  no  more, 
And  thinks  of  lines  that  long  Imvc  faded. 

I  know  not  if  this  fnle  be  true, 

But  thus  tlie  niniple  facts  arc  stated  ; 

And  I  refer  their  truth  to  you, 

Since  Lovo  and  you  are  near  rel:ilcd. 


TO 

CARA, 

AFTEB    AX    I>-TEKVAL    OK    ABSE.NCB 

Conceal'd  within  the  shady  wood 
A  mother  left  her  sleeping  child. 

And  flew,  to  cull  her  rustic  food. 
The  fruitage  of  the  forest  wild. 

But  storms  upon  her  pathway  rise, 

The  motlier  roams,  astray  and  weeping; 

Far  from  the  weak  appealing  cries 
Of  him  she  left  so  sweetly  sleeping. 

She  hopes,  she  fears ;  a  light  is  seen, 

And  gentler  blows  the  night  wind's  breath  ; 

Yet  no — 'tis  gone — the  storms  are  keen, 
The  infant  may  be  chill'd  to  deatli ! 

Perhaps,  cv'n  now,  in  darkness  shrouded, 
His  little  eyes  lie  cold  and  still ; — 

And  yet,  perhaps,  llicy  are  not  clouded, 
Life  and  love  may  light  them  still 

Thus,  Cara,  at  our  last  farewell. 

When,  fearful  ev'n  thy  hand  to  toucli, 

I  mutely  ask'd  those  eyes  to  tell 
If  parting  pain'd  thee  half  so  much: 

I  thought, — and,  oh !  forgive  the  thought. 
For  none  was  e'er  by  love  inspired 

Whom  fancy  had  not  also  taught 
To  hope  the  bliss  his  soul  desired. 

Yes,  I  did  tliink,  in  Cara's  niiml. 

Though  yet  to  that  sweet  mind  unknown, 
I  left  one  infant  wish  behind, 

One  feeling,  which  I  call'd  my  own. 

Oh  blest!  though  but  in  fancy  blest, 

IIow  did  I  ask  of  Pity's  care, 
To  shield  and  strengthen,  in  thy  breast. 

The  nursling  I  had  cradled  there. 

And,  many  an  hour,  beguiled  by  pleasure, 
And  many  an  hour  of  sorrow  numh'ring, 

I  ne'er  forgot  the  ncw-boru  Irexsure, 
I  left  within  thy  bosom  slumb'ring. 

Perhaps,  indifTerence  has  not  chill'il  it, 
llajily,  it  yet  a  Ihroh  may  give — 

Yet,  no — perhaps,  a  doubt  has  kill'd  il 
Say,  dearest — does  the  feeling  live' 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Ill 


And  though  that  heart  be  dead  to  mine, 

TO 

Since  Love  is  life,  and  w.ikes  not  thine, 

CARA, 

I'll  take  thy  image,  as  the  form 

Of  one  whom  Love  had  fail'd  to  warm, 

ON   TQE    DAWSlSa   OF   A    NEW   VEAb'b   DAT. 

Which,  though  it  yield  no  answering  thrill. 

When  midnight  came  to  close  tlic  year, 

Is  not  less  dear,  is  worshipp'd  still — 

We  sigli'd  to  think  it  thus  shouhl  talie 

I'll  take  it,  wheresoe'cr  I  stray. 

The  liours  it  gave  us — liours  as  dear 

The  bright,  cold  burden  of  my  way. 

As  sympatliy  and  love  could  malie 

To  keep  this  semblance  fresh  in  bloom, 

Tlieir  blesjed  moments, — every  sun 

My  heart  shall  be  its  lasting  tomb, 

Saw  us,  my  love,  more  closely  one. 

And  Memory,  with  embalming  care, 

Shall  keep  it  fresh  and  fadeless  tliere. 

But,  Cara,  when  the  dawn  was  nigh 

Which  came  a  new  year's  light  to  shed, 

mt      i.            *  T                                T   1    f*                           J 

That  smile  we  caught  irom  eye  to  eye 

Told  us,  those  moments  were  not  (led  : 

Oh,  no, — we  felt,  some  future  sun 

Should  see  us  still  more  closely  one. 

TUE 

GENIUS  OF  HARMONY. 

Thus  may  we  ever,  side  by  side, 

AN    lUREGULAB    ODE. 

From  happy  years  to  happier  glide ; 

And  still  thus  may  the  passing  sigh 

Ad  hamiuniam  canere  munduin. 

CiCEKO  dc  J^at.  Dear.,  lib.  ill. 

We  give  to  hours,  that  vanish  o'er  us. 

Be  foUow'd  by  the  smiling  eye, 

There  lies  a  shell  beneath  the  waves. 

That  Hope  shall  shed  on  scenes  before  us! 

In  many  a  hollow  winding  wreathed. 

Such  as  of  old 

Echoed  the  breath  that  warbling  sea-maids  breathed , 
This  magic  shell. 

TO 

From  the  white  bosom  of  a  syren  fell, 

1801. 

As  once  she  wander'd  by  the  tide  that  laves 

Sicilia's  sands  of  gold. 

To  be  the  theme  of  every  hour 

It  bears 

The  heart  devotes  to  Fancy's  power, 

Upon  its  shining  side  the  mystic  notes, 

When  her  prompt  magic  fills  the  mind 

Of  those  entrancing  airs," 

With  friends  and  joys  we've  left  behind. 

The  genii  of  the  deep  were  wont  to  swell, 

And  joys  return  and  friends  are  near. 

When  heaven's  eternal  orbs  their  midnight  musie 

And  all  are  welcomed  with  a  tear : — 

roird ! ' 

In  the  mind's  purest  scat  to  dwell, 

Oh !  seek  it,  wheresoe'er  it  floats ; 

To  be  remember'd  oft  and  well 

And,  if  the  power 

By  one  whose  heart,  though  vain  and  wild, 

Of  thrilling  numbers  to  thy  soul  be  dear, 

By  passion  led,  by  youth  beguiled, 

Go,  bring  the  bright  shell  to  my  bower, 

Can  proudly  still  aspire  to  be 

And  I  will  fold  thee  in  such  downy  dreams 

All  that  may  yet  win  smiles  from  thee : — 

As  lap  the  Spirit  of  the  Seventh  Sphere, 

If  thus  to  live  iu  every  part 

When  Luna's  distant  tone  fiiUs  faintly  on  his  e.v!" 

Of  a  lone,  weary  wanderer's  heart ; 

And  thou  shalt  own. 

If  thus  to  be  its  sole  employ 

Tli.at,  through  the  circle  of  creation's  zone. 

Can  give  thee  one  faint  gleam  of  joy. 

Where  matter  slumbers  or  where  spirit  beams ; 

Believe  it,  Mary, — oh  !  believe 

From  the  pellucid  tides,"  that  whirl 

A  tongue  that  never  can  deceive. 

The  planets  through  their  maze  of  song, 

Though,  erring,  it  too  oft  betray 

To  the  small  rill,  that  weeps  along 

Ev'n  more  than  Love  should  dare  to  say, — 

Blurmuring  o'er  beds  of  pearl ; 

In  Pleasure's  dream  or  Sorrow's  hour. 

From  the  rich  sigh 

In  crowded  hall  or  lonely  bower. 

Of  the  sun's  arrow  through  an  evening  sky," 

The  business  of  my  life  shall  bo. 

To  the  faint  breath  the  tuneful  osier  yields 

For  ever  to  remember  thee. 

On  Afric's  burning  fields  ;" 

112 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Thou'lt  wondering  own  this  universe  divine 

Is  mine ! 
That  I  respire  in  all  and  all  in  me, 
One  mighty  mingled  soul  of  boundless  harmony. 

Welcome,  welcome,  mystic  shell ! 
Many  a  star  has  ceased  to  burn," 
Many  a  tear  has  Saturn's  urn 
O'er  the  cold  bosom  of  the  ocean  wept," 
Since  thy  aerial  spell 
Hath  in  the  waters  slept. 
Now  blest  I'll  fly 
With  the  bright  treasure  to  my  choral  sky 
Where  she,  ^^■ho  waked  its  early  swell, 
The  Syren  of  the  heavenly  choir. 
Walks  o'er  the  great  string  of  my  Orphic  Lyre ;" 
Or  guides  around  the  burning  pole 
The  winged  chariot  of  some  blissful  soul;'^ 
While  thou — 
Oh  son  of  earth,  what  dreams  shall  rise  for  thee ! 
Beneath  Hispania's  sun, 
Thou'lt  see  a  streamlet  run, 
Which  I've  imbued  with  breathing  melody ;" 
And  there,  when  night-winds  down  the  current  die, 
Thou'lt  hear  how  like  a  harp  its  waters  sigh: 
A  liquid  chord  is  every  wave  that  flows, 
An  airy  pleotrum  every  breeze  that  blows." 

There,  by  that  wondrous  stream. 
Go,  lay  tliy  languid  brow, 
And  I  will  send  thee  such  a  godlike  dream. 
As  never  bless'd  the  slumbers  even  of  him," 
Who,  many  a  night,  with  his  primordial  lyre," 
S.ite  on  the  chill  Pangruan  niount,^' 
And,  looking  to  the  orient  dim, 
Watch'd  the  first  flowing  of  tliat  sacred  fount. 
From  which  his  soul  had  drunk  its  fire. 
Oh !  think  what  visions  in  that  lonely  hour. 
Stole  o'er  his  musing  breast; 
What  pious  ecstasy" 
Wafted  his  prayer  to  that  eternal  Power, 
Whose  Beal  upon  this  new-born  world  impress'd" 
The  v.irious  forms  of  bright  divinity! 

Or,  dost  thou  know  what  dreams  I  wove, 
'Mid  the  deep  horror  of  that  silent  bower," 
Where  the  rajit  Samian  »Ic)it  liis  holy  slumber? 
Wlien,  free 
From  cartlily  chain. 
From  wreaths  of  pleasure  and  from  bonds  of  pain, 

His  spirit  flew  through  fields  above, 
Drank  at  the  Honrcc  of  nature's  fontal  number," 
And  .Haw,  in  tnyslic  choir,  around  him  move 
The  bUrn  of  Kong,  Heaven's  burning  niinslrelsy  ! 
Sui-h  dreams,  so  heavenly  bright, 
I  swenr 


By  the  great  diadem  that  twines  my  hair, 
And  by  the  seven  gems  that  sparkle  there," 

Mingling  their  beams 
In  a  soft  iris  of  harmonious  light. 

Oh,  mortal !  such  shall  be  thy  radiant  dreams. 


I  FOCND  her  not — the  chamber  seem'd 
Like  some  divinely  haunted  place. 

Where  fairy  forms  had  lately  beani'd, 
And  left  behind  their  odorous  trace! 

It  felt,  as  if  her  lips  had  shed 
A  sigh  around  her,  ere  she  fled, 
Which  hung,  as  on  a  melting  lute. 
When  all  the  silver  chords  are  mute, 
There  lingers  still  a  trembling  breath 
After  the  note's  luxurious  death, 
A  shade  of  song,  a  si)irit  air 
Of  melodies  which  had  been  there. 

I  saw  the  veil,  which,  all  the  day, 

Had  floated  o'er  her  check  of  rose ; 
I  saw  tlie  couch,  where  late  she  lay 

In  languor  of  divine  repose ; 
And  I  could  trace  the  hallow'd  print 

Her  limbs  had  left,  as  pure  and  warm 
As  if  'twere  done  in  rapture's  mint. 

And  Love  himself  had  stamp'd  the  form. 

Oil  my  sweet  mistress,  where  wert  thou? 

In  ))ity  fly  not  thus  from  mc; 
Tliou  art  my  life,  my  es.sence  now, 

And  my  soul  dies  of  wanting  thee. 


TO 

MRS.  HENRY  TIGHE, 

0:<    HEADIXO    HKR    "  rSYCUK." 

Tni.r.  me  the  witching  tale  again, 
For  never  hns  my  heart  or  car 

Hung  on  so  sweet,  so  pure  a  strain, 
Sn  pure  to  feel,  so  sweet  lo  hear. 

Say.  I.iivp,  in  all  Ihy  piimc.  of  fame. 

When  the  high  hc.ivcn  ilsclf  was  thine, 

When  ])iety  confess'd  the  flame, 
And  even  thy  errors  were  divine  ; 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


113 


Did  ever  Muse's  hand,  so  fair 

A  glory  round  thy  temples  spread  ? 

Did  ever  lip's  ambrosial  air 

Sucli  fnii:rance  o'er  thy  altars  slied? 

One  maid  tliere  was,  who  round  her  lyre 
Tlio  mystic  myrtle  wildly  wreathed ; — 

But  all  her  sighs  were  sighs  of  fire. 
The  myrtle  wither'd  as  she  breathed. 

Oh  !  you,  that  love's  celestial  dream, 

In  all  its  purity,  would  know. 
Let  not  the  senses'  ardent  beam 

Too  strongly  through  the  vision  glow. 

Love  safest  lies,  conceal'd  in  night. 

The  night  where  heaven  has  bid  him  lie ; 

Oh  !  shed  not  there  unhallow'd  light. 
Or,  Psyche  knows,  the  boy  will  fly." 

Sweet  Psyche,  many  a  charmed  hour. 
Through  many  a  wild  and  magic  waste. 

To  the  fiiir  fount  and  blissful  bower" 
Have  I,  in  dreams,  thy  light  foot  traced ! 

Where'er  thy  joys  are  number'd  now, 
Beneath  whatever  shades  of  rest. 

The  Genius  of  the  starry  brow" 

Hath  bound  thee  to  thy  Cupid's  breast; 

Whether  above  the  horizon  dim. 

Along  whose  verge  our  spirits  stray, — 

Half  sunk  beneath  the  shadowy  rim. 
Half  brighten'd  by  the  upper  ray, — " 

Thou  dwellest  in  a  world,  all  light. 
Or,  lingering  here,  dost  love  to  be, 

To  other  souls,  the  guardian  bright 

That  Love  was,  through  this  gloom,  to  thee ; 

Still  be  the  song  to  Psyche  dear. 

The  song,  whose  gentle  voice  was  given 

To  be,  on  earth,  to  mortal  ear. 
An  echo  of  her  own,  in  heaven. 


FKOM 

•l-HE  HIGH  PRIEST  OF  APOLLO 

TO 

A    VIRGIN   OF   DELPHI." 

Cum  di^o  digna  .  ,  . 

Sdlpicu. 

Who  is  the  maid,  with  golden  hair 
"  With  eye  of  fire,  and  foot  of  air, 
VOL.  u. — 15 


"  Wliose  harp  around  my  altar  swells, 
"The  sweetest  of  a  thousand  shells?" 
'Twas  thus  the  deity,  who  treads 
The  arch  of  heaven,  and  proudly  sheds 
Day  from  his  eyelids — thus  ho  spoke, 
As  through  my  cell  his  glories  broke. 

Aplielia  is  the  Delpliic  fair," 
With  eyes  of  fire  and  golden  hair 
Aphelia's  are  the  airy  feet. 
And  hers  the  harp  divinely  sweet; 
For  foot  so  liglit  has  never  trod 
The  laurell'd  caverns  of  the  god. 
Nor  harp  so  soft  hath  ever  given 
A  sigh  to  earth  or  hymn  to  heaven. 

"  Then  tell  the  virgin  to  unfold, 
"  In  looser  pomp,  her  locks  of  gold, 
"  And  bid  those  eyes  more  fondly  shine 
"To  welcome  down  a  Spouse  Divine; 
"  Since  He,  who  lights  the  patli  of  years— 
"  Even  from  the  fount  of  morning's  tears 
"To  where  his  setting  splendors  burn 
"  Upon  the  western  sea-maid's  urn — 
"  Doth  not,  in  all  his  course,  behold 
"  Such  eyes  of  fire,  such  hair  of  gold. 
"  Tell  her,  he  comes,  in  blissful  pride, 
"  His  lip  yet  sparkling  with  the  tide 
"  Tliat  mantles  in  Olympian  bowls, — 
"  The  nectar  of  eternal  souls ! 
"  For  her,  for  her  he  quits  the  skies, 
"  And  to  her  kiss  from  nectar  flies. 
"  Oh,  he  would  quit  his  star-throned  height, 
"  And  leave  the  world  to  pine  for  light, 
"  Might  he  but  pass  the  hours  of  shade, 
"  Beside  his  peerless  Delphic  maid, 
"  She,  more  than  earthly  woman  blest, 
"  He,  more  than  god  on  woman's  breast !" 

There  is  a  cave  beneath  the  steep," 
Where  living  rills  of  crystal  weep 
O'er  herbage  of  the  loveliest  hue 
That  ever  spring  begemm'd  with  dew; 
There  oft  the  greensward's  glossy  tint 
Is  brighten'd  by  the  recent  print 
Of  many  a  faun  and  naiad's  feet, — 
Scarce  touching  earth,  their  step  so  fleet,— 
That  there,  by  moonlight's  ray,  had  trod, 
In  light  dance,  o'er  the  verdant  sod. 
"  There,  there,"  the  god,  impassion'd,  said, 
"  Soon  as  the  twilight  tinge  is  fled, 
"  And  the  dim  orb  of  lunar  souls" 
"  Along  its  shadowy  pathway  rolls- 
'■  There  shall  we  meet, — and  not  ev'n  He. 
"  The  God  who  reigns  immortally, 


11^ 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


"  Wliere  Babel's  turrets  pnint  their  pride 

"  Upon  th'  Euphrates'  shining  tide, — " 

"  Not  ev'n  when  to  his  midnight  loves 

" In  mjstic  majesty  he  moves, 

"  Lighted  by  many  an  odorous  fire, 

"  And  hymn'd  by  all  Chaldaea's  choir, — 

"E'er  yet,  o"er  mortal  brow,  let  shine 

"Such  effluence  of  Love  Divine, 

"  As  shall  to-night,  blest  maid,  o'er  tliine." 

Happy  the  maid,  whom  heaven  allows 
To  break  for  heaven  her  virgin  vows! 
Hai)py  the  maid  I — her  robe  of  shame 
Is  whiten'd  by  a  heavenly  flame. 
Whose  glory,  with  a  ling'ring  trace. 
Shines  through  and  deifies  her  race  !" 


FRAGMENT. 

Pitt  mc,  love !  I'll  pity  thee. 
If  thou  indeed  hast  felt  like  me. 
All,  all  my  bosom's  pe.ace  is  o'er! 

At  night,  which  was  my  hour  of  calm. 
When,  from  the  p.ige  of  classic  lore. 
From  the  pure  fount  of  ancient  lay 

My  soul  has  drawn  the  placid  b.alm. 
Which  charm'd  its  every  grief  away. 
Ah  !  there  I  find  that  balm  no  more. 
Those  spells,  which  make  ns  oft  forget 

The  fleeting  troubles  of  the  day, 
In  deeper  sorrows  only  whet 

The  .stings  they  cannot  tear  .aw.iy 
When  to  my  pillow  rack'il  I  fly, 
With  wearied  sense  and  wakeful  eye : 
While  my  brain  maddens,  where,  oh,  where 
Is  that  serene  consoling  prayer. 
Which  once  has  harbingcr'd  my  rest. 

When  the  still  soothing  voice  of  Heaven 
Hath  sccm'd  to  whisper  in  my  breast, 

"  Sleep  on,  thy  errors  are  forgiven!" 
No,  though  I  still  in  semblance  pr.ay, 
My  thoughts  are  wand'ring  far  aw.ny. 
And  ev'n  the  name  of  Deity 
Is  mnrmur'd  out  in  sighs  for  thee 


A  NIGHT  THOUGHT. 

How  oft  a  cloud,  willi  envious  veil, 
Obscures  yon  ba.shful  light. 

Which  seems  so  modcftly  to  ateal 
Along  the  waste  of  night  I 


'Tis  thus  the  world's  obtrusive  wrongs 

Obscure  with  malice  keen 
Some  timid  heart,  which  only  longs 

To  live  and  die  unseen. 


THE  KISS. 

Grow  tc  my  lip,  thou  sacred  kiss. 

On  which  my  soul's  beloved  swore 
That  there  sliould  come  a  time  of  bliss, 

When  slie  would  mock  my  hopes  no  more 
And  fancy  shall  thy  glow  renew, 

In  sighs  at  morn,  and  dreams  at  night. 
And  none  shall  steal  thy  holy  dew 

Till  thou'rt  absolved  by  rapture's  rite. 
Sweet  hours  timt  are  to  make  me  blest. 

Fly,  swift  as  breezes,  to  the  goal. 

And  let  my  love,  my  more  than  soul 
Come  blushing  to  this  ardent  breast. 
Then,  while  in  every  glance  I  drink 

The  rich  o'crllowings  of  her  mind. 
Oh !  let  her  all  enamor'd  sink 

In  sweet  abandonment  rcsign'd. 
Blushing  for  all  our  struggles  p.ast. 
And  murmuring,  "  I  am  thine  at  last !" 


SONG. 


Think  on  that  look  whose  melting  ray 
For  one  sweet  moment  mix'd  with  mine 

And  for  that  moment  seem'd  to  say, 
"I  daro  not,  or  I  would  be  thine!" 

Think  on  thy  ev'ry  smile  and  glance, 
On  all  thou  hast  to  charm  and  move 

And  then  forgive  my  bosom's  trance, 
Nor  tell  mo  it  is  sin  to  love. 

Oh,  710^  to  love  Ihee  were  the  sin; 

For  sure,  if  Fate's  decrees  be  done, 
Thou,  thou  art  destined  still  to  win. 

As  I  am  destined  to  be  won ! 


THE  OATALOGUK 

"CoMr,  tell  me,"  says  Rosn,  .is  kissing  and  kiss'd. 

One  d.'iy  she  reclined  on  my  brea.st ; 
"Come,  loll  ino  the  luiniber,  repeat  me  Ihc  list 

"Of  the  nymphs  you  have  loved  and  caress'd."-- 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


115 


Oh  Rosa!  'twas  only  my  fancy  that  roved, 

My  liejirt  at  tlio  moment  was  free; 
But  I'll  tell  tliee,  my  girl,  liow  many  I've  loved. 

And  the  number  shall  finish  "with  thee. 

51y  tutor  was  Kitty ;  in  infancy  wild 

She  tiiufjht  mo  the  way  to  be  blest ;   ' 
She  taught  mo  to  love  her,  I  loved  like  a  child. 

But  Kitty  could  fancy  the  rest. 
This  lesson  of  dear  and  cnr.apturing  lore 

I  have  never  forgot,  I  allow : 
I  have  had  it  hy  rote  very  often  beforo> 

But  never  by  heart  until  now. 

Pretty  Martha  was  next,  and  my  soul  was  .all  flame, 

But  my  head  was  so  full  of  romance 
That  I  fancied  her  into  some  chivalry  dame, 

And  I  \v.as  her  knight  of  the  lance. 
But  Martha  was  not  of  this  fanciful  school. 

And  she  Laugh'd  .at  her  poor  little  knight; 
While  I  thought  her  a  goddess,  she  thought  me  a  fool. 

And  I'll  swear  she  was  most  in  the  right. 

My  soul  wMs  now  calm,  till,  by  Cloris's  looks, 

.'\gain  I  was  tempted  to  rove  ; 
But  Cloris,  I  found,  w!is  so  learned  in  books, 

That  she  g.ave  me  more  logic  than  love. 
So  I  left  this  young  Sappho,  and  hasten'd  to  fly 

To  those  sweeter  logicians  in  bliss, 
Who  argue  the  point  with  a  soul-telling  eye. 

And  convince  us  .at  once  with  a  kiss. 

Oh !  Susan  was  then  all  the  world  unto  me, 

But  Susan  was  piously  given ; 
And  the  worst  of  it  was,  we  could  never  .agree 

On  the  ro.ad  that  w.as  shortest  to  Heaven. 
'Oil,  Susan !"  I've  s.aid,  in  the  moments  of  mirth, 

"  What's  devotion  to  thee  or  to  me  ? 

^  devoutly  believe  there's  a  heaven  on  earth, 

"And  believe  that  that  heaven's  in  thee!" 


IMITATION  OF  CATULLUS. 

TO   HIMSELF. 

Hiser  Catulle,  deslnaa  ineptira,  && 

Cease  the  sighing  fool  to  pl.ay ; 
Cease  to  trifle  life  aw.ay ; 
Nor  vainly  think  those  joys  thine  own, 
Which  all,  alas,  li.ave  falsely  flown. 
What  hours,  Catullus,  once  were  thine, 
How  fairly  seem'd  thy  day  to  shine, 


When  lightly  thou  didst  fly  to  meet 
The  girl  wnose  smile  was  then  so  sweet — 
The  girl  thou  lovedst  with  fonder  pain 
Than  e'er  iJiy  lieart  can  feel  agam. 

Ye  met — your  souls  seem'd  all  in  one, 
Like  tapers  that  commingling  shone; 
Thy  heart  w.as  warm  enough  fur  both. 
And  hers,  in  truth,  was  nothiiig  lotli. 

Such  were  the  hours  th.at  once  were  thine 
But,  ah  !  those  hours  no  longer  shine. 
For  now  the  nymph  delights  no  more 
In  what  she  loved  so  much  before; 
And  .all  Catullus  now  can  do. 
Is  to  be  proud  and  frigid  too ; 
Nor  follow  where  the  wanton  flies. 
Nor  sue  the  bliss  that  she  denies. 
False  maid !  he  bids  farewell  to  thee, 
To  love,  and  .all  love's  misery; 
The  heyday  of  his  heart  is  o'er. 
Nor  will  he  court  one  favor  more. 

Fly,  perjured  girl ! — but  whither  fly  ? 
Who  now  will  praise  thy  cheek  and  eye  ? 
Who  now  will  drink  the  syren  tone, 
Which  tells  him  thou  art  all  his  own? 
Oh,  none : — .and  he  who  loved  before 
Can  never,  never  love  thee  more. 


"  Neither  do  I  comlenin  thee ;  go,  and  sin  uo  more  I" 

St.  JouK,  chap.  A  liL 

On  woman,  if  through  sinful  wile 

Thy  soul  liath  stray'd  from  honor's  track, 

'Tis  mercy  only  can  beguile, 

By  gentle  w.ays,  the  wand'rer  back. 

The  stain  th.at  on  thy  virtue  lies, 

Wash'd  by  those  tears,  not  long  will  stay ; 
As  clouds  that  sull)^  morning  skies 

May  all  be  wept  in  show'rs  away. 

Go,  go,  be  innocent, — and  live; 

The  tongues  of  men  m.ay  wound  thee  sore 
But  He.av'n  in  pity  can  forgive, 
■  And  bid  thee  "  go,  and  sin  no  more !" 


116 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


NONSENSE. 

Good  reader !  if  yon  e'er  have  seen, 

\Vhen  Phoebus  hastens  to  his  pillow, 
The  merm.iids,  ^Wth  theb  tresses  green, 

Dancing  upon  the  western  billow : 
If  you  have  seen,  at  twilight  dim, 
When  the  lone  spirit's  vesper  hymn 

Floats  wild  along  the  winding  shore. 
If  you  liave  seen,  through  mist  of  eve, 
The  fairy  train  their  ringlets  weave. 
Glancing  along  the  spangled  green : — 

If  you  have  seen  all  this,  and  more, 
God  bless  me,  what  a  deal  you've  seen ! 


EPIGRAM, 

FKOM    THE    FSE-NCB. 


"  I  NEVER  give  a  kiss  (says  Prue) 
"  To  naughty  man,  for  I  abhor  it." 

She  will  not  give  a  kiss,  'tis  true  ; 

She'll  take  one  though,  and  thank  you  for  it. 


ON  A  SQUINTING  POETESS. 

To  no  one  Muse  does  she  her  glance  confine, 
But  has  an  eye,  at  once,  to  all  the  Nine ! 


To 


Moria  pur  quando  vuol,  non  i  biaoguu  mutur  ni  faccia  ill 
•cce  per  eaaer  ua  Angolo." 

Die  when  you  will,  yon  need  not  we.ir 
At  Heaven's  Court  a  form  more  fair 

Than  Beauty  here  on  earth  has  given ; 
Keep  but  the  lovely  looks  we  see — 
The  voice  we  hear — and  you  will  be 

An  angel  ready-made  for  Heaven  ! 


TO  nOSA. 
A  far  coDion'a,  o  ciimulo  d'amanti.— Tiut.  fYX 

AsD  are  you  then  a  thing  of  art, 
Seducing  all,  and  loving  none; 

And  tiav«:  I  Hlrove  to  gain  a.  heart 

Which  every  coxcomb  (liinks  his  own' 


Tell  me  at  once  if  this  be  true, 

And  I  will  calm  my  jealous  breast ; 

Will  learn  to  join  the  dangling  crew. 
And  share  your  simpers  with  the  rest. 

But  if  your  heart  be  not  so  free, — 
Oh !  if  another  share  that  heart. 

Tell  not  the  hateful  tale  to  me, 
But  mingle  mercy  with  your  art. 

I'd  rather  think  you  "  false  as  hell. 
Than  find  you  to  be  all  divine, — 

Than  know  that  heart  could  love  so  well, 
Yet  know  that  heart  would  Tiot  be  mine  ! 


TO  PHILLIS. 

Phillis,  you  little  rosy  rake, 

That  heart  of  yours  I  long  to  rifle : 

t^ome,  give  it  me,  and  do  not  ra;ike 
So  much  ado  about  a  trijle  ! 


TO  A  LADY, 

ON      HER      BINQINQ. 

TiiT  song  lias  taught  my  heart  to  feel 

Those  soothing  thoughts  of  heav'nly  love, 

Which  o'er  the  sainted  spirits  steal 
When  list'ning  to  the  spheres  above  ! 

When,  tired  of  life  and  misery, 
I  wish  to  sigh  my  latest  breath. 

Oh,  Emma!  I  will  ily  to  tlico. 

And  tliou  slialt  sing  me  into  death. 

And  if  along  thy  lip  and  cheek 

That  smile  of  heavenly  softness  play, 

Which, — ah  !  forgive  a  mind  th.at's  weak, — 
So  oft  has  stol'n  my  mind  away ; 

Thou'lt  seem  nn  angel  of  the  sky, 
That  CDines  to  cliarm  me  into  bliss: 

I'll  gaze  and  die — Who  would  not  die, 
If  death  were  half  so  sweet  as  this' 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


117 


SONQ. 
ON  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  MRS. 


WEITTEN    IN    laELAND. 


1199. 


Of  all  my  happiest  hours  of  joy, 

And  even  I  have  had  my  measure, 
When  hearts  were  full,  and  ev'ry  eye 

Hath  liindled  with  the  liglit  of  pleasure, 
An  hour  like  this  I  ne'er  was  given. 

So  full  of  friendship's  purest  blisses  ; 
Young  Love  himself  looks  down  from  heaven. 
To  smile  on  such  a  day  as  this  is. 

Then  come,  my  friends,  this  hour  improve, 

Let's  feel  as  if  we  ne'er  could  sever ; 
And  may  the  birth  of  lier  we  love 
Be  thus  with  joy  remember'd  ever ! 

Oh !  banish  ev'ry  thought  to-night, 

■Which  could  disturb  our  soul's  communion ; 
Abandon'd  thus  to  dear  delight. 

We'll  ev'n  for  once  forget  the  Union ! 
On  that  let  statesmen  try  their  pow'rs. 

And  tremble  o'er  the  rights  they'd  die  for; 
The  union  of  the  soul  be  ours, 

And  ev'ry  union  else  we  sigh  for. 

Then  come,  my  friends,  &c. 

In  ev'ry  eye  around  I  mark 

The  feelings  of  the  heart  o'erflowing ; 
From  ev'ry  soul  I  catch  the  spark 

Of  sympathy,  in  friendship  glowing. 
Oh !  could  such  moments  ever  fly ; 

Oh !  that  we  ne'er  were  doom'd  to  lose  'em ; 
And  all  as  bright  as  Charlotte's  eye. 

And  all  as  pure  as  Charlotte's  bosom. 

Then  come,  my  friends,  &c. 

For  me,  whate'er  my  span  of  years, 

Whatever  sun  m.iy  liglit  my  roving ; 
Whether  I  waste  my  life  in  tears. 

Or  live,  as  now,  for  mirth  .ind  loving; 
This  day  shall  come  with  aspect  kind. 

Wherever  fate  m.ay  cast  your  rover ; 
He'll  think  of  those  he  left  behind, 

And  drink  a  healtli  to  bliss  that's  over ! 

Then  come,  my  friends,  &c. 


SONG.< 


Maey,  I  believed  thee  true. 

And  I  was  bless'd  in  thus  believing ; 
But  now  I  mourn  tlmt  e'er  I  knew 

A  girl  so  fiiir  and  so  deceiving. 
Faro  thee  well. 


Few  have  ever  loved  like  me, — 
Yes,  I  have  loved  thee  too  sincerely  ! 

And  few  have  e'er  deceived  like  thee, — 
Alas !  deceived  me  too  severely. 

Fare  thee  well ! — yet  think  iwhile 
On  one  whose  bosom  bleeds  to  doubt  thee 

Who  now  would  rather  trust  tliat  smile. 
And  die  with  thee  tlian  live  without  tliee. 

Fare  thee  well !  I'll  think  of  thee, 
Thou  le.av'st  me  many  a  bitter  token ; 

For  see,  distracting  wom.an,  see, 

My  peace  is  gone,  my  heart  is  broken ! — 
Fare  thee  well ! 


MORALITY. 

A    FAinLI.Ul    EPISTLE. 
ADDRESSED   TO 

J.  ATKINSON,  ESa,  M.  R.  I.  A. 

Though  long  at  school  and  college  dosing, 
O'er  books  of  verse  and  books  of  prosing, 
And  copying  from  tlieir  moral  pages 
Fine  recipes  for  making  sages ; 
Though  long  with  those  divines  at  school, 
Who  think  to  make  us  good  by  iiile ; 
Who,  in  methodic  forms  advancing. 
Teaching  morality  like  dancing. 
Tell  us,  for  Heaven  or  money's  sake, 
Wliat  sleps  we  are  through  life  to  t-ake : 
Though  thus,  my  friend,  so  long  employ'd, 
With  so  much  midnight  oil  destroy'd, 
I  must  confess,  my  searches  past, 
I've  only  learn'd  to  doubt  at  last. 
I  find  the  doctors  and  the  sages 
Have  diiFer'd  in  all  climes  and  ages. 
And  two  in  fifty  scarce  agree 
On  what  is  pure  morality. 
'Tis  like  the  rainbow's  shifting  zone, 
And  every  vision  makes  its  own. 

The  doctors  of  the  Porch  advise. 
As  modes  of  being  great  and  wise, 
That  we  should  cease  to  own  or  know 
The  luxuries  th.at  from  feeling  flow: — 
"Reason  alone  must  claim  direction, 
"And  Apathy's  the  soul's  perfection. 
"  Like  a  dull  Like  the  heart  must  lie ; 
"  Nor  passion's  gale  nor  pleasure's  sigh, 
"  Though  He.iv'n  the  breeze,  the  breath,  supplied, 
"Must  curl  the  wave  or  swell  the  tide  !" 


118 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Such  was  the  rigid  Zeno's  plan 
To  form  liis  philosophic  man  ; 
Such  were  the  modes  lie  taught  mankind 
To  weed  the  garden  of  the  mind ; 
They  tore  from  thence  some  weeds,  'tis  tru9 
But  all  the  flow'rs  were  ravaged  too  ! 

Now  listen  to  the  wily  strains, 
Which,  on  Gyrene's  sandy  plains, 
When  Pleasure,  nymph  with  loosen'd  zone, 
Usurp'd  the  philosopliic  throne, — 
Hear  what  the  courtly  sage's'*  tongue 
To  his  surrounding  pupils  sung : — 
"  Pleasure's  the  only  noble  end 
"  To  which  all  human  pow'rs  should  tend, 
"  And  Virtue  gives  her  heav'nly  lore, 
"  But  to  make  Pleasure  please  us  more. 
"  Wisdom  and  she  were  both  design'd 
"  To  make  the  senses  more  refined, 
^  That  man  might  revel,  free  from  cloying, 
"  Then  most  a  sage  when  most  enjoying !" 

Is  this  morality  ? — Oh,  no ! 
Kv'n  I  a  wiser  path  could  show. 
The  flow'r  within  this  vase  confined. 
The  pure,  the  unfading  flow'r  of  mind, 
Must  not  throw  all  its  .sweets  aw.iy 
Upon  ,1  mortal  mould  of  clay : 
No,  no, — its  richest  breath  should  riso 
In  virtue's  incense  to  the  skies. 

But  thus  it  is,  all  sects  we  see 
Have  watchwords  of  morality: 
Some  cry  out  Venus,  others  Jove ; 
Here  'tis  Religion,  there  'tis  Love. 
But  while  they  tlius  so  widely  wander. 
While  mystics  dream,  and  doctors  ponder ; 
And  some,  in  dialectics  firm. 
Seek  virtue  in  a  middle  term ; 
While  thus  they  strive,  in  Heaven's  defiance, 
To  chain  morality  with  science ; 
The  plain  good  man,  whose  actions  tjach 
More  virtue  than  a  sect  can  preach. 
Pursues  liis  course,  unsagely  bless'd, 
His  tutor  whisp'ring  in  his  breast; 
Nor  could  he  act  a  purer  pari, 
Though  he  bad  Tully  all  by  heart. 
And  when  ho  drops  the  tear  on  woch 
Ho  little  knows  or  cares  to  know 
That  Kpielctus  blamed  that  tear, 
Hy  I  fcavcn  approved,  to  virtue  dear 

Ob !  when  I've  seen  tlio  morning  bcini 
Floating  wilblB  the  diin|ilcd  btrcnoi ; 


While  Nature,  wak'ning  from  the  night. 
Has  just  put  on  her  robes  of  light, 
Have  I,  with  cold  optician's  gaze. 
Explored  the  doctrine  of  those  rays  ? 
No,  pedants,  I  have  left  to  you 
Nicely  to  sep'rate  hue  from  hue. 
Go,  give  that  moment  up  to  art. 
When  Heaven  and  nature  claim  the  heart; 
And,  dull  to  all  their  best  .attraction. 
Go — measure  angles  of  refracuun. 
While  I,  in  feeling's  sweet  romance, 
Look  on  each  daybeam  as  a  glance 
From  the  great  eye  of  Him  .above, 
Wak'ning  his  world  with  looks  of  love! 


THE 

TELL-TALE  LYRE. 

I've  heard,  there  was  in  ancient  days 
A  Lyre  of  most  melodious  spell ; 

'Tw;is  heav'n  to  hear  its  fairy  lays. 
If  half  be  true  that  legends  tell. 

'Twas  play'd  on  by  the  gentlest  sighs, 
And  to  their  breath  it  breathed  again 

In  such  entrancing  melodies 

As  ears  had  never  drunk  till  then! 

Not  harmony's  sorenest  touch 

So  stilly  could  the  notes  prolong; 

They  were  not  heavenly  song  so  much 
As  they  were  dreams  of  heavenly  sonjrl 

If  sad  the  heart,  whose  murrn'ring  air 
Along  tlie  chords  in  languor  stole, 

The  numbers  it  awaken'd  there 
Were  cloijucnce  from  pity's  soul. 

Or  if  the  sigh,  serene  and  light, 

Whs  but  the  breath  of  fancied  woes, 

The  string,  that  felt  its  airy  lllght. 
Soon  wbisper'd  it  to  kind  repose. 

And  when  young  lovers  talk'd  alone, 
If,  'mid  their  bliss  that  Lyre  was  near. 

It  made  their  accents  all  it.s  own, 

And  sent  forth  notes  that  lloavon  might  hear 

There  was  a  nymph,  who  long  had  loved, 
But  dared  not  tell  the  world  how  well: 

The  HhadoH,  where  she  at  evening  roved, 
Alonn  could  know,  alone  could  tell 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


119 


'Twas  there,  at  twiliglit  time,  she  stole. 

When  the  first  star  announced  the  night, — 

With  him  who  claim'J  her  inmost  soul. 
To  wander  by  that  soothing  light. 

It  clianecd  tliat,  in  the  fairy  bower 

Where  bless'd  they  woo'd  each  other's  smile, 
This  Lyre,  of  strange  and  magic  power. 

Hung  whisp'ring  o'er  their  heads  the  while. 

And  .as,  with  eyes  commingling  fire, 
They  lis*en'd  to  each  other's  vow, 

Theyonth  full  oft  would  make  tlio  Lyre 
A  pillow  for  the  maiden's  brow : 

And,  while  the  melting  words  she  breathed 
Were  by  its  echoes  wafted  round, 

Her  locks  had  with  the  cords  so  wreathed, 
One  knew  not  whicli  gave  forth  tlie  sound. 

Alas,  their  hearts  but  little  thought, 
While  thus  they  talk'd  the  hours  .away. 

That  every  sound  the  Lyre  was  taught 
Would  linger  long,  and  long  betray. 

So  mingled  with  its  tuneful  soul 

Were  all  their  tender  murmurs  grown. 

That  other  sighs  unanswer'd  stole, 
Nor  words  it  breathed  but  theirs  alone. 

Unhappy  nymph !  thy  name  was  sung 
To  every  breeze  that  wander'd  by  ; 

The  secrets  of  thy  gentle  tongue 

Were  breathed  in  song  to  earth  and  sky. 

The  fatal  Lyre,  by  Envy's  hand 

Hung  high  amid  the  whisp'ring  groves. 

To  every  gale  by  which  'twas  fann'd, 
Proclaim'd  the  myst'ry  of  your  loves. 

Nor  long  thus  rudely  was  thy  name 
To  earth's  derisive  echoes  given ; 

Some  pitying  spirit  downward  came. 
And  took  the  Lyre  and  thee  to  heaven. 

There,  freed  from  earth's  unholy  wrongs, 
Both  happy  in  Love's  home  shall  be ; 

Thou,  uttering  naught  but  seraph  songs. 
And  that  sweet  Lyre  still  echoing  thee ! 


PEACE  AND  GLORY. 

WBITTEN   ON   THE   APPttOACH   OF   WAE. 

Where  is  now  the  smile,  th.it  lighten'd 

Every  hero's  couch  of  rest? 
Where  is  now  the  hope,  that  brighten'd 

Honor's  eye  and  I'ity's  breast  ? 
Have  we  lost  the  wreath  we  braided 

For  our  weary  warrior  men? 
Is  the  faithless  olive  faded  ? 

Must  the  bay  be  pluck'd  again  ? 

Passing  hour  of  sunny  weather, 

Lovely,  in  your  light  .awhile. 
Peace  and  Glory,  wed  together, 

Wander'd  through  our  blessed  isle. 
And  the  eyes  of  Peace  would  glisten, 

Dewy  as  a  morning  sun, 
When  the  timid  maid  would  listen 

To  the  deeds  her  chief  had  done. 

Is  their  hour  of  dalli.ance  over? 

Must  the  maiden's  trembling  feet 
Waft  her  from  her  warlike  lover 

To  the  desert's  still  retreat? 
Fare  you  well !  with  sighs  we  banish 

Nymph  so  fair  and  guests  so  bright ; 
Yet  the  smile,  with  which  you  vanish, 

Leaves  behind  a  soothing  liglit; — 

Soothing  light,  that  long  sh.all  sp.arkle 

O'er  your  warrior's  sanguined  way, 
Through  the  field  where  horrors  darkle, 

Shedding  hope's  consoling  ray. 
Long  the  smile  his  he.art  will  cherish, 

To  its  absent  idol  true  : 
Wliile  around  him  myriads  perish, 

Cilory  still  will  sigh  for  you ! 


SOXG. 


Take  back  the  sigh,  thy  lips  of  art 

In  passion's  moment  breathed  to  me; 
Yet,  no — it  must  not,  will  not  part, 
Tis  now  the  life-bre.ath  of  my  he.art, 
And  has  become  too  pure  for  thee. 

Take  back  the  kiss,  that  faithless  sigh 

With  all  the  warmth  of  truth  impress'd 
Yet,  no — the  fatal  kiss  may  lie, 
Upon  thy  lip  its  sweets  would  die, 
Or  bloom  to  make  a  rival  bleat. 


120 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Take  back  the  vows  that,  night  and  day, 

Alas !  the  boy  grew  langsid  soon. 

My  he;irt  received,  I  tliought,  from  thine : 

And  fever  thrill'd  through  all  his  veins. 

Yet,  no — allow  them  still  to  stay, 

They  might  some  other  heart  betray. 

The  dew  forsook  his  baby  brow. 

As  sweetly  as  they've  ruin'd  mine. 

No  more  with  healthy  bloom  he  smiled — 

Oh !  where  was  tranquil  Reason  now. 

To  cast  her  shadow  o'er  the  child ! 

Beneath  a  green  and  aged  p.ilm, 

LOVE  AXD  REASON. 

His  foot  at  length  for  shelter  turning. 

He  saw  the  nymph  reclining  calm. 

»  Quand  rhonune  commence  a  raisonner,  U  cesse  de  sentir." 

J,  J.  RODSSEAU.*^ 

With  brow  as  cool  as  his  was  burning 

*TwA9  in  the  summer  time  so  sweet, 

"Oh  !  take  me  to  that  bosom  cold," 

Wlien  hearts  and  flowers  are  both  in  season, 

In  murmurs  at  her  feet  he  said  ; 

That — who,  of  all  the  world,  should  meet. 

And  Reason  oped  her  garment's  fold, 

One  early  dawn,  but  Love  and  Reason ! 

And  flung  it  round  his  fever'd  he.ad. 

Love  told  bis  dream  of  yesternight, 

He  felt  her  bosom's  icy  touch. 

While  Reason  talk'd  about  the  weather; 

And  soon  it  lull'd  his  pulse  to  rest; 

The  morn,  in  sooth,  was  fair  and  bright, 

For,  ah !  the  chill  was  quite  too  much. 

And  on  they  took  their  way  together. 

And  Love  expired  on  Reason's  breast  1 

The  boy  iu  many  a  gambol  flew, 

While  Reason,  like  a  Juno,  stalk'd, 

And  from  her  portly  figure  threw 

A  lengtlien'd  shadow,  as  she  walk'd. 

Nat,  do  not  weep,  my  Fanny  dear ; 

While  in  these  arms  you  lie. 

No  wonder  Love,  as  on  they  p.ass'd, 

This  world  hath  not  a  wish,  a  fear. 

Should  find  that  sunny  morning  chill. 

That  ought  to  cost  that  eye  a  te.ar. 

For  still  the  shadow  Reason  cast 

That  heart,  one  single  sigh. 

Fell  o'er  the  boy,  and  cool'd  liim  still. 

The  world ! — ah,  Fanny,  Love  must  sliun 

In  vain  he  tried  his  wings  to  warm. 

The  paths  where  many  rove  ; 

Or  find  a  pathway  not  so  dim. 

One  bosom  to  recline  upon, 

For  still  the  maid's  gigantic  form 

One  heart  to  be  his  only-one, 

Would  stalk  between  tlie  sun  and  him. 

Are  quite  enough  for  Love. 

"This  must  not  be,"  said  little  Love — 

What  can  we  wish,  that  is  not  here 

"The  sun  was  made  for  more  than  you." 

Between  your  arms  and  mine  ? 

So,  turning  through  a  myrtle  grove. 

Is  there,  on  earth,  a  space  so  dear 

lie  bid  the  portly  nymph  adieu. 

As  that  within  the  liapjiy  sphere 

Two  loving  arms  entwine  ? 

Now  gayly  roves  the  laughing  boy 

O'er  many  a  mead,  by  many  a  stream  ; 

For  me,  there's  not  a  lock  of  jet 

In  every  breeze  inhaling  joy, 

Adown  your  temples  curl'd. 

And  drinking  bliss  in  every  beam. 

Within  whoso  glossy,  tangling  net, 

!\Iy  soul  doth  not,  at  once,  forget 

I'rom  all  the  gardens,  nil  the  bowers. 

All,  all  this  worlhli'ss  world. 

He  cull'd  the  many  sweets  they  shaded, 

And  ate  the  fruits  and  Hrndl'd  the  flowers, 

'Tis  in  those  eyes,  so  full  of  love, 

Till  taste  was  gone  and  odor  faded. 

My  only  worlds  I  see  ; 

Let  but  their  orbs  in  Bunsliine  move, 

Bot  now  thn  sun,  in  pomp  of  noon, 

And  earth  below  and  skies  above, 

1/Ooli'd  bbzing  o'er  the  sultry  plains; 

May  frown  or  smile  for  mo. 

JUVENILE  POEMS. 


V2i 


T 


ASPASIA. 

'TwAs  in  tlie  fait-  Aspasia's  bower, 
That  Love  aud  Learning,  many  an  iiour, 
In  dalliance  met ;  and  Learning  smiled 
With  pleasure  on  the  playful  child. 
Who  often  stole,  to  find  a  nest 
Within  the  folds  of  Learning's  vest. 

There,  as  the  list'ning  statesman  hung 
In  transport  on  Aspasi.Vs  tongue. 
The  destinies  of  Athens  took 
Their  color  from  Aspasia's  look. 
Oh  happy  time,  when  laws  of  state, 
When  all  that  ruled  the  country's  fate. 
Its  glory,  quiet,  or  alarms. 
Was  plann'd  between  two  snow-white  arms  1 

Blest  times!  they  could  not  always  last — 
And  yet,  ev'n  now,  they  are  not  past. 
Though  we  have  lost  the  giant  mould, 
In  which  their  men  were  east  of  old, 
Woman,  dear  woman,  still  the  same, 
While  beauty  breathes  through  soul  or  frame, 
While  man  possesses  heart  or  eyes. 
Woman's  bright  empire  never  dies ! 

No,  Fanny,  love,  they  ne'er  shall  say, 
That  beauty's  charm  hath  pass'd  away ; 
Give  but  the  universe  a  soul 
Attuned  to  woman's  soft  control, 
And  Fanny  hath  the  charm,  the  skill, 
To  wield  a  universe  at  will. 


GRECIAN  GIRL'S   DREAM 

OF  THE  BLESSED  ISLANDS." 
TO  HEB  LOVEE. 

Was  it  the  moon,  or  was  it  morning's  ray. 
That  call'd  thee,  dearest,  from  these  arms  away  ? 
Scarce  hadst  thou  left  me,  when  a  dream  of  night 
Came  o'er  my  spirit  so  distinct  and  bright, 
That,  while  I  yet  can  vividly  recall 
Its  witching  wonders,  thou  sh.alt  hear  them  .all. 
Methought  I  saw,  upon  the  lunar  beam, 
Two  winged  boys,  sueli  as  thy  muse  miglit  dream. 
Descending  from  .above,  at  th.at  still  hour, 
And  gliding,  with  smooth  step,  into  ray  bower. 
Fair  as  the  beauteous  spirits  that,  all  day. 
In  Araatba's  warm  founts  iniprison'd  stay," 
But  rise  at  midnight,  from  th'  enchanted  rill. 
To  cool  their  plumes  upon  some  moonlight  hill, 
vol..  II. — 16 


At  once  I  knew  their  mission ; — 'twas  to  bear 
My  spirit  upward,  through  the  paths  of  air, 
To  that  elysian  realm,  from  whence  stray  beams 
So  oft,  in  sleep,  had  visited  ray  dreams. 
Swift  at  their  touch  dissolved  the  ties,  that  clung 
All  cartlily  round  me,  and  aloft  I  sprung; 
While,  heav'nvvard  guides,  the  little  genii  flow 
Thro'  p.aths  of  light,  refresh'd  by  heaven's  own  dew, 
And  fann'd  by  airs  still  fragrant  with  the  bre.ath 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  worlds  that  know  not  death. 

Thou  know'st,  that,  far  beyond  our  nether  sky, 
And  shown  but  dimly  to  man's  erring  eye, 
A  mighty  ocean  of  blue  ether  rolls,'" 
Gemin'd  with  bright  islands,  where  the  chosen  souls, 
Who've  pass'd  in  lore  and  love  their  earthly  hours, 
Repose  for  ever  in  unfading  bowers. 
That  very  moon,  whose  solitary  light 
So  often  guides  thee  to  my  bovr'er  at  night. 
Is  no  chill  planet,  but  .an  isle  of  love, 
Floating  in  splendor  through  tliose  seas  above, 
And  peopled  with  bright  forms,  aerial  grown, 
Nor  knowing  aught  of  earth  but  love  alone. 
Thither,  I  thought,  we  wing'd  our  airy  way : — 
Mild  o'er  its  valleys  streara'd  a  silvery  day. 
While,  .ill  around,  on  lily  beds  of  rest. 
Reclined  the  spirits  of  the  immortal  Blest.'" 
Oh !  there  I  met  those  few  congenial  maids. 
Whom  love  hath  warm'd,  in  philosophic  shades  ; 
There  still  Leontium,"  on  her  sage's  breast. 
Found  lore  and  love,  was  tutor'd  and  caress'd; 
And  there  the  clasp  of  Pythia's.^''  gentle  arms 
Rep.aid  the  ze.al  which  deified  her  charms. 
The  Attic  Master,"  in  Aspasia's  eyes, 
Forgot  the  yoke  of  less  endearing  ties, 
While  fair  Theano,"  innocently  fair. 
Wreathed  playfully  her  Samian's  flowing  luair." 
Whose  soul  now  fi.\'d,  its  transmigrations  past. 
Found  in  those  arms  a  resting-place,  at  last ; 
And  smiling  own'd,  whate'er  his  dreamy  thought 
In  mystic  numbers  long  had  vainly  sought. 
The  One  that'.s  form'd  of  Two  whom  love  hath 

bound. 
Is  the  best  number  gods  or  men  e'er  found. 

But  think,  my  Theon,  with  what  joy  I  thrill'd. 
When  near  a  fount,  which  through  the  valley  rili'd, 
My  fancy's  eye  beheld  a  form  recline. 
Of  lunar  r.ace,  but  so  resembling  thine 
That,  oh  I  'twas  but  fidelity  in  me. 
To  fly,  to  clasp,  and  worship  it  for  thee. 
No  aid  of  words  the  unbodied  soul  requires. 
To  waft  a  wish  or  embassy  desires ; 
But  by  a  power,  to  spirits  only  given, 
A  deep,  mute  impulse,  only  felt  in  heaven, 


122 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Swifter  than  meteor  shaft;  through  summer  skies. 
From  soul  to  soul  the  glanced  idea  flies. 

Oh,  my  beloved,  how  divinely  sweet 
Is  the  pure  joy,  when  kindred  spirits  meet! 
Like  him,  the  river-god,"  whose  waters  flow. 
With  love  their  only  light,  through  caves  below, 
Wafting  in  triumph  all  the  flowery  braids. 
And  festal  rings,  with  which  Olympic  maids 
Have  deck"d  his  current,  as  an  offering  meet 
To  lay  at  Arethusa's  shining  feet. 
Tliink,  when  he  meets  at  last  his  fountain-bride. 
What  perfect  love  must  thrill  the  blended  tide ! 
Each  lost  in  each,  till,  mingling  into  one, 
Their  lot  the  same  for  shadow  or  for  sun, 
A  type  of  true  love,  to  the  deep  they  run. 
Twas  thus — 

But,  Theon,  'lis  an  endless  theme, 
And  thou  grow'st  weary  of  my  half-told  dream. 
Oh  would,  my  love,  we  were  together  now, 
And  I  would  woo  sweet  patience  to  thy  brow, 
And  make  thee  smile  at  all  the  magic  tales 
Of  starlight  bowers  and  planetary  vales. 
Which  my  fond  soul,  insjnred  by  thee  and  lovo. 
In  slumber's  loom  hath  fancifully  wove. 
But  no  ;  no  more — soon  as  to-morrow's  ray 
O'er  soft  missus  shall  have  died  away, 
I'll  come,  and,  while  love's  planet  in  the  west, 
Shines  o'er  our  meeting,  tell  thee  all  the  rest. 


TO  CliOE. 

DUTATED   FSOM   MAHTIAL. 

I  COULD  resign  that  eye  of  blue 
Howe'er  its  splendor  used  to  thrill  me; 

And  ev'n  that  cheek  of  roseate  hue, — 
To  lose  it,  Cloe,  scarce  would  kill  me. 

That  snowy  neck  I  ne'er  should  miss, 
However  much  I've  raved  about  it; 

And  sweetly  as  that  lip  can  kiss, 
I  think  I  could  exist  without  it. 

In  short,  so  well  I've  leam'd  to  fast, 
That,  Hooth  my  love,  I  know  not  whether 

I  might  not  bring  myself  at  lust. 
To — do  without  you  altogether. 


WREATH  AKD  THE  CHAIN. 

I  BRING  tliee,  love,  a  golden  chain, 
I  bring  thee  too  a  flowery  wreath  ; 

The  gold  shall  never  wear  a  stain. 

The  flow'rets  long  shall  sweetly  breathe. 

Come,  tell  me  which  the  tie  shall  be, 

To  bind  thy  gentle  heart  to  me. 

The  chain  is  form'd  of  golden  threads. 

Bright  as  Jlinerva's  yellow  hair, 
When  the  last  beam  of  evening  sheds 

Its  calm  and  sober  lustre  there. 
The  Wreath's  of  brightest  myrtle  wove. 

With  sun-lit  drops  of  bliss  among  it, 
And  m.any  a  rose-leaf,  cuU'd  by  Love, 

To  heal  his  lip  when  bees  have  stung  it. 
Come,  tell  me  which  the  tie  shall  be, 
To  bind  tliy  gentle  heart  to  me. 

Yes,  yes,  I  read  that  ready  eye, 

Wliicli  answers  when  the  tongue  is  loth. 
Thou  lik'st  the  form  of  either  tie, 

And  spread'st  thy  playful  hands  for  both. 
Ah  ! — if  there  were  not  something  wrong. 

The  world  would  see  them  blended  oft ; 
The  Chain  would  make  the  Wreath  so  strong 

The  Wreatli  would  make  the  Chain  so  soft  1 
Then  might  tlie  gold,  the  flow'rets  be 
Sweet  fetters  for  my  love  and  me. 

But,  Fanny,  so  unbless'd  they  twine, 

That  (Heaven  alone  can  tell  the  reason) 
When  mingled  thus  they  cease  to  shine. 

Or  shine  but  for  a  transient  season. 
Whetlicr  tlie  Chain  may  press  too  much. 

Or  that  the  Wreath  is  sliglilly  braided. 
Let  but  the  gold  the  flow'rets  touch. 

And  .all  their  bloom,  their  glow  is  faded! 
Oh  !  better  to  be  always  free, 
Than  thus  to  bind  niv  love  to  me. 


TilF,  timid  girl  now  hung  her  head. 

And,  as  she  turn'd  an  upward  glance, 
I  s.iw  a  doubt  its  twilight  spread 

Across  her  brow's  divine  expanse. 
Just  then,  the  garland's  brightest  rose 

(lave  one  of  ils  lovi'-brealhing  sighs — 
Oh  !  who  can  ask  how  Fainiy  chose. 

That  ever  look'd  in  Fanny's  eyes? 
"  The  Wrealh.  my  life,  the  Wreath  sh.all  be 
"  Tho  tic  to  bind  my  soul  lo  ince. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


123 


And  hast  thou  mark'd  the  pensive  shade, 
Tliat  many  a  time  obscures  my  brow, 

Midst  all  the  joys,  beloved  maid, 

Which  thou  canst  give,  and  only  thou? 

Oh !  'tis  not  that  I  then  forget 

The  bright  looks  that  before  me  shine  ; 

For  never  throbb'd  a  bosom  yet 
Could  feel  their  witchery,  like  mine. 

When  bashful  on  my  bosom  hid, 
And  blushing  to  have  felt  so  bless'd. 

Thou  dost  but  lift  thy  languid  lid. 
Again  to  close  it  on  my  breast ; — 

Yes, — these  are  minutes  all  thine  own. 
Thine  own  to  give,  and  mine  to  feel ; 

Yet  ev'n  in  them,  my  heart  has  known 
The  sigh  to  rise,  the  tear  to  steal. 

For  I  have  thought  of  former  hours. 
When  he  who  first  thy  soul  possess'd. 

Like  me  awaked  its  witching  powers. 
Like  me  was  loved,  lilce  me  was  blest. 

Upon  his  name  thy  murm'ring  tongue 
Perhaps  hath  all  as  sweetly  dwelt; 

Upon  his  words  thine  ear  hath  hung, 
With  transport  all  as  purely  felt. 

For  him — yet  why  the  past  recall. 
To  damp  and  wither  present  bliss? 

rhou'rt  now  my  own,  heart,  spirit,  all. 
And  Heaven  could  grant  no  more  than  this ! 

Forgive  me,  dearest,  oh!  forgive; 

I  would  be  first,  be  sole  to  thee. 
Thou  shouldst  have  but  begun  to  live, 

The  hour  that  gave  thy  heart  to  me. 

Thy  book  of  life  till  then  effaced. 

Love  should  have  kept  that  leaf  alone 

On  which  he  first  so  brightly  traced 
That  thou  wert,  soul  and  all,  my  own. 


TU 

'S  PICTURE. 


Go  then,  if  she,  whose  shade  thou  art. 
No  more  will  let  thee  soothe  my  pain ; 


Yet,  tell  her,  it  has  cost  this  heart 
Some  pangs,  to  give  thee  back  again. 

Tell  her,  the  smile  was  not  so  dear. 

With  which  she  made  thy  semblance  mine, 

As  bitter  is  the  burning  te.ar. 

With  which  I  now  the  gift  resign. 

Yet  go — and  could  she  still  restore. 
As  some  exchange  fir  taking  thee. 

The  tranquil  look  which  first  I  wore. 
When  her  eyes  found  me  calm  and  frei 

Could  she  give  back  the  careless  flow. 
The  spirit  that  my  heart  then  knew — 

Yet,  no,  'tis  vain — go,  picture,  go — 
Smile  at  me  once,  and  then — adieu ! 


FRAGMENT 

OF 

A  MYTHOLOGICAL  HYIIN  TO  LOVE." 

Blest  infant  of  eternity ! 
Before  the  day-star  learn'd  to  move. 
In  pomp  of  fire,  along  his  grand  career. 

Glancing  the  beamy  shafts  of  light 
From  his  rich  quiver  to  the  farthest  sphere. 
Thou  wert  alone,  oh  Love  I 
Nestling  beneath  the  wings  of  ancient  Night, 
Whose  horrors  seem'd  to  smile  in  shadowing  thee. 

No  form  of  beauty  soothed  thine  eye. 

As  through  the  dim  expanse  it  wander'd  wide; 

No  kindred  spirit  caught  thy  sigh, 

As  o'er  the  watery  waste  it  ling'ring  died. 

Unfelt  the  pulse,  unknown  the  power. 
That  latent  in  his  heart  was  sleeping, — 

Oh  Sympathy  !  that  lonely  hour 

Saw  Love  himself  thy  absence  weeping. 

But  look,  what  glory  through  the  darkness  beams 
Celestial  airs  along  the  water  glide  : — 
Wh.at  Spirit  art  thou,  moving  o'er  the  tide 
So  beautiful  ?  oh,  not  of  earth. 
But,  in  that  glowing  hour,  the  birth 
Of  the  young  Godhead's  own  creative  dreams. 

'Tis  she ! 
Psych-3,  the  firstborn  spirit  of  the  air. 
To  thee,  oh  Love,  she  turns, 
On  thee  her  eyebeara  burns: 
Blest  hour,  before  all  worlds  ordain'd  to  be  I 
They  meet — 


124 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


The  blooming  god — the  spirit  foir 
Meet  in  communion  sweet. 

THE  FALL  OF  HEBE. 

Now,  Sympathy,  the  hour  is  thine ; 

A   DITUYBAMBIC   ODB.^** 

All  nature  feels  the  thrill  divine, 

The  veil  of  Chaos  is  withdrawn, 

'TwAS  on  a  day 

And  their  first  kiss  is  great  Creation's  dawn  ! 

When  the  immortals  .at  their  banquet  lay ; 

The  bow! 

Sparkled  with  starry  dew, 

The  v.-eeping  of  those  piyriad  urns  of  light, 

Within  wliose  orbs,  tlie  almighty  Power, 

TO 

At  nature's  dawning  hour. 

Uia    SEEENE    HtGUN'ESS 

Stored  the  rich  fluid  of  ethere*il  soul.'' 

THE     DUKE     OF     MONTPENSIER, 

Around, 
Soft  odorous  clouds,  that  upward  wing  their  flight 

ON    UlS 

From  eastern  isles. 

POETEAIT    OF   THE    LADY    ADELAIDE    FORBES. 

(Where  they  have  batlied  them  in  ihe  orient  ray 
And  with  rich  fragrance  all  their  bosoms  fill'd,) 

Donington  Park,  1802. 

In  circles  flew,  and,  melting  as  tliey  flew. 

To  catch  the  thought,  by  painting's  spell. 

A  liquid  daybreak  o'er  the  board  distilJ'd. 

Ilowe'er  remote,  howe'er  refined, 

And  o'er  the  kindling  canvass  tell 

All,  all  was  luxury  ! 

The  silent  story  of  the  mind ; 

All  mint  be  luxury,  where  Lyoeus  smiles. 

His  locks  divine 

O'er  nature'.s  form  to  glance  the  eye. 

Were  erown'd 

And  fi.\,  by  mimic  light  and  shade. 

With  a  bright  meteor-braid. 

Her  morning  tinges,  ere  they  fly. 

Which,  like  an  ever-springing  wreath  of  vine. 

Her  evening  blushes,  ere  they  fade ; — 

Shot  into  brilliant  leafy  shapes. 

And  o'er  his  brow  in  lambent  tendrils  play'd: 

Ves,  these  arc  Painting's  proudest  powers; 

While  mid  the  foliage  hung, 

The  gift,  by  wliieli  her  art  divine 

Like  lucid  grapes. 

Above  all  others  proudly  towers, — 

A  thousand  clustering  buds  of  light. 

And  these,  oh  Prince !  .nre  riclily  thine. 

CuU'd  from  the  gardens  of  the  galaxy. 

And  yet,  when  Friendship  sees  tliec  trace, 

Upon  his  bosom  Cytheroa's  head 

In  almost  living  truth  e.xprcss'd. 

L.ay  lovely,  as  when  first  the  Syrens  sung 

This  bright  memorial  of  a  face 

Her  beauty's  dawn. 

On  which  her  eye  delights  to  rest ; 

And  all  the  curtains  of  the  deep,  undrawn, 

Reveal'd  her  sleeping  in  its  azure  bed. 

While  o'er  the  lovely  look  serene, 

The  captive  deity 

The  smile  of  peace,  the  bloom  of  youth, 

Hung  lingering  on  her  eyes  and  lip, 

The  ch(5ek,  th.at  blushes  to  be  seen, 

With  looks  of  ecstasy. 

The  eye  that  tells  the  bosom's  truth ; 

Now,  on  his  arm,                                     • 

In  blushes  she  reposed. 

While  o'er  each  line,  so  brightly  true, 

And,  while  he  gazed  on  encli  bright  charm, 

Our  eyes  with  ling'ring  pleasure  rove, 

To  shade  his  burning  eyes  her  hand  in  d.iUianee  sti,'* 

Blessing  the  touch  whoso  various  hue 

Thus  brings  to  mind  the  form  wo  love; 

.\nd  now  she  raised  her  rosy  mouth  to  sip 

The  nectfir'd  wave 

We  feel  the  magic  of  thy  nrt. 

Lya'us  gave, 

And  own  it  with  n  zest,  a  zeal, 

And  from  her  eyeliils,  half-w.ny  closed, 

A  pleasure,  nearer  to  the  heart 

Sent  forth  a  melting  gleam, 

Than  critic  tasto  can  ever  feel. 

Which  fell,  like  sun-dew,  iu  the  bowl- 

While  her  bright  hair,  in  mazy  flow 

Of  gold  descending 
Adown  her  checks  luxurioun  glow, 

JUVENILE  POEMS. 


125 


Hung  o'er  Iho  goblet'a  side, 

Purely  as  the  E.eusir.ian  veil 

And  was  reflected  in  its  crystal  tide, 

Hangs  o'er  the  Mysteries !  °* 

Like  a  bright  crocus  flower, 

The  brow  of  Juno  flush'd — 

Wliosc  sunny  leaves,  ,it  evening  hour 

Love  bless'd  the  breeze  ! 

With  roses  of  Cyrene  blending,"'' 

The  Muses  blush'd ; 

Hang  o'er  the  mirror  of  some  silvery  stream. 

And  every  clieek  was  hid  behind  a  lyre. 

While  every  eye  look'd  laughing  through  the  string* 

Tlie  01ympi:in  cup 

Shone  in  the  hands 

But  the  bright  cup  ?  the  ncctar'd  draught 

Of  dimpled  Hebe,  as  she  wing'd  her  feet 

Which  Jove  himself  was  to  have  qualV'd? 

Up 

Alas,  alas,  upturn'd  it  lay 

The  empyreal  mount, 

By  the  fall'n  Hebe's  side ; 

To  drain  the  soul-drops  at  their  stellar  fount ;' 

While,  in  slow  lingering  drops,  th'  ethereal  tide. 

And  still 

As  conscious  of  its  own  rich  essence,  ebb'd  away. 

As  the  resplendent  riU 

Gusli'd  forth  into  the  cup  with  ra.antling  heat, 

Who  was  the  Spirit  that  remember'd  Man, 

Her  watchful  care 

In  tluat  blest  hour, 

Was  still  to  cool  its  liquid  fire 

And,  with  a  wing  of  love. 

With  snow-white  sprinklings  of  that  feathery 

Brush'd  off  the  goblet's  scatter'd  tears, 

air 

As,  trembling,  near  the  edge  of  heaven  they  rap 

The  children  of  the  Pole  respire, 

And  sent  them  floating  to  our  orb  below  ?" 

In  those  enchanted  lands,"^ 

Essence  of  immortality ! 

NVhere  life  is  all  a  spring,  and  north  winds  never 

The  shower 

blow. 

Fell  glowing  through  the  spheres ; 

While  all  .around  new  tints  of  bliss, 

But  oh ! 

New  odors  and  new  light. 

Bright  Hebe,  what  a  tear. 

Enrich'd  its  radiant  flow. 

And  what  a  blush  were  thine. 

Now,  with  a  liquid  kiss. 

When,  as  the  breath  of  every  Grace 

It  stole  .along  the  thrilling  wire 

Wafted  thy  feet  along  the  studded  sphere, 

Of  Heaven's  luminous  Lyre,^' 

With  a  bright  cup  for  Jove  himself  to  drink, 

Stealing  the  soul  of  music  in  its  flight : 

Some  star,  that  shone  beneath  thy  tread. 

And  now,  .amid  the  breezes  bland, 

Raising  its  amorous  head 

That  whisper  from  the  planets  as  they  roll, 

To  kiss  those  matchless  feet, 

The  bright  libation,  softly  fann'd 

Check'd  thy  career  too  fleet ; 

By  all  their  sighs,  meandering  stole. 

And  all  heaven's  host  of  eyes 

They  who,  from  Atlas'  height. 

Entranced,  but  fearful  .all. 

Beheld  this  rosy  flame 

Saw  thee,  sweet  Hebe,  prostrate  fall 

Descending  through  the  waste  of  night. 

Upon  the  bright  floor  of  the  azure  skies ;" 

Thought  'twas  some  planet,  whose  empyreal  fiame 

Where,  mid  its  stars,  tliy  beauty  lay. 

H.ad  kindled,  .as  it  rapidly  revolved 

As  blossom,  shaken  from  the  spray 

Around  its  ferv'.d  axle,  and  dissolved 

Of  a  spring  thorn, 

•  Into  a  flood  so  bright ! 

Lies  mid  tlie  liquid  sp.arkles  of  tlie  morn. 

The  youthful  Day, 

Or,  as  in  temples  of  the  P.aphian  shade. 

Within  his  twilight  bower. 

The  worshippers  of  Beauty's  queen  behold 

Lay  sweetly  sleeping 

An  image  of  their  rosy  idol,  laid 

On  the  flush'd  bosom  of  a  lotos-flower;" 

Upon  a  diamond  shrine. 

When  round  him,  in  profusion  weeping, 

Dropp'd  the  celestial  shower. 

The  wanton  wind, 

Steeping 

Which  had  pursued  the  flying  fair, 

The  rosy  clouds,  that  curl'd 

And  sported  mid  the  tresses  unconfined 

About  his  infant  head. 

Of  her  bright  hair, 

Like  myrrh  upon  the  locks  of  Cupid  shed. 

Now,  as  she  fell, — oh  wanton  breeze! 

But,  when  the  w.aking  boy 

Ruffled  the  robe,  whose  graceful  flow 

Waved  his  exhaling  tresses  through  the  sky. 

Hung  o'er  those  limbs  of  unsunn'd  snow, 

Oh  morn  of  joy ! — 

126 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Tlie  tide  divine, 
All  glorious  with  the  vermil  dye 
It  drank  beneath  his  orient  eye, 
Dislill'd,  in  dews,  upon  the  world, 

And  every  drop  was  wine,  was  heavenly  wine  ! 
Blest  be  the  sod,  and  blest  the  flower 
On  which  descended  first  that  shower, 

All  fresh  from  Jove's  nectareous  springs; — 
Oh  far  less  sweet  the  flower,  the  sod. 
O'er  which  the  Spirit  of  the  Rainbow  flings 
The  magic  mantle  of  her  solar  God  '."" 


RINGS  AND  SEALS. 

"  Go !"  said  the  angry,  weeping  maid, 
"  The  charm  is  broken ! — once  betray'd,  • 
"  Never  can  this  wrong'd  heart  rely 
"On  word  or  look,  on  oath  or  sigh. 
"  Take  back  the  gifts,  so  fondly  given, 
"  With  promised  faith  and  vows  to  heaven  ; 
"  That  little  ring  which,  night  and  morn, 
"  With  wedded  truth  my  hand  hath  worn ; 
"  That  seal  which  oft,  in  moments  blest, 
"Thou  hast  upon  my  lip  impress'd, 
"  And  sworn  its  sacred  spring  should  be 
"  \  fountain  seal'd"  for  only  thee  : 
"Take,  t.ike  them  back,  the  gift  and  vow, 
"All  sullied,  lost,  and  hateful  now!" 

I  took  the  ring — the  seal  I  took, 
While,  oh,  her  every  tear  and  look 
Were  such  as  angels  look  and  shed. 
When  man  is  by  the  world  misled. 
Gently  I  whisper'd,  "Fanny,  dear! 
"  Not  half  thy  lover's  gifts  are  here : 
"  Say,  where  are  all  the  kisses  given, 
"  Prom  morn  to  noon,  from  noon  to  even,— 
"  Those  signets  of  true  love,  worth  more 
"  Than  Solomon's  own  seal  of  yore, — 
"  Where  are  tho.sc  gifts,  so  sweet,  so  many  ! 
"  Come,  dearest, — give  back  all,  if  any." 

While  thus  I  whisper'd,  trembling  too. 
Lest  all  the  nymph  h.id  sworn  was  true, 
I  H.aw  a  smilo  relenting   rise 
'Mid  the  moist  nzurc  of  her  eyes, 
Like  daylight  o'er  a  hci  of  blue. 
While  yet  in  mid-air  hangs  the  dew. 
She  lot  her  check  repose  on  mine, 
She  let  my  arms  nrnuiid  her  twine ; 
One  kiss  wan  half  allow'd,  and  then — 
The  ring  and  sral  were  lierH  again. 


TO 

MISS  SUSAN  BECKFORD," 

ON  BES   EISQIKO, 

I  MORE  than  once  have  heard,  at  night, 
A  song,  like  those  thy  lip  hath  given, 

And  it  was  sung  by  shapes  of  light, 

Wlio  look'd  and  breathed,  like  thee,  of  heavea 

But  this  was  .ill  a  dream  of  sleep, 

And  I  have  said,  when  morning  shone, 

"  Why  should  the  night-witch.  Fancy,  keep 
"  These  wonders  for  herself  alone  ?" 

I  knew  not  then  that  fivte  had  lent 
Such  tones  to  one  of  mortal  birth  ; 

I  knew  not  then  that  Heaven  had  sent 
A  voice,  a  form  like  thine  on  e.arth. 

And  yet,  in  all  that  flowery  maze 

Through  whicli  my  path  of  life  has  led, 

When  I  have  heard  the  sweetest  Lays 
From  lips  of  rosiest  lustre  shed ; 

When  I  have  felt  the  warbled  word 
From  Beauty's  lip,  in  sweetness  vying 

With  music's  own  melodious  bird. 
When  on  the  rose's  bosom  lying ; 

Though  form  and  song  at  once  combined 
Their  loveliest  bloom  .and  softest  thrill. 

My  heart  hath  sigli'd,  my  ear  hath  pined 
For  somclhirig  lovelier,  softer  slill: — 

Oh,  I  have  found  it  all,  at  last. 

In  thee,  thou  sweetest  living  lyre, 
Through  which  the  soul  of  song  e'er  pass'd. 

Or  feeling  breathed  its  sacred  lire. 

All  lliat  I  e'er,  in  wildest  flight 

Of  fancy's  dreams,  could  hear  or  see 

Of  music's  sigli  or  beauty's  light 
Is  realized,  at  once,  in  thee ! 


IMPROMrTU, 

ON    I.KAVINU    SOMK   FninNOH. 
O  tlulcei  coinltilin  viiloto  ch'IvibI— C'ATULl.oi. 

No,  never  slijill  my  soni  forget 

The  friends  I  found  so  cordial-he.irtod; 
Dear  shall  be  (ho  day  we  mot, 

And  dear  nhall  be  the  night  we  parted 


JtJVENILE  POEMS. 


127 


If  fond  reg^rets,  however  sweet, 

Must  with  the  lapse  of  time  decay, 

TO 

Yet  still,  when  thus  in  mirth  you  meet. 

Fill  higli  to  liiiu  that's  far  away ! 



Long  be  the  light  of  memory  found 

'Tis  time,  I  feel,  to  leave  thee  now. 

Alive  within  your  social  glass; 

While  yet  ray  soul  is  something  free ; 

Let  that  be  still  the  magic  round, 

While  yet  those  dangerous  eyes  allow 

O'er  which  Oblivion  dares  not  pass. 

One  minute's  thought  to  stray  from  thee. 

Oh  !  thou  becom'st  each  moment  dearer; 
Every  chance  that  brings  me  nigh  tliee, 

• 

Brings  my  ruin  nearer,  nearer, — 

A  WARNING. 

I  am  lost,  unless  I  fly  thee. 

Nay,  if  thou  dost  not  scorn  and  hate  me, 

TO 

Doom  me  not  thus  so  soon  to  fall ; 

Duties,  fame,  and  hopes  await  me, — 

But  that  eye  would  bliist  them  all  ! 

Oh  fair  as  heaven  and  cliaste  as  light ! 

Did  nature  mould  thee  all  so  bright, 

For,  thou  hast  heart  as  false  and  cold 

That  tliou  shouldst  e'er  be  brought  to  weep 

As  ever  yet  allured  or  sway'd. 

O'er  languid  virtue's  fatal  sleep. 

And  ci  uldst,  without  a  sigh,  behold 

O'er  shame  extinguish'd,  honor  fled, 

The  ruin  which  thyself  had  made. 

Peace  lost,  heart  wilher'd,  feeling  dead  ? 

Yet, — could  I  think  that,  truly  fond. 

No,  no !  a  star  was  born  with  thee, 

That  eye  but  once  would  smile  on  me, 

Whicli  sheds  eternal  purity. 

Ev'ii  as  thou  art,  how  far  beyond 

Thou  hast,*-ithin  those  sainted  eyes. 

Fame,  duty,  wealth,  that  smile  would  be! 

So  fair  a  transcript  of  the  skies, 

In  lines  of  light  such  heavenly  lore, 

Oh !  but  to  win  it,  night  and  day. 

That  man  should  read  them  and  adore. 

Inglorious  .at  thy  feet  reclined. 

Yet  have  I  known  a  gentle  maid 

I'd  sigh  my  dreams  of  fame  awiiy. 

Whose  mind  and  form  were  both  array'd 

The  world  for  thee  forgot,  resign'd. 

In  nature's  purest  light,  like  thine ; — 

Who  wore  that  clear,  celestial  sign. 

But  no,  'tis  o'er,  and — thus  we  part, 

Which  seems  to  mark  the  brow  that's  fair 

Never  to  meet  again — no,  never. 

For  destiny's  peculiar  care  : 

False  woman,  what  a  mind  and  heart 

Whose  bosom  too,  like  Dian's  own. 

Thy  treach'ry  has  undone  for  ever! 

W.as  guarded  by  a  sacred  zone. 

Where  the  bright  gem  of  virtue  shone ; 
Whose  eyes  had,  in  their  light,  a  charm 

Against  all  wrong,  and  guile,  and  harm. 

WOMAN. 

These  spells  have  lost  their  guardian  power ; 

The  gem  has  been  beguiled  away ; 

Her  eyes  have  lost  their  chast'ning  ray ; 

AwAT,  away — you're  all  the  same. 

The  modest  pride,  the  guiltless  shame. 

A  smiling,  flutt'ring,  jilting  throng; 

The  smiles  that  from  reflection  came. 

And,  wise  too  late,  I  burn  with  shame.; 

All,  all  have  fled,  and  left  her  mind 

To  think  I've  been  your  sl.ave  so  long. 

A  faded  monument  behind ; 

The  ruins  of  a  once  pure  shrine, 

Slow  to  be  won,  .and  quick  to  rove. 

No  longer  fit  for  guest  divine. 

From  folly  kind,  from  cunning  loth, 

Oil !  'twas  a  sight  I  wept  to  sec — 

Too  cold  for  bliss,  too  weak  for  love, 

Heaven  keep  the  lost  one's  fato  from  thee ! 

Yet  feigning  all  tlmt's  best  in  both ; 

128 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Still  panting  o'er  a  crowd  to  reign, — 
More  joy  it  gives  to  woman's  breast 

To  make  ten  frigid  coxcombs  vain, 
Tlian  one  true,  manly  lover  blest. 

Away,  away — your  smile's  a  curse — 
Oh  !  blot  nie  from  the  race  of  men. 

Kind  pitying  Heaven,  by  death  or  worse, 
If  e'er  I  love  such  things  again. 


Come,  take  thy  harp — 'tis  vain  to  muse 
Upon  the  gathering  ills  we  see ; 

Oh !  take  thy  harp  and  let  me  lose 
All  thoughts  of  ill  in  hearing  thee. 

Sing  to  me,  love! — tliough  death  were  near, 
Thy  song  could  make  my  soul  forget — 

Nay,  nay,  in  pity,  dry  that  tear, 
All  may  be  well,  be  happy  yet. 

Let  me  but  see  that  snowy  arm 
Once  more  upon  the  dear  harp  lie. 

And  I  will  cease  to  dream  of  harm. 
Will  smile  at  fate,  while  thou  art  nigh. 

Give  me  that  strain  of  mournful  touch, 
We  used  to  love  long,  long  ago. 

Before  our  hearts  had  known  as  much 
As  now,  alasl  they  bleed  to  know. 

Sweet  notes !  they  tell  of  former  peace, 
Of  all  that  look'd  so  smiling  then, 

Now  vanisli'd,  lost — oh  pray  thee,  cease, 
I  cannot  bear  those  sounds  .again. 

Art  Ihffit,  too,  wretched?  yes,  thou  art; 

I  see  thy  tears  (low  fast  with  mine — 
Come,  corae  to  this  devoted  heart, 

'Tis  breaking,  but  it  still  is  thine ! 


A  VISION   01"   I'llILOSOPIIY. 

TwAs  on  the  Red  Sea  co.i.st,  at  morn,  we  nicl 
Tho  venerable  man  ;"  n  healthy  bloom 
Mingled  Its  Hoflness  with  the  vigorous  thought 
Thii*  tower'd  upon  his  brow ;  and,  when  he  spoke. 


'Twas  language  sweetcn'd  into  song — such  holy 

sounds 
As  oft,  they  sav,  the  wise  and  virtuous  hear, 
Prelusive  to  the  harmony  of  he.aven, 
AVhen  death  is  nigh;'"  and  still,  .13  he  unclosed 
His  sacred  lips,  an  odor,  .ill  as  bl.-ind 
As  ocean-breezes  g.ither  from  the  flowers 
Thiit  blossom  in  elysium,  breathed  around. 
With  silent  .iwe  we  listen'd,  while  he  told 
Of  the  dark  veil  which  many  an  age  had  hung 
O'er  N.ature's  form,  till,  long  explored  by  man, 
The  mystic  shroud  grew  thin  and  luminous, 
And  glimpses  of  that  heavenly  form  shone  thro'  :— 
Of  magic  wonders,  tliat  were  known  and  taught 
By  him  (or  Cham  or  Zoroaster  named) 
Who  mused  amid  the  mighty  cataclysm, 
O'er  his  rude  t.ablets  of  primeval  lore ;" 
And  gathering  round  him,  in  the  sacred  ark, 
The  mighty  secrets  of  that  former  globe. 
Let  not  tho  living  st.ar  of  science'*  sink 
Bene.ath  the  w.atcrs,  which  ingulf 'd  a  world! — 
Of  visions,  by  Calliope  reveal'd 
To  him,"  who  traced  upon  his  typic  lyre 
Tlie  diapason  of  man's  mingled  frame. 
And  the  grand  Doric  heptachord  of  heaven. 
With  all  of  pure,  of  wondrous  and  arcane, 
Which  the  grave  sons  of  IMochus,  many  a  night, 
Told  to  the  young  and  bright-hair'd  visitant 
Of  Carmel's  sacred  mount.'"— Theil^  in  a  (low 
Of  calmer  converse,  he  beguiled  us  on 
Through  m.any  a  maze  of  Garden  and  of  Porch, 
Through  many  a  system,  where  the  scattcr'd  light 
Of  heavenly  truth  lay,  like  a  broken  beam 
From  the  pure  sun,  which,  though  refracted  all 
Into  a  thousand  hues,  is  sunshine  still," 
And  bright  through   every  change ! — ho  spoko  o( 

Him, 
The  lone,  etcrn.il  One,  who  dwells  above. 
And  of  the  soul's  untraceable  descent 
From  Ihiit  high  fount  of  spirit,  through  the  grades 
Of  inlelU'Ctual  being,  till  it  mix 
With  atoms  vague,  corrnplihle,  and  dark  ; 
Nor  yet  even  then,  though  sunk  in  earthly  dross, 
Corrupted  all,  nor  its  ethereal  touch 
Quite  lost,  but  t.asting  of  tlie  fountain  still. 
As  some  bright  river,  which  has  roU'd  along 
Through  meads  nfllowery  light  and  mines  of  gold. 
When  pour'il  at  h'nglh  into  the  dusky  deep, 
Disdains  to  take  at  once  ils  I)riny  taint. 
But  keeps  unchanged  awhile  tho  lustrous  tinge, 
Or  balmy  freslinc».s,  of  llio  scenes  it  left." 

And  here  the  ol<l  man  ci'asod — a  winged  train 
Of  nvniphs  .'iiid  genii  bore  him  from  our  eyes. 
Tiio  fair  illusion  fled!  and,  ns  I  waked, 


JIJVENILF  POEMS. 


129 


Twas  (Icnr  that  my  rapt  soul  had  roain'd  tho  while, 
To  that  bri^rht  realm  ol' dreams,  that  spirit-world, 
Which  morlals  know  by  iU  long  track  of  light 
O'er  midnight's  sk^,  and  call  the  Galaxy." 


MRS. 


To  see  thee  every  day  that  came, 
To  find  thee  atill  each  day  the  same ; 
In  pleasure's  smile,  or  sorrow's  tear 
To  me  still  ever  kind  and  dear; — 
To  meet  thee  early,  leave  thee  late, 
Has  been  so  long  my  bliss,  my  fate, 
That  life,  without  this  cheering  ray, 
Which  came,  like  sunshine,  every  day. 
And  all  my  pain,  ray  sorrow  chased, 
Is  now  a  lone  and  loveless  waste. 

Where  .are  the  chords  she  used  to  touch? 
The  airs,  the  songs  she  loved  so  much  ? 
Those  songs  are  husli'd,  those  chords  are  still. 
And  so,  perhaps,  will  every  thrill 
Of  feeling  soon  be  luli'd  to  rest, 
Which  late  I  waked  in  Anna's  breast, 
let,  no — the  simple  notes  I  play'd 
From  memory's  tablet  soon  may  fade; 
Tho  songs,  which  Anna  loved  to  hear. 
May  vanish  from  her  heart  and  ear ; 
But  friendship's  voice  shall  ever  find 
An  echo  in  that  gentle  mind. 
Nor  memory  lose  nor  time  impair 
The  sympathies  that  tremble  there. 


TO 

LADY   HEATHCOTE, 

ON  AH 

OLD  RING   FOUND  AT  TUNBRIDGE-WELLS. 

"  Tunuebridge  est  a  la  m^me  distnnco  de  Londres,  quo  Fon- 
Ininebleau  I'est  de  Paris.  Ce  qu'il  y  a  de  beau  et  de  galant  dans 
I'uii  ct  dans  I'autre  sexe  s'y  rassemble  au  terns  des  eaux.  La 
compagnie,"  &c.  &c. 

See  Memoires  dc  Orammont,  Second  Part,  chap.  iii. 

Tunbridge-Wells. 
When  Grammont  graced  these  happy  springs. 

And  Tunbridge  saw,  upon  her  Pantiles, 
The  merriest  wight  of  all  the  kings 

That  ever  ruled  these  gay,  gallant  isles ; 
VOL  u. — 17 


Like  us,  by  day,  they  rode,  ihey  walk'd. 

At  eve,  they  di<l  as  we  may  do, 
And  Grammont  just  like  Spencer  talk'd, 

And  lovely  Stewart  smiled  like  you. 

The  only  difTercnt  trait  is  this. 

That  woman  then,  if  man  beset  her, 

W.aa  rather  given  to  saying  "  yes," 
Because, — as  yet,  she  knew  no  better. 

Each  night  they  held  a  coterie, 

Where,  every  fear  to  .slumber  charm'd. 

Lovers  were  all  they  ought  to  be, 
And  husbands  not  tho  least  alarm'd. 

Then  call'd  they  np  their  school-day  pranks. 
Nor  thought  it  much  their  sense  beneath 

To  play  at  riddles,  quips,  and  cranks, 
And  lords  show'd  wit,  and  l.idies  teeth. 

As — "Why  are  husbands  like  the  mint?" 
Because,  forsooth,  a  husband's  duty 

Is  but  to  set  the  name  .and  print 
Tliat  give  a  currency  to  beauty. 

"  Why  is  a  rose  in  nettles  Iiid 

"  Like  a  young  \\adow,  fresh  and  fair  V 
Because  'tis  sighing  to  be  rid 

Of  zveeds,  that  "  have  no  business  there !" 

And  thus  they  miss'd  and  thus  they  hit. 

And  now  they  struck  and  now  they  parried! 

And  some  lay  in  of  full  grown  wit. 
While  others  of  a  pun  miscarried. 

'Twas  one  of  those  facetious  nights 
That  Grammont  gave  this  forfeit  ring 

For  breaking  grave  conundrum-rites. 
Or  punning  ill,  or — some  such  thing: — 

From  whence  it  can  be  fairly  traced. 

Through  many  a  branch  .and  many  a  bough, 

From  twig  to  twig,  until  it  graced 
The  snowy  hand  that  wears  it  now. 

All  this  I'll  prove,  and  then,  to  you. 

Oh  Tunbridge !  and  your  springs  ironical, 

I  swear  by  Heathcote's  eye  of  blue 
To  dedicate  the  important  chronicle. 

Long  m.ay  your  ancient  inmates  give 
Their  mantles  to  your  modern  lodgers, 

And  Charles's  loves  in  Heathcote  live. 
And  Charles's  bards  revive  in  Rogers. 


130 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Let  no  pednntic  fools  be  there ; 

For  ever  be  those  fops  abolish'd, 
With  heads  as  wooden  as  thy  ware, 

And,  Heaven  knows !  not  half  so  polish'd. 

But  still  receive  the  j-oung,  the  gay, 
The  few  who  know  the  rare  delight 

Of  reading  Grammont  every  day, 
And  acting  Graminont  every  night. 


THE   DEVIL   AMONG   THE   SCHOLARS. 

A    FEAGMENT. 

*  *  * 

But,  whither  have  these  gentle  ones, 
These  rosy  nymphs  and  black-eyed  nuns, 
Willi  all  of  Cupid's  wild  romancing. 
Led  my  truant  brains  a  dancing? 
Instead  of  studying  tomes  seliolasfic. 
Ecclesiastic,  or  monastic, 
Off  I  fly,  careering  far 
In  chase  of  Pollys,  prettier  far 
Than  any  of  their  namesakes  are, — 
The  Polymaths  and  Polyhistors, 
Polyglots  and  all  their  sisters. 
So  have  I  known  a  hopeful  youth 
Sit  down  in  quest  of  lore  and  truth. 
With  tomes  sufficient  to  confound  him, 
Like  Tohu  Bohu,  lieap'd  around  him, — 
Mamurra'"  stuck  to  Theophrastus, 
And  Galen  tumbling  o'er  Ijombastus." 
When  lo !  while  all  that's  Icarn'd  and  wise 
Ab-torbs  the  boy,  he  lifts  his  eyes, 
And  through  the  window  of  his  study 
Beholds  some  damsel  fair  and  ruddy. 
With  eyes,  as  brightly  turn'd  upon  him  as 
The  angel's"  were  on  Ilieronymus. 
Quick  fly  the  folios,  widely  scattcr'd. 
Old  Homer's  laurell'd  brow  is  batter'd, 
And  Sappho,  headlong  sent,  flies  just  in 
The  reverend  eye  of  St.  Augustin. 
Raptured  he  quits  each  dozing  sage. 
Oh  woman,  for  thy  lovelier  page : 
Sweet  book  I — unlike  the  books  of  art, — 
Whose  errors  arc  thy  fairest  purl; 
In  whom  the  dear  errata  column 
Is  the  best  pngo  in  nil  tlio  volume!" 

But  to  begin  my  Rubjcct  rliymc — 
Twas  jimt  aliout  this  devilish  lime, 
When  scarce  there  happen'd  any  frolics 
riiat  were  not  done  by  Dinbolics, 


A  cold  and  loveless  son  of  Lucifer, 

Who  woman   seorn'd,   nor   saw   the   v  ee   o( 

her, 
A  branch  of  Dagon's  family, 
(Which  Dagon,  whether  He  or  She, 
Is  a  dispute  that  vastly  better  is 
Referr'd  to  Scaliger'*  et  cccteris,) 
Finding  that,  in  this  cage  of  fools. 
The  wisest  sots  adorn  the  schools. 
Took  it  at  once  his  head  Satanic  in. 
To  grow  a  great  scholastic  manikin, — 
A  doctor,  quite  as  learn'd  and  fine  as 
Scotus  John  or  Tom  Aquinas," 
Lully,  Hales  Irrcfragabilis, 
Or  any  doctor  of  the  rabble  is. 
In  languages,""  the  Polyglots, 
Compared  to  him,  were  Babel  sots; 
He  chatter'd  more  than  ever  Jew  did, 
Sanhedrim  and  Priest  included ; — 
Priest  and  holy  Sanhedrim 
Were  one-aiid-seventy  fools  to  liim. 
But  chief  the  learned  demon  felt  a 
Zeal  so  strong  for  gamma,  delta, 
That,  all  for  Greek  and  learning's  glory," 
He  nightly  tippled  "  Gra;co  more," 
And  never  paid  a  bill  or  balance 
Except  upon  the  Grecian  Kalends: — 
From  whence  your  scholars,  when  they  \v.i;! 

tick. 
Say,  to  bo  >Ulic's  to  be  on  tick. 

In  logics  he  was  quite  Ho  Panu;" 
Knew  as  much  as  ever  man  knew. 
He  fought  the  combat  syllogistic 
With  so  much  skill  and  art  eristic. 
That  though  you  were  the  learn'd  Stagirit*i, 
At  once  upon  the  hip  he  had  you  right. 
In  music,  though  he  had  no  ears 
Expect  for  that  among  the  spheres, 
(Which  most  of  all,  as  he  nverr'd  it, 
He  dearly  loved,  'cause  no  one  heard  it,) 
Yet  aplly  he,  .at  sight,  could  read 
Each  tuneful  diagram  in  Bede, 
And  find,  by  ICuclid's  corollaria, 
The  ratios  of  a  jig  or  aria. 
But,  as  for  all  your  warbling  Delias, 
Orphcuscs  and  Saint  Cecilias, 
He  own'd  he  thought  them  much  surpass'd 
By  that  redoubled  liyaloclasl" 
Who  still  contrived  by  dint  of  throttle, 
Where'er  he  went  to  crack  u  bottle. 

Likewise   to  nhow  his  tnighly  knovlcdgo, 

lie. 
On  things  unknown  in  physiology, 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


131 


Wrote  many  a  chapter  to  divert  us, 
(Like  tliat  great  little  man  Albertus,) 
Wherein  he  show'd  the  reason  why, 
When  children  first  are  heard  to  cry, 
If  boy  the  baby  chance  to  be, 
He  cries  O  A  !— if  girl,  O  E  !— 
Which  are,  quoth  he,  exceeding  fair  hints 
Respecting  their  first  sinful  parents; 
"Oh  Eve!"  exclaimetli  little  madam, 
Wliile  little  master  cries,  "Oh  Adam!""" 

But  'twas  in  Optics  and  Dioptrics, 
Our  demon  play'd  his  first  and  top  tricks. 
He  held  that  sunshine  passes  quicker 
Through  wine  than  any  other  liquor ; 
And  though  he  s.aw  no  great  objection 
To  steady  light  and  clear  reHcetion 
He  thought  the  aberrating  rays. 
Which  play  about  a  bumper's  blaze, 
Were  by  the  doctors  look'd,  in  common,  on. 
As  a  more  rare  and  rich  phenomenon. 
He  wisely  said  that  the  sensorium 
Is  for  the  eyes  a  great  emporium. 
To  which  these  noted  picture-stealers 
Send  all  they  can  and  meet  with  dealers. 
In  many  an  optical  proceeding 
The  brain,  he  said,  show'd  great  good-breeding : 
For  instance,  when  we  ogle  women, 
(A  trick  which  Barbara  tutor'd  him  in,) 
Although  the  dears  are  apt  to  get  in  a 
Strange  position  on  the  retina 


Yet  instantly  the  modest  brain 
Doth  set  them  on  their  legs  again !" 

Our  doctor  thus,  with  "  stufTd  sufficiency" 
Of  all  omnigenous  oinniscioncy. 
Began  (as  who  would  not  begin 
That  had,  like  him,  so  much  within?) 
To  let  it  out  in  books  of  .all  sorts. 
Folios,  quartos,  large  and  small  sorts ; 
Poems,  so  verv  deep  .and  sensible 
Th.at  they  were  quite  incomprehensible ;" 
Prose,  which  Iiad  been  at  learning's  Fair, 
And  bought  up  all  the  trumpery  there. 
The  tatter'd  rags  of  every  vest, 
In  which  the  Greeks  and  Romans  dress'd, 
And  o'er  her  figure  swoll'n  and  antic 
Scattcr'd  them  all  with  airs  so  frantic, 
That  those,  who  saw  what  fits  she  had, 
Declared  unhappy  Prose  w.as  mad ! 
Epics  he  wrote  and  scores  of  rebussea. 
All  as  neat  as  old  Turnebus's ; 
Eggs  and  altars,  cyclopaidi.as, 
Gramm.ars,  pr.ayer-books — oh!  'twere  todicns, 
Did  I  but  tell  the  h.alf,  to  follow  me: 
Not  the  scribbling  bard  of  Ptolemy, 
No — nor  the  hoary  Tiismegistus, 
(Whose  writings  .all,  thank  heaven!  have  miss'd 

us,) 
E'er  fill'd  with  lumber  such  a  wareroom 
As  this  great  "  porcus  literarum  !" 
*       »       *       * 


182 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


NOTES. 


(1)  A  portion  of  these  Poems  were  published  originally  as 
^he  works  of  '*  the  late  Thomas  Little,"  with  the  Preface  here 
given  prefixed  to  them. 

(2>  Lib.  i.  Eleg.  3. 

(3)  In  the  following  Poems,  will  be  found  a  translation  of 
one  of  his  finest  Carmiua;  but  I  fimcy  it  is  only  a  mere  school- 
boy*3  essay,  and  deserves  to  be  praised  for  little  more  than  the 
attempt. 

(4)  Lucretius. 

(5)  It  is  a  curious  illustration  of  the  labor  which  simplicity 
requires,  that  the  Ramblers  of  Johnson,  elaborate  as  they 
appear,  were  written  with  fluency,  and  seldom  required  re- 
vision; while  the  simple  language  of  Rousseau,  which  seems 
to  come  flowing  from  the  heart,  was  the  slow  production  of 
painful  labor,  pausing  on  every  word,  and  balancing  every 
•entencc. 

(6)  This  nlludt's  to  a  curious  gem,  upon  which  Claudian  has 
left  us  some  very  t-laborate  epignuns.  It  was  a  drop  of  pure 
water  enclosed  within  a  piece  of  crystal.  See  Claudian.  Epi- 
gram,'"de  Crystallo  cui  aqua  inerat."  Addison  mentions  a 
curiosity  of  this  kind  at  Milan  ;  imd  adds,  "  It  is  such  u  rarity 
as  this  that  I  saw  at  Vend6mo  in  France,  which  thoy  there 
pretend  is  a  tear  that  our  Saviour  shed  over  Lazarus,  and  was 
gathered  up  by  an  angel,  who  put  it  into  a  little  crystal  vial, 
and  made  a  present  of  it  to  Mary  Magdalen."— .^tW won** 
Remarks  on  aecrrai  Parts  of  Italy. 

(7)  The  laurel,  for  the  common  uses  of  the  temple,  for  adorn- 
ing the  altars  and  sweeping  the  pavement,  was  supplied  by  a 
tree  near  the  fountain  of  Castnlia;  but  upon  all  important 
occoaluns,  they  sent  to  Tt-mpe  for  their  laurel.  We  find,  in 
Pausanias,  that  this  valley  supplied  the  branches,  of  which  the 
temple  was  origiiuiUy  conslnicled ;  and  Plutarch  says,  in  his 
Dialogue  on  Music,  '-The  youth  who  brings  the  Tempic  laurel 
to  Delphi  ia  always  nltendud  by  a  phiyer  on  the  flute." 

(8)  It  does  not  appear  to  bavo  been  very  difTtcuIt  to  becomo 
a  philosopher  among  Iho  ancients.  A  moderate  store  of  learn- 
ing, wiih  a  considerable  portion  of  confidence,  and  Just  wit 
enough  lo  produce  an  occasional  apophthegm,  seem  to  have 
been  idl  the  quntidcatlons  necessary  Cur  the  purjiose.  The 
principles  of  moral  science  were  so  very  Imperfectly  under- 
alood,  that  the  founder  of  n  new  sect.  In  forming  his  ethical 
co<lc,  might  consult  either  fancy  or  temperament,  and  adapt  It 
lo  his  own  passions  and  propensities;  no  that  Midiomet,  with 
a  lltUe  more  learning,  might  have  flourished  ns  a  philosopher 
In  Ihoso  days,  and  would  hnvu  required  but  the  poliith  of  the 
■chooU  to  become  the  rival  of  Arlstippus  In  morality.  In  thu 
Klencc  rif  nnture.  tor),  though  soin<i  vidnnble  truths  were  dis- 
coven-d  by  them,  ttiey  m^emed  hardly  lo  know  they  were 
tntlli*.  or  al  lenAt  were  as  well  sallslled  willi  errors;  and 
Xonopban"*,  who  aiwrrled  that  the  Bdirs  were  Igneous  clouds, 
llffhlrd  up  every  night  and  extinguished  again  In  the  morning, 
waa  thought  and  Hlyled  a  philosopher,  as  generally  ns  he  who 
•nllclpntrd  Newton  hi  developing  the  arrangement  of  thu 
aalTftrec. 


For  this  opinion  of  Xenophnnes,  see  Phitai-ch.  de  Placil. 
Philosoph.,  lib.  ii.  cap.  13.  It  is  impossible  to  read  this  treatian 
of  Plutarch,  without  alternately  admiring  the  genius,  and 
smiling  at  the  absurdities  of  the  philosophers. 

(9)  The  ancients  had  their  hiccrna?  cubicularia*,  or  bed- 
chamber lamps,  which,  ns  the  emperor  Galicnus  said,  '*  nil  eras 
meminere."  We  may  judge  how  fanciful  they  were,  in  the  use 
and  embeUishment  of  their  lamps,  from  the  famous  symbolic 
Lucerna  which  we  find  in  the  Romanum  Museum  Mich.  Ang. 
Causei,  p.  1-7. 

(10)  Hosiod,  who  tells  us  in  melancholy  terms  of  his  father*9 
flight  to  the  wretched  village  of  Ascra, 

(11)  Aristippus  considered  motion  as  tho  principle  of  happi- 
ness, in  which  idea  he  differed  from  the  Epiciu-eans,  who 
looked  to  a  state  of  repose  as  the  only  truo  voluptuousness, 
and  avoided  even  the  too  lively  agitations  of  pleasure,  as  a 
violent  and  ungraceful  derangement  of  the  senses. 

(12)  Mauportuis  has  been  atill  more  explicit  than  this  philoso- 
pher, in  ranking  the  pleasures  of  sense  above  tho  sublimest 
pursuits  of  wisdom.  Speaking  of  the  infant  man  in  his  pro- 
duction, he  calU  him,  "mio  nouvelle  creature,  qui  pourra 
comprendro  les  choses  les  plus  sublimes,  ct  co  qui  est  blen 
au-dessu9,  qui  pourra  gofiter  les  m'"'mea  phiisira."  See  his 
Venus  Physique.  This  appears  to  be  ono  of  the  efforts  at 
Fonlenelle's  gallantry  of  manner,  for  which  tho  learned  Presi- 
dent is  so  well  and  justly  ridiculed  in  the  Akakia  of  N'oltaire. 

(13)  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that  my  friend  had  any  serious 
Intentions  of  frightening  tho  nursery  by  this  story:  I  rather 
Iwipe— though  the  manner  of  it  leads  mo  lo  doubt— that  his 
design  was  to  ridicule  that  distempered  taste  which  prefers 
those  monsters  of  the  fimcy  to  tho  "speciosa  miraculn"  of  true 
poetic  imagination. 

I  find,  by  a  note  in  the  manuscript,  thiit  he  met  with  this 
story  in  a  German  author,  Fromman  upon  Fasciiiatiou,  book 
iii.  part  vi.  ch.  18.  On  consulting  tho  work,  I  perceive  that 
Fromman  quotes  it  from  Hehmcensis,  among  miiiiy  other 
stories  equally  diabolical  and  Interesting. 

(II)  In  the  "  llistoire  Nalurollo  dcs  Antilles,"  there  is  an  ac- 
count of  some  curious  shells,  found  at  Curacoa,  on  the  back 
of  which  were  lines,  lilled  with  musical  clniriicltTS  so  dis- 
tinct and  perfect,  thai  the  writer  assurer  us  a  very  charming 
trio  was  sung  from  one  of  them.  "On  lo  nommo  musical, 
parccqu'il  porte  sur  le  don  des  llgnea  nolnUres  pleines  do 
notes,  qtii  ont  unc  rspeco  do  cli>  pour  les  nndtro  en  chant, 
do  Borlo  quo  Ton  dirail  qu'll  no  mauque  que  la  lellre  rt  crlt« 
tnhlaturo  naliirelle.  Ce  curlenx  geutilliomme  (M.  du  Monlel) 
rnpportf  qu'il  en  a  vii  qui  avaienl  eluq  ligm-H,  une  cl(>,  et  den 
notes,  (pil  fermnient  uti  accord  parfall.  Ciuehpi'ttn  y  avail 
ajoutf  hi  letlre,  i|uo  la  ualun-  avail  oiiblii'e.  pt  la  fulsalt  chan- 
ter en  foriiie  de  trio,  dont  I'atr  itnll  (ort  agreiible."— ('Imp.  xIk. 
art.  II.  The  author  adds,  a  pr>et  might  tmnglno  thai  thetti 
•hulls  weru  used  by  the  syrens  at  their  concuilM. 

(15)  According  to  Cicero,  and  his  commentator,  Macroblui, 
tho  lunar  lonu  Is  tho  gravest  and  fulntent  on  tho  pliinetirT 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


133 


hoptucliori.  "Qunm  ob  crinsfim  summus  ille  cuili  stellifer  cur- 
Biis.  riijiis  conversio  est  coiicilatior,  ucnto  et  cxcitnto  movetur 
Bono  ;  gi-Jivisfliino  autoin  hie  hinuris  ut'iuu  iiifirniifl." — Somn. 
Scip,  ISocauae,  says  Macrobius,  "spiritu  iit  in  extrcrnitati!  Inii- 
piu'scentc  jam  volvitiir,  et  propter  an^'iiHlias  (luibus  poniiltiinus 
orbia  iiiclalur  impi'tu  leniore  coiiverlitur." — In  Samn,  Scip.^ 
lib.  ii.  cap.  4.  In  Iht'ir  musical  arran^cmodt  of  tbo  heavenly 
bodies,  the  ancient  writt^rs  are  not  very  intcllijiible.— Sec 
Ftnleni,,  lib.  iii. 

Leone  Ilcbreo,  in  pursuing  the  uloa  of  Aristotle,  that  the 
heavens  are  animal,  attributes  their  harmony  to  perfect  and 
reciprocal  love.  "  Nim  pero  manca  fra  loro  il  perfetto  et 
rccii)roeo  atnore:  la  causa  principale,  clus  nn  mostra  il  loro 
anioro,  e  la  lor  amicilia  armonica  et  la  coucordanza,  che  per- 
petimmente  si  trova  in  loro." — Dialog,  ii.  cli  Amore,  p.  .18.  This 
"recipruco  amore"  of  Leone  is  llie  Philotes  of  the  ancient 
Ernpedocles,  who  seems,  in  his  Love  and  Hate  of  the  Elements, 
to  have  given  a  glimpse  of  the  principles  of  attraction  and 
repulsion. 

(IG)  Leucippus.  the  atoraist,  imagined  a  kind  of  vortices  in 
the  heavens,  which  he  borrowed  from  Anaxagoras,  and  possi- 
bly su'^gested  to  Descartes. 

(17)  Heraclides,  upon  the  allegories  of  Homer,  conjectures 
that  the  idea  of  llie  harmony  of  the  spheres  originated  with  this 
pnel,  who.  in  representing  the  solar  beams  as  arrows,  supposes 
them  tu  emit  a  peculiar  sound  iu  the  air. 

( 18 1  In  the  account  of  Africa  which  D'Ablancourt  has  trans- 
lated, there  is  mention  of  a  tree  in  that  country,  whose 
branches  when  shaken  by  the  hand  produce  very  sweet 
Boimds.  "  Le  meme  auleur  (Abenzegiir)  dit.  qu'il  y  a  un 
certain  arbre,  qui  produit  des  gaules  comme  d'osicr,  et  qu'en 
les  prenant  a  la  main  et  les  branlant,  clles  font  une  espece 
d'harmonie  fort  agr^able,"  &c.  &:c. — L\^friquc  dc  jVarmol. 

(IU)  Alluding  to  the  extinction,  or  at  least  the  disappearance, 
of  some  of  those  fixed  stars,  which  we  are  taught  to  consider 
as  suns,  attended  each  by  its  system.  Descartes  thought  that 
our  earth  might  furmerly  have  beon  a  sun,  which  became  ob- 
scured by  a  thick  incrustation  over  its  sui'face.  This  probably 
suggested  the  idea  of  a  central  fire. 

(•20)  Porphyry  says,  that  Pythagoras  held  the  sea  to  be  a  tear, 
fDe  Vita  ;)  and  some  one  else,  if  I  mistake  not,  has  added  the 
planet  Saturn  as  the  source  of  it.  Empedocles,  with  similar 
affectation,  called  the  sea  "^  the  sweat  of  the  earth." — See  Rit- 
icrshiisius  upon  Porphyry^  Num.  4L 

(21)  The  system  of  the  harmonized  orbs  was  styled  by  the 
ancients  the  Great  Lyre  of  Orpheus. 

(2*2)  "Distributing  the  souls  severally  among  the  stars,  and 
mounting  each  soul  upon  a  star  as  on  its  chariot."— F/n^o, 
Timaus. 

(•23)  This  musical  river  is  mentioned  in  the  romance  of 
Achilles  Tatius.  The  Latin  version,  in  supplying  the  hiatus 
which  is  in  the  original,  has  placed  the  river  iu  Hispanisi,  "  In 
Hispania  quoque  (luvius  est,  ([uem  prlmo  aspectu,"  &c.  &c. 

(54)  These  two  lines  are  translated  from  the  words  of  Achil- 
les Tatius. 

(25)  Orpheus. 

/2C)  See  a  curious  work  by  a  professor  of  Greek  at  Venice, 
entitled  *'  Hebdomadcs,  eive  septem  de  septenario  libri." — Lib. 
;v.  cap.  3,  p.  177. 

(27)  Eratosthenes,  in  mentioning  the  extreme  veneration  of 


Orpheus  for  Apollo,  says  that  he  was  accustomed  to  go  to  tha 
Panga'an  mountain  at  daybreak,  and  there  wait  the  rising  of 
the  sun,  that  he  might  be  the  first  to  hail  its  beams. 

('28)  There  are  some  verses  of  Orpheus  preserved  to  ub, 
which  contain  sublime  i<Ieas  of  the  unity  and  mairnificfnco  of 
the  Deity.  It  is  tliought  by  some  that  these  are  to  be  ri^rkoned 
among  tiic  fabrications,  which  were  frequent  in  the  early  times 
of  Chi'istianity.  Still,  it  appears  doubtful  to  whom  they  are  to 
be  attributed,  being  too  pious  for  the  Pagans,  and  too  ])oeticaI 
for  the  r'athers. 

(29)  In  one  of  the  Hymns  of  Orpheus,  he  attributes  a  figured 
seal  to  Apollo,  with  which  he  imagines  that  deity  to  havo 
stamped  a  variety  of  forms  upon  the  universe. 

(30)  Alluding  to  the  cave  nt^ar  Samos,  where  Pythaq:oras  de- 
voted the  greater  part  of  his  days  and  nights  to  meditation  and 
the  mysteries  of  his  philosophy.  Inmhiich.  dr.  Vit.  This,  as 
Flolstenius  remarks,  was  in  imitation  of  the  Magi. 

(31)  The  tetractys,  or  sacred  number  of  the  Pythagoreans, 
on  which  they  solemnly  swore,  and  which  they  called  '^tlio 
fountain  of  perenrnal  nature."  Lucian  has  ridiculed  thia 
religious  arithmetic  very  cleverly  in  his  Sale  of  Philosophers. 

(32)  This  diadem  is  intended  to  represent  the  analogy  be- 
tween tiie  notes  of  music  and  the  prismatic  colors.  We  find 
in  Plutarch  a  vague  intimation  of  this  kindred  harmony  in 
colors  and  sounds. 

Cassiodorus,  whose  idea  I  may  be  supposed  to  have  br)r- 
rowed,  says,  in  a  letter  upon  music  to  Roetius,  '■  Tt  diadema 
oculis,  varia  luce  gemniarum,  sic  cythara  diversitate  soni, 
blanditur  auditui."  This  is  indeed  the  only  tolerable  thought 
in  the  letter. — Lib.  ii.  Variar. 

(33)  See  the  Story  in  Apuleius.  With  respect  to  this  beauti- 
ful allegory  of  Love  and  Psyche,  there  is  an  intrenious  idea 
suggested  by  the  senator  Buonarotti,  in  his  '•  Osservazioni 
Bopra  aicuni  fraramenti  di  vasi  antichi."  Me  thinks  tlu?  fable  is 
taken  from  some  very  occult  mysteries,  which  had  long  been 
celebrated  in  honor  of  Lt)ve  ;  and  accounts,  upon  this  supposi- 
tion, for  the  silence  of  the  more  ancient  authors  upon  the 
subject,  as  it  was  not  till  towards  the  decline  of  pagan  super- 
stition, that  writers  could  venture  to  reveal  or  discuss  such 
ceremonies.  Accordingly,  observes  this  author,  we  find  Lu- 
cian  and  Plutarch  treating,  without  reserve,  of  the  Dea  Syria, 
as  well  as  of  Isis  and  Osiris :  and  Apuleius,  to  whom  we  are 
indebted  for  the  beautiful  story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  has  also 
detailed  some  of  the  mysteries  of  Isis.  See  the  Giomale  di 
Litterati  d'ltalin,  tom.  xxvii.  artieol.  L  See  also  the  observa- 
tions upon  tlte  ancient  gems  in  the  Museum  Florentinuni,  vol. 
i.  p.  loG. 

I  cannot  avoid  remarking  here  an  error  into  which  the 
French  Encyclopedistes  have  been  led  by  M.  Spon.  in  Iheir 
article  Psyche.  They  say  *'Pi;trone  fait  un  recit  de  la  ]x>mpe 
nuptiale  de  ces  deux  amans,  (Amour  et  Psyche.)  Deja.  dit-il." 
&:c.  &c.  The  Psyche  ofPetronius,  however,  is  a  servant-maid, 
and  the  marriage  which  he  describes  is  that  of  the  young 
Pannychis.  See  Spon's  Recherches  curieuses,  &c.  Disser- 
tat.  5. 

(34)  Allusions  to  Mrs.  Tighe's  Poem. 

(35)  Constancy. 

(3Gi  By  this  image  the  Platonisls  expressed  tlie  middle  stale 
of  the  soul  between  sensible  aut.1  intellectual  existence. 

(37)  This  poem,  as  well  as  a  few  others  that  occur  aftenvar  Is, 
formeii  part  of  a  work  which  I  had  early  projectei],  and  even 
announced    to     he    public,  but  which,  luckily  perliaps  for 


1S4 


MOORE'S  WORKb. 


mjselft  had  been  interrupted  by  my  visit  to  America  iu  tlie 
year  1803. 

Among  Ihose  impofttures  in  which  the  priests  of  the  pagan 
temples  are  known  to  have  indulged,  one  of  the  most  favorite 
was  IhLt  of  announcing  to  some  fair  votary  of  the  shrine,  that 
ihe  God  himself  had  become  enamored  of  her  beauty,  and 
would  descend  in  all  his  glory,  to  pay  her  a  visit  within  the  re- 
cesses of  the  fane.  An  adventure  of  this  description  formed 
an  episode  in  the  classic  romance  which  I  had  sketched  out; 
and  the  short  fragment,  given  above,  belongs  to  an  epistle  by 
which  the  story  was  to  have  been  introduced. 

(38)  In  the  9th  Pythic  of  Pindar,  where  Apollo,  in  the  same 
manner,  requires  of  Chiron  some  information  respecting  the 
fair  CjTene,  the  Centaur,  iu  obeying,  very  gravely  apologizes  for 
telling  the  God  what  his  omniscience  must  know  so  perfectly 
already. 

(39)  The  Corycian  Cave,  which  Pauaanias  mentions.  The  in- 
habitants of  Parnassus  held  it  sacred  to  the  Corycian  nymphs, 
who  were  childi-cn  of  the  river  Plistus. 

(40)  It  ribould  seem  that  lunar  spirits  were  of  a  purer  order 
than  spirits  in  general,  as  Pythagoras  was  said  by  his  followers 
tx)  have  descended  from  the  regions  of  the  moon.  The  Ueresi- 
arch  Manes,  in  the  same  manner,  imagined  that  the  sun  and 
moon  are  the  residence  of  Christ,  and  that  the  ascension  was 
nothing  more  than  his  flight  to  those  orbs. 

(41)  The  temple  of  Jupiter  Belus,  at  Habylou ;  in  one  of 
whose  towers  there  was  a  large  chapel  set  apart  for  these 
celestial  assignations.  "No  man  is  allowed  to  sleep  here,'* 
saja  Herodotus;  "but  the  apartment  is  appropriated  to  a 
female,  whom,  if  wo  believe  the  Chaldaan  priests,  the  deity 
■elects  from  the  women  of  the  country,  as  his  favorite."  Lib. 
i.  cap.  181. 

(42)  Fontenellc,  in  his  playful  rifacimmto  of  the  learned  ma- 
terials of  Van-Dale,  has  related  in  his  own  inimitablo  manner 
an  adventure  of  this  kind  which  was  delected  and  exposed  at 
Alexandria.  Bee  LUIistoire  des  Oracles,  dissert.  %  chap.  vii. 
Crebillon,  loo,  iu  one  of  bia  most  amuBing  little  stories,  bus 
made  the  G6nie  Mange-Taupes,  of  the  Isle  .lonqiiitlc,  assert 
this  privilege  of  spiritual  beings  in  n  manner  rather  formid- 
able to  the  husbands  of  the  island. 

(43)  The  words  addressed  by  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury,  to 
the  beautiful  nun  at  Muraao. — See  his  Jjifc. 

(44)  These  words  were  written  to  tho  pathetic  Scotch  air 
"Galla  Water," 

(4j)  Arisllppus. 

(4G)  Quoted  somewhere  in  St.  I'u-    j'b  Ktudes  du  la  Nature. 

(47)  It  was  Imaghied  by  some  of  the  ancients  thnl  there  is  nn 
ethereal  ocean  above  uh,  and  that  tho  snn  and  moon  ore  two 
nontin((,  luminous  tsluuds,  In  which  tho  spirits  of  lliu  blest 
reside. 

(4H)  Kiinapliin,  In  his  life  of  tambllchus,  tells  us  of  two  beau- 
tiful liKh'  fpiritH  or  loves,  which  laiiibllchuB  raitied  by  enchant- 
ment from  Ihn  warm  sprinijs  at  Gadnni ;  "dicens  lutlantibns 
(snys  tho  author  of  tho  Dil  I'ntldici,  p.  U'lO)  illos  esso  loci 
Gnniiis:**  which  words,  howuvur,  are  not  in  r.unaplus. 

I  find  from  Cellnrlus,  that  A  mat  hn.  In  the  nel({hborhood  of 
(iailnrn,  was  nlio  celebrated  for  Its  warm  sj)rlngR,  and  I  hnvo 
lirrferrpil  It  as  n  more  poetic  name  than  Gadara.  O'llarlns 
quotffl  Hloronyinus.  *^  Kst  et  alia  villa  in  viclnln  (•'adnrm 
Domtno  Amathn,  ubi  rnlldii'  atjuie  vr\im\i\m{.^' —ncojrrapfi. 
^ntm.lWt.  111.  csp.  13. 


(49)  This  belief  of  an  ocean  in  the  heavens,  or  "  waters  above 
the  firmament."  was  one  of  the  many  physical  errors  iu  which 
the  early  fathers  bewildered  themselves.  Le  P.  lialtus.  iu  his 
"Defense  des  Saints  Peres  accuses  de  Piatonisnic,"  taking  it 
for  granted  that  the  aiicients  were  more  correct  in  their  notions 
(which  by  no  means  appears  from  what  I  have  already  quoted,) 
adduces  the  obstinacy  of  the  fathers,  in  this  whimsical  i. pinion, 
as  a  proof  of  their  repugnance  to  even  truth  from  the  hands  of 
the  philosophers.  This  is  a  strange  way  of  defending  the 
fathers,  and  attributes  much  more  than  lliey  deserve  to 
the  philosophers.  For  an  abstract  of  this  work  of  Haltus,  (the 
opposer  of  Fontenelle,  Van  Dale,  &.C.,  iu  the  famous  Oracle 
controversy,)  see  "  Bibliotheque  des  Auteurs  £ccl<^siast.  du 
18'i  Siecle,"  part.  1,  torn.  ii. 

(50)  There  were  various  opinions  among  the  ancients  with  re- 
spect to  their  lunar  establishment ;  some  made  it  an  elysium, 
and  others  a  purgatory  ;  while  some  supposed  it  to  be  a  kind 
of  entrepot  between  heaven  and  earth,  where  souls  which  had 
left  their  bodies,  and  those  that  were  on  their  way  to  join  them, 
were  deposited  in  the  valley  of  Ilecale,  and  remained  till  fui 
ther  orders. 

(51)  The  pupil  aud  mistress  of  Epicurus,  who  called  her  his 
"dear  little  Leontium,"  as  appeal's  by  a  fragment  of  one  of  his 
letters  in  Laertiua.  This  Lconlium  was  a  woman  of  talent ; 
"she  had  the  impudenco  (says  Cicero)  to  write  against  Theo- 
phiastua ;"  and  Cicero,  at  the  same  time,  gives  lier  a  name 
which  is  neither  polite  nor  translatable.  "  Meretricula  etiam 
Leoulium  contra  Theophraslum  scribure  ansa  es^t." — Dr.  ,Vatiir. 
Dear.  She  left  a  daughter  called  Danae,  who  was  just  as  rigid 
nn  Epicurean  as  her  mother;  something  like  VVielajid's  Danae 
in  Agathon. 

It  would  sound  much  better,  I  think,  if  the  name  were  I.con- 
tia,  as  it  occurs  tho  lii'st  time  in  Laerlius ;  but  M.  iAliruago  wilT 
not  hear  of  this  reading. 

(52)  Pythia  was  a  woman  whom  Aristullo  loved,  and  to  whom 
after  her  death  he  paid  divine  honors,  solemnizing  her  mem- 
ory by  the  same  sacrillces  which  tho  Athenians  oUered  to  Ihtj 
Goddess  Ceres.  For  this  impious  gallantry  the  philosopher 
was,  of  course,  censured  ;  but  it  would  be  well  if  certain  of  our 
modern  Stagyriles  showed  a  little  of  this  superstition  aboiit  the 
memory  of  their  mistresses. 

(53)  Socrates,  who  used  to  console  himself  in  the  society  of 
Aspasia  for  those  "less  endearing  ties"  which  he  found  at 
home  with  Xanlippe.  For  an  account  of  this  extraordinary 
creature,  Aspasia,  and  her  school  of  erudite  luxury  ut  Athens, 
see  1/IIisloiro  de  r.Vuadiimie,  &c.  torn.  xxxi.  p.  09.  Segnr 
rather  fails  on  the  inspiring  subject  uf  Aspasia.— "  Les  Fern- 
mes,"  tom.  i.  p.  \'2~. 

The  author  of  the  "Voyage  du  Monde  do  De.-^caites"  has 
also  jdaced  the^e  philosophers  in  tho  moon,  and  has  allotted 
Boigneurics  to  them,  ils  well  as  to  tho  rislrononieris  (part  ii. 
p.  M3;)  but  ho  ought  niit  to  have  forgotten  their  wives  and 
mistresses;  "  cunc  n(Ui  ipsa  iti  morte  relinciuunt." 

(51)  There  are  some  sensible  letters  oxiant  under  the  name 
of  this  fair  Pythagorean.  They  are  addrensed  to  her  femain 
friends  upim  Ihu  education  of  children,  the  treatment  of  nei*- 
vants.  Jkc.  One,  in  particular,  (o  Nic(>t«lrata.  whofc  husband 
had  given  her  ri'tL>ii>nHforJcaIon)«y.  conlatn'*  bucIi  truly  cnnsiiliT 
nto  and  rational  advice,  that  It  ought  to  ho  translated  for  Ihu 
cdldcntlon  of  nil  married  ladles."  See  Gale's  Opnscul.  Myth. 
Phys.  p.  741. 

(.W)  Pyllingornn  was  remarkalile  fnr  llru*  hair,  and  Doctor 
Thiers  (In  his  lllptolre  des  IVrriKiues)  i4eeinH  to  take  Inr  gnuiti'd 
It  was  nil  his  own  ;  an  he  hns  not  nienliinied  him  ainont;  those 
ancients  who  were  obliged  to  have  recmir«e  bi  the  *'coina 
ipponltitln."     LMIIstolrc  des  lVrnu|ue8,  ehnpltro  I. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


135 


(56)  The  river  Alpheus,  which  flowed  by  Pisa  orOIympia, 
enJ  into  which  it  was  cusloinury  to  throw  oircrings  of  diflcrent 
kiuds,  durini;  tlio  celebriitiuii  of  tho  Ulynipic  games.  In  the 
pretty  roraunco  of  Clitophon  and  Leiicippu,  the  river  ia  sup- 
posed to  carry  tlicao  ollbrings  as  bridal  gifts  to  the  fountain 
Arelbusa. 

(57)  Love  and  Psyche  are  hero  considered  as  the  active  and 
passive  principles  of  creation,  and  the  universe  is  supposed  to 
have  received  its  first  harmonizing  impulse  from  the  nuptial 
Bympatliy  between  these  two  powers.  A  marriage  is  generally 
tho  first  step  in  cosmogony.  Tiina^us  held  Form  to  be  the 
father,  and  Matter  tho  mother  of  tho  World;  Elion  and 
Berouth,  I  think,  are  Sanchoniatho's  first  spiritual  lovers,  and 
Mauco-capac  and  his  wife  introduced  creation  amongst  the 
Peruvians.  In  short,  Harlequin  seems  to  have  studied  cos- 
mogonies, when  he  said  *-  tuLto  il  mondo  e  fatto  come  la  nostra 
famiglia." 

(58)  Though  I  have  styled  this  poem  a  Dithyrambic  Ode,  I 
cannot  presume  to  say  that  it  possesses,  in  any  degree,  the 
characteristics  of  that  species  of  poetry.  The  nature  of  the 
ancient  Dithyrambic  is  very  imperfectly  known.  According  to 
Airllurette,  a  licentious  irregularity  of  metre,  an  extravagant 
research  of  thought  and  expression,  and  a  rude  embarrassed 
construction,  are  among  its  most  distinguishing  features;  and 
iu  all  these  respects,  I  have  but  too  closely,  I  fear,  followed  my 
models."  Burette  adds,  "Ces  caracleres  des  dithyrarabes  se 
font  sentir  a  ceux  qui  lisent  atteutivemeut  les  odes  de  Pin- 
dare." — JMi'moircs  dc  PAcad.  vol.  X.  p.  30G.  Tho  same  opinion 
may  be  collected  from  Schmidt's  dissertation  upon  the  subject. 
I  think,  however,  if  the  Dilhyrambics  of  Pindar  were  in  our 
possession,  we  should  find  that,  however  wild  and  fanciful, 
they  were  by  no  means  the  tasteless  jargon  they  are  repre- 
sented, and  that  even  Iheir  irregularity  was  what  Boileau  calls 
"  un  beau  dtrsordre."  Chiabrera,  who  has  been  styled  the 
Pindar  of  Italy,  and  from  whom  all  its  poeti'y  upon  the  Greek 
model  was  called  Chiabreresco,  (as  Crescimbeui  informs  us, 
lib.  i.  cap.  3,)  has  given,  amongst  his  Vendemmie,  a  Dithy- 
rambic, "air  uso  de'  Greci;"  full  of  those  compound  epithets, 
which,  we  are  told,  were  a  chief  characteristic  of  the  style,  such 
as 

Briglindorato  Pegaso 
Nubicalpestator. 

But  I  cannot  suppose  that  Pindar,  even  amidst  all  the  license 
of  dithyrarabics,  would  ever  have  descended  to  ballad-language 
ilike  the  following: 

Bella  Filli,ebelIaClori, 
Non  piii  dar  pregio  a  tue  bellezze  e  taci, 
Che  se  Bacco  fa  vezzi  alle  mie  labbra 
Fo  le  fiche  a'  vostri  baci. 

■ esser  vorrei  Coppier, 

E  se  Iroppo  desiro 
Deh  fossi  io  Bottiglier. 

Rime  del  Chiabrera,  part  ii.  p.  352. 

(59)  This  is  a  Platonic  fancy.  The  philosopher  supposes,  in 
Aid  Timajus,  that,  when  the  Deity  had  formed  the  soid  of  the 
world,  he  proceeded  to  the  composition  of  other  souls,  in 
which  process,  says  Plato,  he  made  use  of  the  same  cup,  though 
the  ingredients  he  mingled  were  not  quite  so  pure  as  for  the 
former;  and  having  retined  the  mixture  with  a  little  of  hia 
own  essence,  he  distributed  it  among  the  stars,  which  served 
as  reservoirs  of  the  Iluid. 

^fiO)  V^•e  learn  from  Theophrastus,  that  the  roses  of  Cyrene 
were  particularly  fragrant. 

'T'O  Heraclittis  (Physicus)  held  the  soul  to  be  a  spark  of  the 
•tellar  essence— '•  ycintilla  stellai'ig  eBsentia?."— Macrodius,  iu 
Somn.  Scip.  lib.  i.  cap.  14. 


(G2)  The  countiy  of  the  Hyperboreans.  These  people  were 
BupiJOHi'd  to  bo  jjlaced  so  far  north  that  the  nortli  wind  could 
not  allect  Ihein ;  they  lived  longer  than  any  other  mortals; 
passed  their  whole  lime  in  music  and  dancing,  &.c.,  &c.  But 
tho  most  extravagant  fiction  related  of  them  is  that  to  which 
the  two  lines  preceding  allude.  It  was  imagined  that,  instead 
of  our  vulgar  atmosphere,  the  Hyperboreans  breathed  nothing 
but  feathers  I  According  to  Herodotus  and  Pliny,  this  idea  was 
suggested  by  tho  quantity  of  snow  w  hich  was  observed  to  fall 
in  those  regions.— Hkrodot.  lib.  iv.  cap.  31.  Ovid  tells  the 
fable  otherwise:  see  Metamorph.  lib.  xv. 

Mr.  O'Halloran,  and  some  other  Irish  antiquarians,  hare 
been  at  great  expense  of  learning  to  prove  that  the  strange 
country,  where  they  took  snow  for  feathers,  was  Ireland,  and 
that  tho  famous  Abaris  was  an  Irish  Druid.  Mr.  Rowland, 
however,  will  have  it  that  Abaris  was  a  Welshman,  and  that 
his  name  is  only  a  corruption  of  Ap  Uees. 

(G3)  It  is  Servius,  I  believe,  who  mentions  this  unlucky  trip 
which  Hebe  made  iu  her  occupation  of  cup-hearer  ;  and  Hoff- 
man tells  it  after  him  :  "  Cum  Hebe  pocula  Jovi  administrans, 
pcrque  lubricum  minus  caute  incedens,  cecidissct,"  tc. 

(G4)  The  arcane  symbols  of  this  ceremony  were  deposited  in 
the  cisla,  where  they  lay  religiously  concealed  from  the  eyes 
of  the  profane.  They  were  generally  carried  in  the  procession 
by  an  ass  ;  and  hence  the  proverb,  which  one  may  so  often  ap- 
ply in  the  world,  "  asinus  portat  mysteria."  See  the  Divina 
Legation,  book  ii.  sect.  4. 

(65)  In  the  Geoponica,  lib.  ii.  cap.  17,  there  is  a  fable  some- 
what like  this  descent  of  the  nectar  to  earfib.  Vid.  Autor.  da 
Re  Rust.  edit.  Cantab.  1704. 

(6G)  The  constellation  Lyra.  The  astrologers  attribute  groat 
■\irtaes  to  this  sign  in  ascendent!,  which  are  enmnerated  by 
Ponlano,  in  his  Urania  : 

Ecce  novera  cum  pectine  chordas 

Emodulans,  mulcetque  novo  vaga  sidera  cantu, 
Quo  captaj  uascentum  aniraae  coucordia  ducunt 
Pectora,  &c. 

(67)  The  Egyptians  represented  the  dawn  of  day  by  a  young 
boy  seated  upon  a  lotos.  Observing  that  the  lotos  showed  its 
head  above  water  at  stmrise,  and  sank  again  at  his  setting,  they 
conceived  the  idea  of  consecrating  this  flower  to  Osiris,  or  the 
sun. 

This  symbol  of  a  youth  sitting  upon  a  lotos  is  very  frequent 
on  the  Abraxases,  or  Basilidian  stones.  See  Montfaucon,  torn, 
ii.  planche  158,  and  the '■  Supplement,"  &c.  torn.  ii.  lib.  vii. 
chap.  5. 

(GS)  The  ancients  esteemed  those  flowers  and  trees  the 
sweetest  upon  which  the  rainbow  had  appeared  to  rest;  and 
the  wood  they  chiefly  burned  in  sacrifices,  was  that  which 
the  smile  of  Iris  had  consecrated.  Plutarch.  Sympos.  lib.  iv. 
cap.  2.  See  Vossius  for  some  curious  particularities  of  the 
rainbow,  De  Origin,  et  Progress.  Idololat.  lib.  iii.  cap.  13. 

(69)  "There  are  gardens,  supposed  to  be  those  of  King  Solo- 
mon, in  the  neighborhood  of  Bethlehem.  The  friar3  show  a 
fountain,  which,  they  say,  is  the  '  sealed  fountain'  to  which  the 
holy  spouse  in  the  Canticles  is  compared  ;  and  they  pretend  a 
tradition,  that  Solomon  shut  up  these  springs  and  put  his  sig- 
net upon  the  door  to  keep  them  for  hia  own  drinking." — Maun- 
dreWs  Travels.  See  also  the  notes  to  Mr.  Good's  Translation 
of  the  Song  of  Solomon. 

(70)  The  present  Duchess  of  Hamilton. 

(71)  In  Plutarch's  Essay  on  the  Decline  of  the  Oracles, 
Cleom^rolus,  one  of  the  interlocutors,  describes  an  extraordi- 


iSG 


MOORE'S  \YORKS. 


nary  man  whom  he  had  met  wiib,  after  ions;  resci:ch,  upon 
the  bants  of  the  Red  Sea.  Once  in  every  year,  this  supernut- 
ural  personu^e  appeared  to  mortals  nud  conversed  with  thein ; 
Ihe  rest  (if  his  lime  he  passed  among  the  (ienii  and  the 
Nymphs.  He  spoke  in  a  tone  not  far  removed  from  singing, 
and  whenever  he  opened  his  lips,  a  fragrance  tilled  the  place. 
From  him  Cleorabroms  learned  Ihe  doctrine  of  a  plurality  of 
Murld?. 

("■2f  The  celebrated  Janus  Dousa,  a  little  before  his  deaths 
imagined  that  he  lit-ard  a  strain  of  music  in  the  air.  See  the 
poom  of  Ileiusius,  ■'  In  harmouiarn  quani  paulo  ante  obitum 
andire  sibi  visus  est  Dousa.**    Page  501. 

(73)  Cham,  the  son  of  Noah,  is  supposed  to  have  taken  with 
biru  into  the  ark  the  principal  doctrines  of  magical,  or  rather 
of  natural  science,  which  he  had  iuscribed  upon  some  very 
durable  substances,  in  order  that  they  might  resist  the  ravages 
of  the  deluge,  and  transmit  the  secrets  of  antediluvian  knowl- 
edge to  his  posterity.  Fee  the  extracts  made  by  liayle,  in  his 
article,  Cham.  The  identity  of  Cham  and  Zoroaster  depends 
upon  the  authority  of  lierosus,  (or  rather  the  impostor  Annius,) 
and  a  few  more  such  respectable  testimonies,  i-eo  Naude's 
Apologie  pour  les  Grands  Hunimes,  &c.,  chap,  viii.,  where  he 
takes  more  trouble  than  is  necessary  in  refuting  this  gratuitous 
supposition. 

(74)  Chamum  a  posleris  hujus  artis  admiratoribns  Zornas- 
iruni,  sen  vivum  aalrum,  propterea  t'uisse  dictum  et  pro  Deo 
hubttum. — Bockart.  Ocograph.  Sacr.  lih.  iv.  cap.  1. 

(73)  Orpheus.— Patilinus,  in  his  Ilebdomadcs,  cap.  2.  lib.  iii., 
bas  endeavored  to  show,  after  the  Platonists,  that  man  is  a 
diapason,  or  octave,  made  up  of  a  diatesseron,  which  is  his 
80ul,  and  a  diapente,  which  is  his  body.  Those  fretpient  allu- 
Btons  to  music  by  which  the  ancient  philosophers  illustrated 
Iheir  sublime  theories,  must  have  tended  very  much  to  elevate 
(he  character  of  the  art,  and  tu  enrich  it  with  associations  of 
the  (fraudest  and  most  interesting  nature.  See  a  preceding 
OotOi  for  their  ideas  upon  the  harmony  of  the  spheres,  ilerai* 
clitus  compared  the  mixture  of  good  and  evil  in  this  world  to 
•he  blended  varieties  of  liartnony  in  a  musical  instrument, 
(Plutarch,  de  Anima;  Procreat. ;)  and  Kuryjihamus,  the  Pytha- 
gorean, in  a  fi-agment  preserved  by  rttoba'us,  describes  human 
life,  in  its  perfection,  as  a  sweet  and  weiJ-liaied  lyre.  Some 
of  the  ancients  were  so  fanciful  aa  to  suppose  that  the  opera- 
tions of  the  memory  were  regulated  by  a  kind  of  musical  ca- 
dence, and  that  ideas  occurred  to  it  "i)er  arsin  el  thesin," 
while  others  converted  tlie  wliole  man  into  a  mere  harmonized 
machine,  whoso  motion  depemled  upon  a  certain  tension  of 
the  body,  analogous  to  that  of  the  strings  in  an  instrument, 
Cicero  indeed  ridicules  Aristoxenus  fur  this  fancy,  and  FJiys, 
"Let  him  teach  singing,  and  leave  philosophy  to  Aristotle;" 
but  Ariftlolle  himself,  though  decidedly  opposed  to  the  har- 
monic speculations  of  the  Pythagoreans  and  I'latoniats,  could 
tometimea  condescend  to  enliven  his  doctrines  by  reference  to 
the  beauties  uf  musical  scieuco. 

(70)  Pyttiai^onia  Is  represented  in  Tamblichus  ns  descending 
with  great  nolomnlty  from  Mount  C^armel,  for  which  reason  Ihe 
Cnrmelites  have  clnlnitd  him  as  one  of  their  fraternity.  This 
MfrhuK  or  Mo«chun,  with  the  deRcendanls  i»r  whom  ryllmgoras 
convtTied  in  Pho-iiicia,  and  from  whom  ho  derived  the  doc- 
trines <;■  atomic  philosophy,  Is  supjuifed  by  some  to  bo  Ihn 
same  with  Moses.  Hncll  lias  ndopted  this  idea,  Uemonslra- 
tlim  Kvung' H'pie,  Prop.  iv.  chap.  *A$7;  and  To  Clerc,  among 
others,  ban  refuted  It.  Heo  Itlbllolh.  Choisle,  torn.  1.  p.  75.  II 
is  corlsin,  however,  (hnt  the  doctrine  of  ntoms  was  known  and 
proiiiulualed  long  beri.ni  Kpieurus.  ^*  Willi  thi«  f<iunlalns  of 
UcimicrtttiK,'*  iui}S  rjn-ro,  ''the  gardf-nn  of  r.plruriis  were 
walriftd  ;"  nnd  the  li-nrned  outhor  ttf  the  Intetlerlual  System 
hu  ibowoi  thai  all  the  early  ^thllosophcrs,  till  tlio  time  of  Platu* 


were  atoraists.  We  find  Epicurus,  however,  boasting  that  hfti 
tenets  were  new  and  unborrowed,  and  pirliaps  tev.-  au.ong  llie 
ancients  bad  any  slrouj;er  claim  to  ori;:in:dity.  In  truth,  it  we 
examine  Iheir  schools  of  philosophy,  notwithstanding  the  pecu- 
liarities which  seem  to  distinguish  them  from  each  other,  we 
may  generally  observe  that  the  difference  is  but  verbal  and 
trifling;  and  that,  auiong  those  various  and  learned  heresies, 
there  is  scarcely  t»ne  to  be  selected,  whose  opinions  are  its 
own.  oricinal  and  exclusive.  The  doctrine  of  the  world's 
eternity  may  be  traced  through  all  the  seels.  The  continual 
motemjisychosis  of  Pythagoras,  the  strand  periodic  year  of  the 
Stoics,  ^at  the  conclusion  of  which  the  universe  is  supposed  to 
return  to  its  original  order,  and  commence  a  new  revolution.) 
the  successive  dissolution  and  combinatitm  of  atoms  maintain- 
ed by  the  Epicureans — all  these  tenets  are  but  different  imit.i« 
lions  of  the  same  general  belief  in  the  eternity  of  the  world. 
As  explained  by  St.  Austin,  the  periodic  year  of  the  Sioics  dis- 
agrees only  so  far  with  the  idea  of  the  Pythagoreans,  th.at 
instead  of  an  endless  transmission  of  the  snul  through  a  variety 
of  bodies,  it  restores  the  same  body  and  soul  to  rt-pent  their 
former  round  of  existence,  so  that  the  ■■■  identical  Plalo,  who 
lectured  in  the  Academy  of  Athens,  shall  again  and  again,  at 
certain  intervals,  during  the  lapse  of  eternity,  appear  in  i)m 

same  Academy  and  resume  the  same  functions:" sic 

eadera  tempera  temporaliumque  rerum  volumina  repeti,  nt  v. 
g.  sicut  in  islo  sieculo  Plalo  philosophus  in  urbe  .Vtheiiiensi.  in 
ea  scholil  quie  Academia  dicla  est,  discipulos  ilocuit,  ita  per 
innumerabilia  retro  sa'cula.  multum  plexis  quidem  itUervallis, 
sed  certis.  et  idem  Plato,  et  eadem  civitas,  eademque  schola, 
iidemque  discipuli  repetili  et  per  innumerabilia  deinde  sa^culn 
repetendi  sint. — De  Civitat,  Dn\  lib.  xii.  cap.  13.  Vanini,  in 
his  dialogues,  has  given  us  a  similar  explication  of  the  periodic 
revolutions  of  the  world,  "■  Ea  de  causa,  qui  nunc  sunt  in  usu 
ritus,  centies  millies  fuernnt,  totiesquo  renasccntur  quolies 
ccciderunt."    32. 

The  paradoxical  notions  of  the  Stoics  upon  the  beauty,  the 
riches,  the  dominion  of  their  imaginary  sage,  are  among  the 
most  distinguishing  charnctoristics  of  their  school,  and,  accord- 
ing to  Iheir  advocate  Lipsius,  were  peculiar  to  that  sect, 
'•  Priora  ilia  (decreta)  qu.i'  passim  in  philosnphanlium  scholis 
feri^  obtinenl,  tsta  qme  pcculiaria  huic  sccta^  et  habeiit  conlra- 
dictioncm :  i.  c.  paraJoxa." — Mnnuduct.  ad  .stoic.  rfiila.<.  lib. 
iii.  dissertat.  2.  But  it  is  evident  (as  the  AbbO  Carnicr  has  re- 
marked. Memoires  do  I'Acad.  tom.  xxxv.)  that  even  these 
absurdities  of  the  Stoics  are  borrowed,  and  that  Plalo  is  the 
source  of  all  their  oxtravngant  paradoxes.  Wo  find  their 
dogma,"  dives  qui  sapiens,''  (which  Clement  of  Alexandria  has 
transferred  from  the  Philosopher  to  the  Christian,  Pa>dagog. 
lib.  iii.  cap.  C,)  expressed  in  the  prayer  of  Socrates  at  tho  end 
of  Ihe  Phiedrus.  And  many  other  instances  might  be  adduced 
to  prove  that  these  weeds  of  paradox  weie  nil  gathered  nniuni; 
Ihe  bowers  of  tho  Academy.  Hence  it  is  that  Cicero,  in  lh»i 
preface  to  his  Paradoxes,  calls  them  Socratica ;  atid  I.ip^ius, 
exulting  in  the  patrunnge  of  Socrates,  snys,  "  Ille  lotus  est 
nosier."  This  is  indeed  a  coalilion.  which  e\  inces  as  much  as 
can  be  wished  the  confused  similitude  of  ancient  philosophical 
opinions;  the  father  of  skepticism  Is  here  enrolled  among  tin* 
founders  of  the  Portico  ;  he,  whose  best  knowledge  was  that 
of  his  own  icnornncu,  Is  eddied  in  to  uuthorlze  tho  prelenshms 
of  the  most  obstinate  dogmatists  in  all  antiipuly. 

KutiliuH,  in  his  lllnerurium.  has  ridiculed  Ihe  sabbath  of  tho 
Jows,  as  "  lassnll  mt.Mis  Imago  Del ;"  but  I'.plcurus  gave  an 
eternal  holidny  to  his  k<"I"i  noil*  ralher  than  dislurb  tho  slum- 
bers  of  Olympus,  denied  iil  once  the  tnterfereneo  of  a  Provi- 
dence. Jlo  does  not,  however,  seem  to  have  been  singular  In 
tilts  opinbm.  Theophllus  of  Antlorh,  if  he  deserve  any  credit, 
imputes  n  shnllar  belief  to  !>ythagorns.  And  Plutarch.  Ihrugh 
so  hoslllo  to  tliu  followers  of  Epicurus,  hH»  nnaccountaoly 
adopted  Ihe  very  same  theological  error.  — /)*'  I'lnril.  I'htlosoph, 

lib.  i.  cap.  7.       Plnlo  hliUKelf  bus  nllnbuleil   u  degr if  in 

dllfenMini  to  the  gods,  which  is  not  far  rninoved  from  the  apa 
thy  uf  Epicuruu'i  heaven;  while  Aristotle  euppoiWB  a  slill  more 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


137 


Bbaurtl  Hcutralitv,  nnd  concludes,  by  no  very  flattering  analocy, 
that  the  deity  is  as  incapable  of  virtuo  as  of  vicQ.—KUiic. 
JsTicomaclt.  lib.  vii.  cap.  1.  In  truth,  Aristotle,  upon  the  subject 
of  Providence,  w  as  little  more  corn-'cl  than  Epicurus,  IIo  sup- 
posed till' moon  to  be  the  limit  of  divinr  interlorenco,  excluding;, 
ol'  course,  this  sublunary  world  rmtn  ils  influcnco.  'I'he  fir.4 
dolhiitiun  of  the  world,  in  his  treatise  11 /h  Kotr^ou,  (if  Ihia  trea- 
tise ho  really  the  work  of  Arislolle,)  agrees,  almost  verbum 
vcrbo,  Willi  that  ia  Iho  letter  of  Kpicurus  to  Pylhocles;  and 
both  omit  the  mention  of  a  deity.  In  his  Ethics,  too,  he  inti- 
mates a  doubt  whelhur  the  gods  feel  any  interest  in  the  concerns 
of  mankind. 

In  tliese  erroneous  conceptions  of  Aristotle,  we  trace  tlie 
cause  of  that  general  neglect  which  his  philosophy  experienced 
aniung  llio  early  Cliristiana.  Plato  is  seldom  much  more  ortho- 
dox, but  tlie  obscure  euthuaiasm  of  his  style  allowed  them  to 
flccouimodate  all  his  fancies  to  their  own  j>urpose.  Such  glow- 
iDg  steel  was  easily  moulded,  and  Platonisuj  became  a  sword  in 
the  hands  of  the  falliers. 

The  Providence  of  the  ^Stoics,  so  vaunted  in  their  school,  was 
B  power  as  contemptibly  incfllcieut  as  the  rest.  All  was  fate  in 
the  system  of  the  Portico.  The  chains  of  destiny  were  thrown 
over  Jui>itcr  himself,  and  tlieir  deity  was  lilce  the  Eorgia  of  the 
Epigrammatist,  "  et  Ciesar  et  nihil."  Not  even  the  language  of 
Seneca  can  reconcile  this  degradation  of  diviuily  "llle  ipse 
omnium  conditor  ac  rector  scripgit  quidem  fata,  sed  sequitur; 
semper  paret,  semel  jussit." — Lib  tie  Providcntid^  cap.  5. 

With  respect  to  the  dilference  between  the  Stoics,  Peripatet- 
ics, and  Academicians,  the  following  words  of  Cicero  prove 
that  he  saw  but  Htllo  to  distinguish  them  from  each  other: — 
"■Peripateticos  et  Academicos,  nominibus  differentea,  re  con- 
priientes;  a  quibus  Stoici  ipsi  verbis  magis  quam  sententiis 
dissenserunt," — ^-^cademic.  lib.  ii.  5 ;  and  perhaps  what  Reid  has 
remarked  upon  one  of  their  points  of  controversy  might  be  ap- 
plied as  effectually  to  the  reconcilement  of  all  the  rest.  "The 
dispute  between  the  Stoics  and  Peripatetics  was  probably  all 
for  want  of  definition.  The  one  said  they  were  good  under  the 
control  of  reason,  the  other  that  they  should  be  eradicated." — 
Essatjs,  vol.  iii.  In  short,  it  appears  a  no  less  diflicult  matter 
to  establish  the  boundaries  of  opinion  between  any  two  of  the 
Philosophical  sects,  than  it  would  be  to  fix  the  landmarks  of 
those  estates  in  tlie  moon,  which  Kicciolus  so  generously  allot- 
ted to  his  brother  astronomers.  Accordingly  we  observe  some 
of  the  greatest  men  of  antiquity  passing  without  scruple  from 
school  to  school,  according  lo  the  fancy  or  convenience  of  the 
moraeut.  Cicero,  the  father  of  Roman  philosophy,  is  some- 
times an  .Academician,  sometimes  a  Stoic;  and,  more  ihan 
once,  he  acknowledges  a  conformity  with  Epicurus  ;  "'■  uon  sine 
causa  igilur  Ej)icin*us  a^sus  est  dicere  semper  in  pluribus  bonis 
esse  sapieulem,  quia  semper  sit  in  voluptatibus.*' — Tuscuian. 
QKffivsf.  lit).  V.  Though  often  jtnre  in  his  theology,  Cicero  some- 
times smiles  at  futurity  as  a  fiction  ;  thus,  in  his  Oratiun  for 
Clueutius,  speaking  of  punishuienls  iu  the  life  to  come,  he  says, 
■*■  Quie  si  falsa  sunt,  id  quod  omues  intelligunt,  quid  ei  tandem 
sliud  mors  cripnit,  prieler  sensvnn  dolorisY"' — though  here  we 
should,  periiaps,  do  him  but  justice  by  agreeing  with  his  com- 
mentator Sylvius,  who  remarks  upon  this  passage, "  Ilfficautera 
dixit,  ut  causa:  sua;  subscrviret."  The  poet  Horace  roves  like 
a  butterlly  through  the  schools,  and  now  wings  al(nig  the  walls 
of  the  Purch,  now  basks  among  the  flowers  of  the  Garden; 
while  Virgil,  with  a  tone  of  mind  strongly  philosophical,  has 
yet  left  us  wholly  uucertaiu  as  to  the  sect  which  he  espoused. 
The  balance  of  opinion  declares  him  lo  have  been  an  Epicurean, 
but  the  ancient  author  of  his  life  asserts  that  he  was  an  Acade- 
mician; and  we  trace  through  his  poetry  the  tenets  of  almost 
all  the  leading  sects.  The  same  kind  of  eclectic  indilference  is 
observable  in  most  of  the  Roman  writers.  Thus  Propertius,  in 
the  fine  elegy  to  Cynthia,  on  his  departure  for  Athens, 

Ulic  vel  studiis  aniraura  emendare  Plalonis, 
Jncipiam,  aut  hortis,  docte  Epicure,  tuis. 

Lib.  ill.  Eleg.  31. 


Though  Crocckhusins  here  read?,  "dux  Epicure,"  which 
seems  to  fix  the  poet  under  the  batmers  of  Ei)lcurus.  Even  the 
Stoic  Seneca,  whose  doctrines  have  been  considered  so  ortho- 
dox that  St.  Jerome  has  ranked  him  among  the  ecclesiastical 
writers,  while  ISoccaccio  doubts  (in  consideration  of  his  sup- 
posed correspondence  with  St.  Paul)  whether  Dante  should 
have  placed  hiui  in  limbo  wilh  the  rest  of  the  Pagans  even  tlie 
rigid  Seneca  has  bestowed  such  commendations  on  Ej)icuru3, 
that  if  only  those  passages  of  his  works  were  preserved  to  us, 
we  could  not  hesitate,  I  think,  in  pronouncing  him  a  confirmed 
Epicurean.  With  similar  inconsistency,  we  find  Porphyry,  in 
his  work  upon  abstinence,  referring  to  Epicurus  as  an  example 
of  the  most  strict  Pythagorean  temperance;  and  Lancelotti 
(the  author  of  *^  Farfalloni  degli  antici  Islorici")  has  been  se- 
duced by  tiiis  grave  reputation  of  llpicurus  into  (he  absurd 
error  of  associaling  1dm  with  Chrjsippus,  as  a  chief  of  the  Stoic 
school.  There  is  no  doubt,  indeed,  thai  however  the  Epicurean 
sect  might  have  relaxed  from  its  original  purity,  the  morals  Qf 
its  founder  were  as  correct  as  those  of  any  among  the  ancient 
philosophers  ;  and  his  doctrines  upon  pleasure,  as  explained  in 
the  letter  to  Menceceus,  are  ratioual,  amiable,  and  consistent 
with  om-  nature.  A  late  writer,  De  Sablons,  in  his  Grands 
Homines  venges,  expresses  strong  indignation  against  the  En- 
cyclopiidistes  for  their  just  and  animated  praises  of  Epicurus, 
and  discussing  the  question,  ''si  ce  philosophe  tlait  vortueux," 
denies  it  upon  no  other  authority  than  the  calumnies  collected 
by  Plutarch,  who  himself  confesses  that,  on  this  particular  sub- 
ject, he  considted  only  opinion  and  report,  without  pausing  to 
investigate  their  trulh.  To  the  factious  zeal  of  his  illiberal 
rivals,  the  Stoics,  Epicurus  chiefly  owed  these  gross  misrepre- 
sentations of  the  life  and  opinions  of  himself  and  his  associates, 
which,  notwithstanding  the  learned  exertions  of  Gassendi,  have 
still  left  an  odium  on  the  minie  of  his  philosophy  ;  and  we 
ought  to  examine  the  ancient  accounts  of  this  philosopher  wilh 
about  the  same  degree  of  cautious  belief  which,  in  reading  ec- 
clesiastical history,  we  yield  to  the  invectives  of  the  fathers 
against  the  heretics,— trusting  as  little  to  Plutarch  upon  a  dogma 
of  Epicurus,  as  we  would  to  the  vehement  St.  C^ril  upon  a 
tenet  of  Nestorius.    (1801.) 

The  preceding  remarks,  I  wish  the  reader  to  observe,  were 
written  at  a  time  when  I  thought  the  studies  lo  which  they 
refer  much  more  important  as  well  as  more  amusing  than,  I 
freely  confess,  they  appear  to  me  at  present. 

(77)  Lactantius  asserts  that  all  the  truths  of  Christianity  may 
be  found  dispersed  through  the  ancient  philosophical  sects, 

I  and  that  any  one  who  would  collect  these  scattered  fragments 
of  orthodoxy  might  form  a  code  in  no  respect  ditfering  from 
that  of  Hie  Christian.  "Si  exiitisset  aliquis,  qui  veritatem 
sparsani  per  singuios  per  sectasque  diffusam  colligerel  in  unum, 
ac  redigeret  in  corpus,  is  profeclo  non  dissenliret  a  nobis." — 
Inst.  lib.  vi.  c.  7. 

(78)  This  bold  Platouic  image  I  have  taken  from  a  passage 
in  Father  Bouchel's  letter  upon  the  Metempsychosis,  inserted 
in  Picart's  Cerem.  Relig.  torn.  iv. 

(70)  Accord  ing  to  Pythagoras,  the  people  of  Dreams  are  souls 
collected  together  in  the  Galaxy. — Porphyr.  dc  .'Intro  J<'ijmph. 

(_80)  Mamurra,  a  dogmatic  philosopher,  who  never  doubted 
about  any  thing,  except  who  was  his  father. — "Nulli  de  re 
unquam  praeterquam  de  patre  dubitavil." — In  Vit.  He  was 
very  learned—*'  La-dedans,  (_that  is,  iu  his  head  when  it  was 
opened,)  le  Puniquc  heurte  le  Persan,  I'llebreu  cheque  I'Ara- 
bique,  pour  ne  point  parJer  de  la  mauvaise  intelligence  du 
Latiu  avec  le  Grec,"  &c. — See  IjHistoire  de  Jilontmaurj  torn. 
ii.  p.  1)1. 

(31)  llorabastuB  was  one  of  the  names  of  that  great  scholar 
nnd  quack  Paracelsus.— *'Philippus  Bombastus  latet  sub  splen- 
dido  tegmine  AureoU  Theophrasti  P.tracelsi,"  says  Ststielius  de 


138 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


circumforonei  Llteratorum  vanitate.— He  used  to  flp:ht  the 
devil  every  nii;ht  with  a  broadsword,  to  the  no  small  terror 
of  his  pupil  Oporinus,  who  has  recorded  the  circumslaoce. 
(\'ide  Oporin.  Vit.  apud  Christian.  Grjph.  Vit.  Select,  quoruu- 
dam  Erudiiissimorura,  &.c.)  Paracelsus  had  hut  a  poor  opinion 
of  Galen :— '■'•  My  very  beard  (says  he  in  his  Paragr^num)  has 
more  learning  in  it  than  cither  Galen  or  Avicenna." 

(83)  Tlie  anfjel,  who  scolded  St.  Jerome  for  reading  Cicero, 
as  Gratian  tells  the  story  in  his  '*Coucordantia  discordantium 
Canonum,"  and  says,  that  for  this  reason  bishops  were  not 
allowed  to  read  the  Classics:  "  Episcopus  Gentiliura  libros 
non  legal." — Dittinct.  37.  But  Gratian  is  notorious  fur  lying — 
besides,  angels,  us  the  illustrious  pupil  of  Panlenus  assures  us, 
have  got  no  tongues. — Ctem.  ^iUxand.  Stromal. 

(83)  The  idea  of  the  Rabbins,  respecting  the  origin  of  woman, 
is  not  a  little  singular.  They  think  that  man  was  originally 
formed  with  a  tail,  like  a  monkey,  but  that  the  Deity  cut  off 
this  appendage,  and  made  woman  of  it.  Upon  this  extraor- 
dinary supposition  the  following  reflection  is  founded  : — 

If  such  is  the  tie  between  women  and  men, 

The  ninny  who  weds  is  a  pitiful  elf, 
For  he  takes  to  his  tail  like  an  idiot  again. 

And  thus  makes  a  deplorable  ape  of  himself. 

Vet,  if  we  may  judge  as  the  fashions  prevail, 
Every  husband  remembers  th'  original  plan. 

And,  knowing  his  wife  is  no  more  than  his  tail. 
Why  he— leaves  her  behind  him  as  much  as  he  can. 

(84)  Scaliger.  de  Emendat.  Temper.— DagOD  was  thought  by 
others  to  be  a  certain  sea-monster,  who  came  every  day  out 
of  the  Red  Sea  to  teach  the  Syrians  husbandry.— Sec  Jacques 
Gaflure),  (CuriusitOs  Inuuies,  chap,  i..)  who  suys  he  thinks  this 
ttoiy  of  the  sea-monsler  "carries  little  Bhi>w  of  probability 
with  IL*" 

(85)  I  wish  it  were  known  with  any  degree  of  certainty 
whether  the  Commentary  on  Doethius  nttributod  to  Thomas 
Aquinas  bo  really  the  work  of  this  Angelic  Doctor.  Tlierc  are 
some  bold  assertions  hazarded  in  il :  for  instance,  ho  says 
that  Plato  kept  school  in  n  town  called  Academia,  and  that 
Alcibiade!*  was  a  very  beautiful  woman  whom  some  of  Aris- 
totle's pupils  fell  in  lovo  with:— "  Alcibiades  mulier  fuit  pul- 
chcrrima,  quam  videules  quidam  discipuli  Arislutelis,"  &.c. — 
**ee  Fteylag  Jldparal,  Litterar.  art.  8G,  torn.  i. 

(80)  The  following  complimeot  was  paid  to  Lauronlius  Valla, 
upon  his  accurate  knowledge  of  the  Latin  language  :— 

Nunc  postqiiam  innnes  defnnctus  Vnlla  petivit, 

Nun  auilet  Pluto  verba  I.atlna  loqui. 

Pince  Val  arrived  In  Pluto's  shade, 
His  nounM  and  pronouns  all  so  pat  in, 

Pluto  hinifelf  would  be  afraid 
To  say  his  »)urs  hia  own,  in  I.ntin  I 

Se«j  for  (he«e  lines  the  "  Auctorum  Ceniiio"  of  Du  Verdicr, 
(pl«oS9.) 


(87)  It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  Martin  Luther,  with  all 
his  talents  for  reforming,  should  yet  be  vulgar  enough  to  laugh 
at  Camerarius  for  writing  to  him  in  Greek.  •■'  Master  Joachim 
(says  he;  has  sent  me  some  dates  and  some  raisins,  and  has 
also  written  me  two  letters  in  Greek.  As  soon  as  I  am  recov- 
ered, I  shall  answer  them  in  Turkish,  that  he  too  may  have  the 
pleaam"e  of  reading  what  he  does  not  understand,'*  "Gripca 
sunt,  legi  non  possunt,"'  is  the  ignorant  speech  attributed  to 
Accursius ;  but  very  unjustly: — for,  far  from  asserting  that 
Greek  could  not  be  read,  that  worthy  jurisconsult  upon  the 
Law  6.  D.  de  Honor.  Possess,  expressly  says,  "Gr;ec;e  literie 
possunt  inlelligi  et  legi.''  (Vide  Nov.  Libror.  Rarior.  Collection. 
Fascic.  IV.)— Scipio  Carteromachus  seems  to  have  been  of 
opinion  that  there  is  no  salvation  out  of  the  pale  of  Greek 
Literature  :  *'  \'ia  prima  salutis  Graii  pandetiir  ah  urbe ;"  and 
the  zeal  of  Laurentius  Rhodoinaunus  cannot  be  suflkieully 
admired,  when  he  exhorts  his  countrymen,  '•  per  gloriam 
Christi,  per  salutem  palri^,  per  reipublicic  decus  et  emolu- 
mentum,"'  to  study  the  (.Ireek  language.  Nor  must  we  forget 
Phavorinus,  the  excellent  Bishop  of  Nocera,  who,  careless  of 
all  the  usual  commendations  of  a  Christian,  requirt-tl  no  further 
eulogium  on  his  lumb  than  ''Here  lieth  a  Greek  Lexicogra- 
pher." 

(88)  'O  iravt". — The  introduction  of  this  language  into  English 
poetry  has  had  a  good  effect,  and  ought  to  be  more  universally 
adopted.  A  word  or  two  of  Greek  in  a  stanza  would  serve  as 
ballast  to  the  most  "light  o'  love"  verses.  Ausonius,  among 
the  ancients,  m.ay  serve  as  a  model.  Ronsani,  the  French  poet, 
has  enriched  his  sonnets  and  odes  with  many  an  excellcut 
morsel  from  the  Lexicon.  His  "chcro  Entelcchie,"  in  address- 
ing his  mistress,.can  only  bo  equalled  by  Cowley's  "  Autipei^ 
istasis." 

(89)  Or  Glass-Breaker.— Morhoflus  has  given  an  account  of 
this  extraordinary  man,  in  a  work,  published  108-,—"  I)e  \  ilreo 
scypho  fracto,"  &c. 

(90)  Translated  almost  literally  from  a  passage  in  Albertus 
de  Secretis,  &.c. 

(91)  Alludhig  to  that  habitual  act  of  the  judgment,  by  which, 
notwithstanding  the  inversion  of  the  image  upon  the  retina,  a 
correct  impression  of  the  object  is  conveyed  to  the  seusoriura. 

(9i!)  Under  this  description,  I  believe  "  the  Devil  among  the 
Scholars"  may  be  included.  Vet  Leibnitz  found  out  the  uses 
of  incomprehensibility,  when  ho  was  apj)ointed  secretary  to  a 
society  of  philosophers  al  Nuremberg,  chiefly  fur  his  ingenuity 
in  writing  a  cahalislieal  letter,  not  one  word  of  which  either 
they  or  himself  could  interpret.  Sec  the  Kloge  Ilistoiiquede  M. 
do  LeibnltArEuropePavaute.— People  in  all  ages  have  loved  to 
bo  puzzled.  Wc  find  Cicero  thanking  Atticus  for  having  sent 
him  a  work  of  Sernpion  "ex  quo  (says  he)  quldeiu  ego  (quod 
Inter  nos  licuat  dicere)  millesimam  partem  vix  Intelligo.'* 
Lib.  il.  ejiist.  4.  And  we  know  tlnit  .\\iieiinn,  the  learned 
Arabian,  read  Aristotle's  Metaphysics  forty  tiuien  over  for  thn 
mere  pleasure  of  being  able  to  infcrm  tho  world  that  he  could 
uot  comprehend  one  syllable  throughout  Ihem.  (Nlcdaa 
Massa  In  Vit.  Avicon.) 


POEMS  EELATIIG  TO  AMERICA. 


FRANCIS,    EARL    OF    MOIRA, 

OENEBAI.   IN    Hia    MAJESTY'S    F0ttCE3,    MASTEa-OENEEAL    OF   THE    OBDNANOE, 
CONSTABLE    OF   THE   TOWEE,    ETa 


Mr  Lore, 

It  is  impossible  to  think  of  addressing  a  Dedica- 
tion to  your  Lordship  without  calling  to  mind  the 
well-known  reply  of  the  Spartan  to  a  rhetorician, 
who  proposed  to  pronounce  an  eulogium  on  Her- 
cules. "  On  Hercules !"  said  the  honest  Spartan, 
"who  ever  thought  of  blaming  Hercules?"  In  a 
similar  manner  the  concurrence  of  public  opinion 
has  left  to  the  panegyrist  of  your  Lordship  a  very 
Bupcrfluous  task.     I  shall,  therefore,  bo  silent  on 


the  subject,  and  merely  entreat  your  indulgence  to 
the  very  humble  tribute  of  gratitude  which  I  have 
here  the  honor  to  present. 
I  am,  my  Lord, 

With  every  feeling  of  attachment 
and  respect, 
Your  Lordship's  very  devoted  Servant, 

THOMAS  MOOR 

27  Bury  Street,  St.  James's, 
Mprit  10,  1806. 


POEMS  RELATING  TO  AMERICA. 


LORD  VISCOUNT  STRANGFORD. 

ABOARD   THE    PHAETON    FRIOATE,   OFF  THE    AZORES,  BY 
MOONLIQUT. 

Sweet  Moon  !  if,  like  Crotona's  sage,' 

By  any  spell  my  hand  could  dare 
To  make  thy  disk  its  ample  page. 

And  write  my  thoughts,  my  wishes  there ; 
How  many  a  friend,  whose  careless  eye 
Now  wanders  o'er  that  starry  sky. 
Should  smile,  upon  thy  orb  to  meet 
The  recollection,  kind  and  sweet. 
The  reveries  of  fond  regret, 
The  promise,  never  to  forget. 
And  all  my  heart  and  soul  would  send 
To  many  a  dear-'oved,  distant  friend. 


How  little,  when  we  parted  last, 
I  thought  those  pleasant  limes  were  past. 
For  ever  past,  when  brilliant  joy 
Was  all  my  vacant  heart's  employ  : 
When,  fresh  from  mirth  to  mirth  again, 

We  thought  the  rapid  hours  too  few ; 
Our  only  use  for  knowledge  then 

To  gather  bliss  from  all  we  knew. 
Delicious  days  of  whim  and  soul ! 

When,  mingling  lore  and  laugh  together, 
We  lean'd  the  book  on  Pleasure's  bowl. 

And  turn'd  the  leaf  with  Folly's  feather. 
Little  I  thought  that  all  were  fled. 
That,  ere  that  summer's  bloom  was  shed. 
My  eye  should  see  the  sail  unfurl'd 
That  wafts  me  to  tho  wcBtern  world. 


140 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


And  yet,  'twas  time  ;— in  youth's  sweet  days, 
To  cool  that  season's  glowing  rays. 
The  heart  awhile,  with  wanton  wing, 
Mav  dip  and  dive  in  Pleasure's  spring ; 
But,  if  it  wait  for  winter's  breeze 
The  spring  will  chill,  the  heart  will  freeze. 
And  then,  that  Hope,  that  fairy  Hope, — 

Oh !  she  awaked  such  happy  dreams, 
And  gave  my  soul  such  tempting  scope 

For  all  its  dearest,  fondest  schemes, 
That  not  Verona's  child  of  song, 

When  flying  from  the  Phrygian  shore, 
With  lighter  heart  could  bound  along. 

Or  pant  to  be  a  wand'rer  more!" 
Even  now  delusive  hope  will  steal 
Amid  the  dark  regrets  I  feel. 
Soothing,  as  yonder  placid  beam 

Pursues  the  murmurers  of  the  deep, 
And  lights  them  with  consoling  gleam, 

And  .smiles  them  into  triinquil  sleep. 
Oh!  such  a  blessed  night  as  tliis, 

I  often  think,  if  friends  were  near, 
Mow  we  should  feel,  and  gaze  with  bliss 

Upon  the  moon-bright  scenery  here! 
The  sea  is  like  a  silvery  lake. 

And  o'er  its  calm  the  vessel  glides 
Gently,  as  if  it  fear'd  to  wake 

The  slumber  of  the  silent  tides. 
The  only  envious  cloud  that  lowers 

Hath  hung  its  shade  on  Pico's  height,' 
Where  dimly,  mid  the  dusk,  he  towers. 

And  scowling  at  this  hcav'n  of  light, 
E.vults  to  see  the  infant  storm 
Cling  darkly  round  his  giant  form! 

Now,  could  I  range  those  verdant  isles, 

Invisible  ai  this  soft  hour, 
And  see  the  looks,  the  beaming  smiles. 

That  brighten  many  an  orange  bower ; 
And  could  I  lift  c;ich  pious  veil. 

And  see  the  blushing  cheek  it  shades, — 
Oh !  I  should  have  full  many  a  tide. 

To  Icll  of  young  Azorian  maids.* 
Yes,  Sirangford,  at  this  hour,  perhaps, 

Some  lover  (not  too  idly  blest. 
Like  tho.se,  who  in  their  ladies'  laps 

May  cradle  every  wish  to  rest) 
Warbles,  to  touch  his  dear  one's  soul, 

Those  madrigals,  of  i)reath  divine, 
Which  Camoens'  harp  from  Rapture  stole 

And  gave,  nil  glowing  warm,  to  thine.* 
Oh !  could  (he  lover  learn  from  thee, 

And  breathe  (licm  wilh  thy  graceful  tone, 
Much  Hwect,  licgiiiling  ininstrelsy 

Would  make  the  rnldcst  nymph  lii»  own. 


But,  hark ! — the  boatswain's  pipings  tell 
'Tis  time  to  bid  my  dream  farewell: 
Eight  bells: — the  middle  watch  is  set; 
Good  niglit,  my  Strangford  ! — ne'er  forget 
That,  far  beyond  the  western  sea 
Is  one,  whose  heart  remembers  thee. 


STANZAS. 

A  BEAJt  of  tranquillity  smiled  in  the  west. 

The  storms  of  the  morning  pursued  us  no  more 

And  the  wave,  while  it  welcomed  the  moment  of  rest, 
Still  heaved,  as  remembering  ills  that  wore  o'er. 

Serenely  my  he.irt  took  the  hue  of  the  hour. 

Its  passions  were  sleeping,  were  mute  as  the  dead ; 

And  the  spirit  becalm'd  but  remember'd  their  power, 
As  the  billow  the  force  of  the  gale  th.at  was  lied. 

I  tliought  of  tliose  days,  when  to  pleasure  alone 
My  heart  ever  granted  a  wisli  or  a  sigh; 

When  the  saddest  emotion  my  bosom  had  known. 
Was  pity  for  those  who  were  wiser  than  I. 

I  retloeted,  how  soon  in  the  cup  of  Desire 
The  pearl  of  the  soul  may  be  melted  away  ; 

How  quickly,  alas,  the  l)ure  sparkle  of  fire 

We  inherit  from  hcav'n,  may  be  quench'd  in  tho 

clay  ; 

And  I  jiray'd  of  thiit  Spirit  who  lighted  the  flame, 
Tliat  Pleasure  no  more  might  its  purity  dim; 

So  that,  sullied  but  little,  or  brightly  the  same, 
I  might  give  back  the  boon  1  had  hurrow'd  from 
him. 

How  blest  was  the  tliought !  it  appcar'd  as  if  Heaven 
Had  already  an  opening  to  Paradise  shown ; 

As  if,  passion  all  chasten'd  and  error  forgiven. 
My  heart  then  began  to  he  purely  its  own. 

I  look'd  to  the  west,  and  the  boaulifnl  sky. 

Which   morning  li.id    eloudod,  was  clouded  no 
more : 

"  Oh !  thus,"  I  exclaim'd,  "  may  a  heavenly  eyo 
"  Shed  light  on  the  soul  th.il  was  darken'd  before." 


TO  TlIU  KLTINO  FISU." 

When  I  have  seen  thy  snow-white  wing 
Krom  the  Muo  wave  at  evening  spring, 


POEMS  EELATING  TO  AMERICA. 


141 


And  shjw  those  scales  of  silvery  white, 
So  g:iyly  to  tlie  eye  of  liglit, 
As  if  tliy  frame  were  forrn'd  to  rise, 
And  live  amid  the  glorious  skies ; 
Oil !  it  has  made  me  jiroudly  feel. 
How  like  thy  wing's  impatient  zeal 
Is  tlie  pure  soul,  that  rests  not,  pent 
Within  this  world's  gross  element, 
But  takes  the  wing  that  God  has  given. 
And  rises  into  light  and  heaven ! 

But,  when  I  see  that  wing,  so  bright. 
Grow  languid  with  a  moment's  flight, 
Attempt  the  paths  of  air  in  vain, 
And  sink  into  the  waves  again ; 
Alas!  the  flattering  pride  is  o'er; 
Like  thee,  awhile,  the  soul  may  soar. 
But  erring  man  must  blush  to  Ihink, 
Like  thee,  again  the  soul  may  sink. 

Oil  Virtue !  when  thy  clime  I  seek. 
Let  not  my  spirit's  flight  be  weak : 
Let  me  not,  like  this  feeble  thing. 
With  brine  still  dropping  from  its  wing. 
Just  sparkle  in  the  solar  glow 
And  plunge  again  to  depths  below; 
But,  when  I  leave  the  grosser  throng 
With  whom  my  soul  hath  dwelt  so  long. 
Let  me,  in  that  aspiring  day. 
Cast  every  lingering  stain  away. 
And,  panting  for  thy  purer  air, 
Fly  up  at  once  and  fix  me  there. 


MISS  MOORE. 

FROM   NORFOLK,  IN  VIRGINIA,  NOVKMBER,  1803. 

In  days,  my  Kate,  when  life  was  new. 
When,  lull'd  with  innocence  and  you, 
I  heard,  in  home's  beloved  shade. 
The  din  the  world  at  distance  made; 
When,  every  night  my  weary  head 
Sunk  on  its  own  unthorned  bed. 
And,  mild  as  evening's  matron  hour, 
Looks  on  the  faintly  shutting  flower, 
A  mother  saw  our  eyelids  close. 
And  bless'd  them  into  pure  repose ; 
Then,  haply  if  a  week,  a  d.iy, 
I  lingor'd  from  that  home  away. 
How  long  the  little  absence  seem'd ! 
How  bright  the  look  of  welcome  beam'd. 
As  mute  you  heard,  with  eager  smile. 
My  tales  of  all  that  pass'd  the  while! 


Yet  now,  my  K.ate,  a  gloomy  sea 
Rolls  wide  between  th.-it  home  and  me ; 
The  moon  may  thrice  be  born  and  die. 
Ere  ev'n  that  seal  can  reach  mine  eye. 
Which  used  so  oft,  so  quick  to  come, 
Still  breathing  all  the  breath  of  home, — 
As  if,  still  fresh,-the  cordial  air 
From  lips  beloved  were  lingering  there. 
But  now,  alas, — far  diferent  fate! 
It  comes  o'er  ocean,  slow  and  late, 
When  the  dear  hand  that  fill'd  its  fold 
With  words  of  sweetness  may  lie  cold. 

But  hence  that  gloomy  thought !  at  last, 
Beloved  Kate,  the  w,aves  are  past: 
I  tread  on  earth  securely  now. 
And  the  green  cedar's  living  bough 
Breathes  more  refreshment  to  my  eyes 
Than  could  a  Claude's  divinest  dyes, 
At  length  I  touch  the  happy  sphere 
To  liberty  and  virtue  dear, 
Where  man  looks  up,  and,  proud  to  claim 
His  rank  within  the  social  frame. 
Sees  a  grand  system  round  him  roll, 
Himself  its  centre,  sun,  and  soul ! 
Far  from  the  shocks  of  Europe — far 
From  every  wild,  elliptic  star 
That,  shooting  with  a  devious  fire, 
Kindled  by  heaven's  avenging  ire. 
So  oft  hath  into  chaos  hurl'd 
The  systems  of  the  ancient  world. 

The  warrior  here,  in  arms  no  more, 
Thinks  of  the  toil,  the  conflict  o'er. 
And  glorying  in  the  freedom  won 
For  hearth  and  shrine,  for  sire  and  son. 
Smiles  on  the  dusky  webs  that  hide 
His  sleeping  sword's  reraember'd  pride. 
While  Peace,  with  sunny  cheeks  of  toil. 
Walks  o'er  the  free,  unlorded  soil, 
Effacing  with  her  splendid  share 
The  drops  that  war  had  sprinkled  there. 
Thrice  happy  land !  where  he  who  flies 
From  the  dark  ills  of  other  skies. 
From  scorn,  or  want's  unnerving  woes. 
May  shelter  him  in  proud  repose  : 
Hope  sings  along  the  yellow  sand 
His  welcome  to  a  patriot  land ; 
The  mighty  wood,  with  pomp,  receives 
The  stranger  in  its  world  of  leaves. 
Which  soon  their  baiTen  glory  yield 
To  the  w.arm  shed  and  cultured  field; 
And  he,  who  came,  of  all  bereft. 
To  whom  malignant  fate  had  left 
Nor  home  nor  friends  nor  country  de.ir, 
Finds  home  and  friends  and  country  here. 


142 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


So  here  I  pau^-i — and  now,  my  Kate, 
To  you,  and  those  dear  friends,  v.iiose  fate 
Touches  more  near  tliis  hvime-sick  soul 
Than  all  the  Powers  from  iK>le  to  pole, 
One  word  at  parting — in  the  tone 
Most  sweet  to  you,  and  most  my  own. 
The  simple  sti-ain  I  send  you  here,' 
Wild  though  it  be,  would  charm  your  ear 
Did  you  but  know  the  trance  of  thought 
In  which  my  mind  its  numbers  caught 
'Twas  one  of  those  half-waking  dreams, 
That  haunt  me  oft,  when  music  seems 
To  bear  my  soul  in  sound  along, 
And  turn  its  feelings  all  to  song. 
I  thought  of  home,  the  according  lays 
Came  full  of  dreams  of  other  days ; 
Freshly  in  each  succeeding  note 
I  found  some  young  remembrance  float. 
Till  following,  as  a  clew,  that  strain, 
r  wander'd  b.ack  to  home  again. 

Oh  1  love  the  song,  and  let  it  oft 
Live  on  your  lip,  in  accents  soft. 
Say  that  it  tells  you,  simply  well, 
All  I  have  bid  its  wild  notes  tell, — 
Of  Memory's  dream,  of  thoughts  that  yet 
Glow  with  the  light  of  joy  that's  set, 
And  all  the  fond  heart  keeps  in  store 
Of  friends  and  scenes  beheld  no  more. 
And  now,  adieu  I — this  artless  air, 
With  a  few  rhymes,  in  transcript  fair. 
Are  all  the  gifts  I  yet  can  boast 
To  send  you  from  Columbia's  coast; 
But  when  the  sun,  with  warmer  smile, 
Shall  light  me  to  my  destined  isle,* 
You  shall  have  many  a  cowslip-bell, 
Wliere  Ariel  slept,  and  many  a  shell. 
In  which  th.'it  gentle  spirit  drew 
From  honey  flowers  the  morning  dew. 


A  BALLAD. 
Tin:  i.AKi:  of  tiii;  dism.\l  hwamp. 

WRITTKrf    AT    NURrULK,    1:1    VIROINIA. 

■^TlK-jr  Icll  of  a  yoiln^  man,  who  liint  hia  riiliid  upon  (tie 
(Irnltl  iir  n  icirl  lit*  Iuvi!<l,  ontl  wlio,  suil'lcnly  dlviippcnriiiK  rrtiin 
liiM  rrii-iirlN,  wan  nt>vt>r  nriiTwarJs  iK-iiril  of,  Att  ho  ttati  fre- 
qiinitly  nnld.  tn  hia  mvlnt(ii,  thai  tho  Rlrl  was  not  dnnd,  lint 
K<ioc*  Ui  llii<  IliMmnl  Hwnmp,  It  In  utippowtd  ho  had  wiuidercd 
IfiUj  lliat  drrary  wlldcniriiii.  and  hud  diird  of  hunger,  or  boon 
lo«t  In  lomi'  «if  lu  drrailfid  mMrniiHcfi." — .'Innn, 

^Im  I'lti'nin  a  Hi'ti   inoMNtrt'ti  coniiiin  In  uatiiro.*' — D'Ai.kh 

■  tRT. 

"Tili:v  maijc  Imt  a  grave,  Ion  ciilil  uiid  damj) 
"For  a  Boul  so  warm  and  true; 


"  And  she's  gone  to  tlie  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 
"Where,  all  night  long,  by  a  tire-fly  lamp, 
"She  paddles  her  white  canoe. 

"  And  her  lire-fly  lamp  I  soon  shall  see, 

"And  her  paddle  I  soon  shall  hear; 
"  Long  and  loving  our  life  shall  be, 
"  And  I'll  hide  the  maid  in  a  cypress  tree, 
"  When  the  footstep  of  death  is  near." 

Away  to  the  Dismal  Swamp  he  speeds-^ 

His  path  was  rugged  and  sore, 
Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds. 
Through  many  a  fen,  where  the  serpent  feeds. 

And  man  never  trod  before. 

And,  when  on  the  earth  ho  sunk  to  sleep. 

If  slumber  his  eyelids  knew, 
He  lay,  where  the  deadly  vine  doth  weep 
Its  venomous  tear  and  nightly  steep 

The  flesh  with  blistering  dew ! 

And  near  him  the  she-wolf  stirr'd  the  brake, 
And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in  his  ear. 
Till  he  starting  cried,  from  his  dream  awake, 
"Oh!  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  Lake, 
"And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear?" 

He  saw  the  Lake,  and  a  meteor  bright 

Quick  over  its  surface  plny'd — 
"  Welcome,"  he  said,  "  my  dear  one's  light !" 
And  the  dim  shore  echoed,  for  many  a  night. 

The  name  of  the  death-cold  maid. 

Till  he  liollow'd  a  boat  of  the  birchen  bark. 

Which  carried  hitn  off  from  shore  ; 
Far,  far  ho  tollow'd  the  meteor  spark, 
The  wind  was  high  and  the  clouds  were  dark. 
And  tlie  boat  relurn'd  no  more. 

But  oft,  from  tho  Indian  hunter's  camp. 

This  lover  and  maid  so  true 
Are  seen  at  the  hour  of  midniglit  damp 
To  cross  the  Lake  by  a  fire-fly  lamp, 

And  paddle  their  while  cancel 


TO    THE 

MARCUIONESS  DOWAGER  OV  PONEOALL 
rnoM  iiKRMrnA,  jaritarv,  ltf04. 

Lady  !  where'er  you  roam,  whatever  land 
WooM  the  bright  toiicheN  of  that  artist  hand  ; 
Wliclhi'r  you  nkelch  the  v.'iIley'H  golijen  ineads, 
Where  mazy  Linlh  his  liiiijcring  current  Icadrj;" 


POEMS  RELATING  TO  AMERICA. 


143 


Enanior'd  «ati^li  llie  iiuOlow  hues  that  sleep, 
At  evf   oil  Mc'iUi'rie'H  iiuiuui'tiil  steep; 
Or  iiiiKinjj  o'er  llie  Lake,  at  day's  deelino, 
Mark  tlie  last  sliadovv  on  tliat  holy  shrine," 
Where,  many   a   iii^'ht,   the   shade   of  Tell  com- 
plains 
Of  Gallia's  triumph  and  Helvetia's  cliains. 

Oil !  lay  the  pencil  for  a  moment  by, 
Turn  fioin  the  canvass  that  creative  eye. 
And  let  its  splendor,  like  the  morning  ray 
Upon  a  shepherd's  harp,  illume  my  lay. 

Yet,  Lady,  no — for  song  so  rude  .as  mine. 
Chase  not  the  wonders  of  your  art  divine; 
Slill,  radiant  eye,  upon  tlie  canvass  dwell ; 
Still,  magic  linger,  weave  your  potent  spell; 
And,  while  I  sing  the  animated  smiles 
Of  fairy  n.ature  in  these  sun-born  isles. 
Oh,  might  the  song  awiike  some  bright  design. 
Inspire  a  touch,  or  prompt  one  happy  line. 
Proud  tt'cre  my  soul,  to  see  its  humble  thought 
On  painting's  mirror  so  divinely  caught; 
While  wondering  Genius,  as  he  lean'd  to  trace 
The  flint  conception  kindling  into  grace. 
Might  love  my  numbers  for  the  spark  they  threw. 
And  bless  the  lay  that  lent  a  charm  to  you. 

Say,  have  you  ne'er,  in  nightly  vision,  str.ay'd 
To  those  pure  isles  of  ever-blooming  shade. 
Which  bards  of  old,  with  kindly  fancy,  placed 
For  happy  spirits  in  tli'  Atlantic  waste  ? ''' 
There  listening,  while,  from  earth,  each  breeze  that 

came 
Brought  echoes  of  their  own  undying  fame. 
In  elor[uence  of  eye,  and  dreams  of  song. 
They  eharm'd  their  lapse  of  nightless  hours  along : — 
Nor  yet  in  song,  that  mortal  e.ar  might  suit. 
For  every  spirit  w.as  itself  a  lute. 
Where  Virtue  vvaken'd,  with  elysian  breeze. 
Pure  tones  of  thought  and  mental  harmonies. 

Believe  me,  Lady,  when  the  zephyrs  bland 
Floated  our  bark  to  this  enchanted  land, — 
These  leafy  isles  upon  the  ocean  thrown. 
Like  studs  of  emerald  o'er  a  silver  zone, — 
Not  all  the  charm,  that  ethnic  fancy  ga:ve 
To  blessed  arbors  o'er  the  western  wave. 
Could  wake  a  dream,  more  soothing  or  sublime, 
Of  bowers  ethereal,  and  the  Spirit's  clime. 

Bright  rose  the  morning,  every  wave  w.as  still. 
When  the  first  perfume  of  a  cedar  hill 
Sweetly  .awaked  us,  and,  with  smiling  charms. 
The  fairy  harbor  woo'd  us  to  its  arras." 


Gently  we  stole,  before  the  whisp'ring  wind. 
Through  plantain  shades,  tliat  round,  like  awnings, 

twined 
And  kiss'd  on  either  side  the  wanton  sails, 
Breathing  our  welcome  to  these  verna!  vales; 
While,  far  reflected  o'er  the  wave  serene. 
Each  wooded  island  shed  so  soft  a  green 
Th.at  the  enanior'd  keel,  with  vvliisp'ring  play. 
Through  liquid  herbage  seein'd  to  steal  its  w.ay. 

Never  did  weary  bark  more  gladly  glide. 
Or  rest  its  anchor  in  a  lovelier  tide  I 
Along  the  margin,  many  a  shining  dome. 
White  as  the  palace  of  a  Lapland  gnome, 
Brighten'd  tlie  wave ; — in  every  myrtle  grove 
Secluded  bashful,  like  a  shrine  of  love. 
Some  elhn  mansion  sparkled  through  the  sh.ade; 
And,  while  the  foliage  interposing  phiy'd. 
Lending  the  scene  an  over-changing  grace. 
Fancy  would  love,  in  glimpses  vague,  to  trace 
The  iiowery  capital,  the  shaft,  the  porch," 
And  dream  of  temples,  till  her  kindling  torch 
Lighted  me  back  to  all  the  glorious  days 
Of  Attic  genius;  and  I  seein'd  to  gaze 
On  marble,  from  the  rich  Pentelic  mount. 
Gracing  the  umbrage  of  some  Naiad's  fount. 

Then  thought  I,  too,  of  thee,  most  sweet  of  all 
The  spirit  r.ace  that  come  at  poet's  call. 
Delicate  Ariel !  who,  in  brighter  hours. 
Lived  on  the  perfume  of  these  honey'd  bowers, 
In  velvet  buds,  at  evening,  loved  to  lie. 
And  win  with  music  every  rose's  sigh. 
Though  weak  the  magic  of  my  humble  strain 
To  ch.arm  your  spirit  from  its  orb  again. 
Yet,  oh,  for  her,  beneath  whose  smile  I  sing, 
For  her  (whose  pencil,  if  your  rainbow  wing 
Were  dimin'd  or  ruffled  by  a  wintry  sky. 
Could  smooth  its  feather  and  relume  its  dye,) 
Descend  a  moment  from  your  starry  sphere. 
And,  if  the  lime-tree  grove  th.at  once  was  dear, 
The  sunny  wave,  the  bower,  the  breezy  hill. 
The  sparkling  grotto  can  delight  you  still, 
Oh  cull  their  choicest  tints,  their  softest  light, 
Weave  all  these  spells  into  one  dream  of  night. 
And,  while  the  lovely  artist  slumbering  lies. 
Shed  the  warm  picture  o'er  her  mental  eyes ; 
Take  for  the  task  her  own  creative  spells, 
.\nd  brightly  show  what  song  but  faintly  tella 


144 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


GEORGE    MORGAN,    ESQ. 

OF  NORFOLK,  VlRGX.SIA.l^ 
FBOM    BEainlDA,    JAXUAKT,    1804. 

Oh,  what  a  sea  of  storm  we've  pass'd ! — 

High  mountain  waves  and  foamy  sliowers, 
And  battling  winds  whose  savage  blast 

But  ill  agrees  with  one  whose  hours 

Have  pass'd  in  old  Anacreon's  bowers. 
Yet  think  not  poesy's  bright  charm 
Forsook  me  in  this  rude  alarm; — '° 
When  close  they  reef'd  the  timid  sail, 

When,  every  plank  complaining  loud. 
We  l.ibor'd  in  the  midnight  gale. 

And  ev'n  our  haughty  mainmast  bow'd. 
Even  then,  in  that  unlovely  hour. 
The  Muse  still  brought  her  soothing  power, 
And,  midst  the  war  of  waves  and  wind, 
In  song's  Elysium  lapp'd  ray  mind. 
Nay,  when  no  numbers  of  my  own 
Responded  to  her  wakening  tone, 
She  open'd,  with  her  golden  key, 

The  casket  where  my  memory  lays. 
Those  gems  of  classic  poesy. 

Which  time  has  saved  from  ancient  days. 

Take  one  oflhcse,  to  Lais  sung, — 
1  wrote  it  while  my  hammock  swung. 
As  one  might  write  a  dissertjition 
Upon  "  Suspended  Animation !" 

Sweet"  is  your  kiss,  my  Lais  dear. 
But,  with  that  kiss  I  feel  a  tear 
Gush  from  your  eyelids,  such  as  start 
When  those  who've  dearly  loved  must  part. 
Sadly  you  lean  your  head  to  mine. 
And  mute  those  arms  around  me  twine. 
Your  hair  adown  my  bosom  spread, 
All  glittering  with  the  tears  you  shed. 
In  vain  I've  kiss'd  those  lids  of  snow, 
For  still,  like  ceaseless  founts  they  How, 
Bathing  our  cheeks,  whene'er  they  meet. 
Why  is  it  thus?  do  tell  me,  sweet! 
All,  I<!iis!  arc  my  bodings  right? 
Am  I  to  lose  you?  is  to-night 

Our  last go,  false  to  heaven  and  uie  I 

Your  very  tears  are  treachery. 


Stjcii,  while  ill  air  I  lloatiiig  hung, 
Siicli  was  the  slrain,  Morgantc  inio  ! 

The  muse  and  I  togcllicr  sung, 
Willi  Uorcas  to  make  out  the  trio. 


But,  bless  the  little  fairy  isle ! 

How  sweetly  aftei-  all  our  ills, 
We  saw  tlie  sunny  morning  smile 

Serenely  o'er  its  fragrant  hills ; 
And  felt  the  pure,  delicious  flow 
Of  airs,  that  round  this  Eden  blow 
Freshly  as  ev'n  the  gales  that  come 
O'er  our  own  kealthy  hills  at  home. 
Could  you  but  view  the  scenery  fair. 

That  now  beneath  my  window  lies, 
You'd  think,  that  nature  lavish'd  there 

Her  purest  w'ave,  her  softest  skies. 
To  make  a  heaven  for  love  to  sigh  in, 
For  bards  to  live  and  saints  to  die  in. 
Close  to  my  wooded  bank  below. 

In  glassy  calm  the  waters  sleep. 
And  to  the  sunbeam  proudly  show 

The  coral  rocks  they  love  to  steep." 
The  fainting  breeze  of  morning  fails  ; 

The  drowsy  boat  moves  slowly  past. 
And  I  can  almost  touch  its  sails 

As  loose  they  flap  around  the  mast. 
The  noontide  sun  a  splendor  pours 
That  lights  up  all  these  leafy  shores; 
While  Ills  own  heav'n,  its  clouds  and  beams, 

So  pictured  in  the  waters  lie. 
That  eacli  small  bark,  in  passing,  seems    ■ 

To  lloat  along  a  burning  sky. 

Oh  for  the  pinnace  lent  to  thee," 

Blest  dreamer,  who,  in  vision  bright. 
Didst  sail  o'er  heaven's  solar  sea 

And  touch  at  all  its  isles  of  light. 
Sweet  Venus,  what  a  clime. he  found 
Within  thy  orb's  ambrosial  round! — "" 
There  spring  the  breezes,  rich  and  warm, 

That  sigh  around  thy  vesper  car ; 
And  angels  dwell,  so  pure  of  form 

That  each  ap))ears  a  living  star."' 
These  are  the  sjiritcs,  celestial  queen! 

Thou  scndest  niglilly  to  the  bed 
Of  her  I  love,  with  touch  unseen 

Thy  planet's  bright'ning  tints  to  she.l  •■ 
To  lend  that  eye  a  light  still  clcarei. 

To  give  that  cheek  one  rose-blush  more, 
And  bid  that  bhishing  lip  he  dearer, 

Which  had  been  all  too  dear  before. 

Hut,  whither  means  the  muse  to  loiim? 

'Tis  lime  to  call  the  wand'rer  home. 

Who  could  have  thought  the  uympli  vmmiU 

perch  her 
Up  in  the  olouds  with  F.ilhcr  Kiiclier; 
So,  health  and  Iom-  to  all  your  mansion  ! 
Ijong  may  the  bowl  that  pleasures  bloom  in, 


POEMS  EELATING  TO  AMERICA. 


145 


Tlie  flow  of  heart,  the  soul's  expansion, 
Mirth  and  soiifj,  your  ImarJ  illumine. 

At  all  your  leasts,  remember  too, 

When  cups  are  sparkling  to  the  brim. 

That  hero  is  one  who  drinks  to  you, 
And,  oh !  .as  warmly  drink  to  him. 


LINES, 

WEIITKN    IN    A   STOKM    AT   SEA. 

That  sky  of  clouds  is  not  the  sky 
To  light  a  lover  to  the  pillow 

Of  her  he  loves — 
The  swell  of  yonder  foaming  billow 
Resembles  not  the  h.appy  sigh 

That  rapture  moves. 

Sfet  do  I  feel  more  tranquil  far 
Amid  the  gloomy  wilds  of  ocean, 

In  this  dark  hour, 
Than  when,  in  p.assion's  young  emotion, 
I've  stolen,  beneatli  the  evening  star. 

To  Juli.a's  bower. 

Oh !  there's  a  holy  calm  profound 
In  awe  like  this,  th.at  ne'er  was  given 

To  pleasure's  thrill ; 
'Tis  as  a  solemn  voice  from  heaven, 
And  the  soul,  listening  to  the  sound, 

Lies  mute  and  still. 

'Tis  true,  it  talks  of  danger  nigh. 

Of  slumb'ring  with  the  dead  to-morrow 

In  the  cold  deep, 
Where  pleasure's  throb  or  tears  of  sorrow 
No  more  shall  wake  the  heart  or  eye, 

But  all  must  sleep. 

Well ! — there  are  some,  thou  stormy  bed, 
To  whom  thy  sleep  would  be  a  treasure  ; 

Oh !  most  to  him, 
Whose  lip  hath  drain'd  life's  cup  of  ple.isure. 
Nor  left  one  honey  drop  to  shed 

Round  sorrow's  brim. 

Yes — he  can  smile  serene  .at  death : 

Kind  heaven,  do  thou  but  ch.ase  the  weeping 

Of  friends  who  love  him ; 
Tell  them  that  he  lies  calmly  sleeping 
Where  sorrow's  sting  or  envy's  breath 

No  more  shall  move  him. 
VOL.  n. — 19 


ODES  TO   NEA; 

WniTTLN  AT  DEHMUDA. 

Nat,  tempt  me  not  to  love  again. 

There  was  a  time  when  love  was  sweet ; 
Dear  Nea !  had  I  known  thee  then. 

Our  souls  had  not  been  slow  to  meet. 
But,  oh,  this  weary  heart  hath  run. 

So  many  a  time,  the  rounds  of  pain, 
Not  ev'n  for  thee,  thou  lovely  one, 

Would  I  endure  such  pangs  again. 

If  there  be  climes,  where  never  yet 
The  print  of  beauty's  foot  was  set, 
Where  man  may  p.ass  his  loveless  nights, 
Unfever'd  by  her  false  delights. 
Thither  my  wounded  soul  would  fly, 
Where  rosy  cheek  or  r.adiant  eye 
Should  bring  no  more  their  bliss,  or  pain, 
Nor  fetter  me  to  earth  again. 

Dear  absent  girl !  whose  eyes  of  light, 

Though  little  prized  when  all  my  own, 
Now  float  before  me,  soft  and  bright 

As  when  they  first  enamoring  shone, — 
What  hours  and  days  have  I  seen  glide. 
While  fix'd,  enchanted,  by  thy  side, 
Unmindful  of  the  fleeting  day, 
I've  let  life's  dream  dissolve  away. 
O  bloom  of  youth  profusely  shed 
O  moments !  simply,  vainly  sped. 
Yet  sweetly  too — for  Love  perfumed 
The  flame  which  thus  my  life  consumed; 
And  brillkant  was  the  chain  of  flowers, 
In  which  he  led  my  victim-hours. 

S.ay,  Nea,  say,  couldst  thou,  like  her. 
When  warm  to  feel  and  quick  to  err, 
Of  loving  fond,  of  roving  fonder, 
This  thoughtless  soul  might  wish  to  wander,- 
Couldst  thou,  like  her,  the  wish  reclaim, 

Endearing  still,  repro.aching  never. 
Till  ev'n  this  heart  should  burn  with  sh.ame, 

And  be  thy  own  raoi'e  fix'd  than  ever? 
No,  no — on  earth  there's  only  one 

Could  bind  such  l:iithles3  folly  fast; 
And  sure  on  earth  but  one  alone 

Could  make  such  virtue  false  at  last! 

Nea,  the  heart  which  she  forsook, 

For  thee  were  but  a  worthless  shrino — 

Go,  lovely  girl,  that  angel  look 

Must  thrill  a  soul  more  pure  th.an  mine. 


146 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Oh!  tliou  shall  be  all  else  to  me, 

Tliat  heart  can  feel  or  tongue  can  feign  ; 

I'll  praise,  admire,  and  worship  thee, 
But  must  uut,  dare  not,  love  again. 


—  Tale  iter  onine  cave. 

Propert.  lib.  iv.  eleg,  8, 

1  PKAY  you,  let  US  roam  no  more 
Along  that  wild  and  lonely  shore, 

Where  late  we  thoughtless  stray'd ; 
'Twas  not  for  us,  whom  heaven  intends 
To  be  no  more  than  simple  friends, 

Such  lonely  walks  were  made. 

That  little  Bay,  where  turning  in 
From  ocean's  rude  and  angry  din, 

As  lovers  steal  to  bliss, 
The  billows  kiss  the  shore,  and  then 
Flow  back  into  the  deep  again, 

As  though  they  did  not  kiss. 

Remember,  o'er  its  circling  flood 

In  wliat  a  dangerous  dream  we  stood — 

The  silent  sea  before  us. 
Around  us,  all  the  gloom  of  grove, 
That  ever  lent  its  shade  to  love. 

No  eye  but  lieaveii's  o'er  us ! 

I  saw  you  blush,  you  felt  mo  tremble. 
In  vain  would  formal  art  dissemble 

All  we  then  look'd  and  thought; 
'Twas  more  than  tongue  could  dare  reveal, 
'Twaa  ev'ry  thing  that  young  hearts  feel, 

By  Love  and  Natuie  taught, 

1  Htoop'd  to  cull,  with  faltering  hand, 
A  shell  that,  on  the  golden  Band, 

Bcfiire  us  faintly  gleam'd  ; 
1  trembling  raised  it,  and  when  you 
Had  kiss'd  the  shell,  I  kiss'd  it  too — 

How  Bwcet,  how  wrong  it  sccm'd! 

Oh,  trust  me,  'twas  a  place,  an  hour, 
The  worst  that  e'er  the  tempter's  power 

Could  tangle  me  or  you  in ; 
Sweet  Nea,  let  us  roam  no  more 
Along  that  wild  and  lonely  Hhorc, 

Sueh  waIkH  may  be  our  ruin. 


You  read  it  in  these  spell-bound  eyes. 
And  there  alone  should  love  be  read; 

Vou  hear  me  s.ay  it  all  in  sighs, 
And  thus  alone  should  love  be  said. 

Then  dread  no  more;  I  will  not  speak; 

Although  my  heart  to  anguish  thrill, 
I'll  spare  the  burning  of  your  cheek. 

And  look  it  all  in  silence  still. 

Heard  you  the  wish  I  dared  to  name. 
To  murmur  on  that  luckless  night. 

When  passion  broke  the  bonds  of  shame, 
And  love  grew  madness  in  your  sight  1 

Divinely  through  the  graceful  dance. 
You  seem'd  to  float  in  silent  song, 

Bending  to  earth  th.at  sunny  ghance. 
As  if  to  light  your  steps  along. 

Oh!  how  could  others  dare  to  touch 
That  hallow'd  form  with  hand  so  free, 

When  but  to  look  was  bliss  too  much. 
Too  rare  for  all  but  Love  and  me ! 

With  smiling  eyes,  that  little  thought 
How  fatal  were  the  beams  they  threw. 

My  trembling  hands  you  lightly  caught. 
And  round  me,  like  a  spirit,  flew. 

Heedless  of  all,  but  you  alone, — 

And  you,  .at  least,  sliould  not  condemn, 

If,  when  such  eyes  before  me  shone. 
My  Boul  forgot  all  eyes  but  them, — 

I  dared  to  whisper  passion's  vow, — 

For  love  had  ev'n  of  thought  bereft  me,— 

Nay,  half-way  bent  to  kiss  that  brow. 
But,  w'ith  a  biiUEid,  you  blushing  left  me. 

Forget,  forget  that  night's  ofl'ence. 

Forgive  it,  if,  alas !  you  can  ; 
'Twas  love,  'twas  passion — soul  and  sense— 

'Twas  all  that's  best  and  worst  in  man. 

That  moment,  did  th'  assembled  eyes 
Of  heaven  and  earth  my  madness  view, 

I  should  have  seen,  through  carlh  iind  skies, 
Hut  yon  alone — but  only  you.  ' 

Did  not  a  frown  from  yon  reprove. 
Myriads  of  eyes  In  me  were  none; 

Enough  for  nie  to  win  your  love. 
And  die  upon  the  ppot  when  won. 


POEMS  RELATING  TO  AMERICA. 


147 


A  DREAM  OF  ANTIQUITY. 

I  JUST  liad  turn'd  the  classic  page, 
And  traced  that  happy  period  over, 

When  blest  alike  were  youth  and  age, 

And  love  inspired  tlie  wisest  sage. 

And  wisdom  graced  tiie  tenderest  lover. 

Before  I  laid  mo  down  to  sleep, 

Awhile  I  from  the  lattice  gazed 
Upon  th.at  still  and  moonlight  deep, 

With  isles  like  floating  gardens  raised 
For  Ariel  there  his  sports  to  keep  ; 
While,  gliding  'twixt  their  leafy  shores. 
The  lone  night-fisher  plied  his  oars. 
I  felt, — so  strongly  fancy's  power 
Came  o'er  me  in  that  witching  hour, — 
As  if  the  whole  bright  scenery  there 

Were  liglited  by  a  Grecian  sky. 
And  I  then  breathed  the  blissful  air 

That  late  had  thrill'd  to  Sappho's  sigh. 

Thus,  waking,  dream'd  I, — and  when  Sleep 

Came  o'er  my  sense,  the  dream  went  on ; 
Nor,  through  her  curtain  dim  and  deep. 

Hath  ever  lovelier  vision  shone. 
I  thought  that,  all  enrapt,  I  stray'd 
Through  that  serene,  luxurious  shade," 
Where  Epicurus  taught  the  Loves 

To  polish  virtue's  native  brightness, — 
As  pearls,  we're  told,  that  fondling  doves 

Have  play'd  with,  wear  a  smoother  white- 
ness.''' 
'Twas  one  of  those  delicious  nights 

So  common  in  the  climes  of  Greece, 
When  day  withdraws  but  half  its  lights. 

And  all  is  moonshine,  balm,  and  peace. 
And  thou  wert  tliere,  my  own  beloved, 
And  by  thy  side  I  fondly  roved 
Through  many  a  temple's  reverend  gloom. 
And  many  a  bower's  seductive  bloom. 
Where  Beauty  learn'd  what  Wisdom  tauglit, 
And  sages  sigh'd  and  lovers  thought ; 
Where  schoolmen  conn'd  no  maxims  stern, 

But  all  was  form'd  to  soothe  or  move. 
To  make  the  dullest  love  to  learn. 

To  make  the  coldest  learn  to  love. 

And  now  the  fairy  pathway  seem'd 
To  lead  us  through  enchanted  ground. 

Where  all  tliat  bard  has  ever  dream'd 
Of  love  or  luxury  bloom'd  around. 

Oh  !  'twas  a  bright,  bewild'ring  scene — 

Along  the  alley's  deep'ning  green 


Soft  lamps,  that  hung  like  burning  flowers. 
And  scented  and  illumed  the  bowers, 
Seem'd,  as  to  liitji,  who  darkling  roves 
Amid  the  lone  Hercynian  groves. 
Appear  those  countless  birds  of  light, 
That  sparkle  in  the  leaves  at  night. 
And  from  their  wings  diffuse  a  ray 
Along  the  traveller's  weary  way."' 
'Twas  light  of  that  mysterious  kind. 

Through    wliicli   the   soul   perciiance    may 
roam. 
When  it  has  left  thia  world  behind, 

And  gone  to  seek  its  heavenly  home. 
And,  Nea,  thou  wert  by  my  side 
Tin-ough  all  this  heav'nvvard  patli  ray  guide. 

But,  lo,  as  waiid'ring  thus  we  ranged 
That  upward  path,  the  vision  changed ; 
And  now,  niethought,  we  stole  along 

TIn-ough  halls  of  more  voluptuous  glory 
Than  ever  lived  in  Teian  song, 

Or  wanton'd  in  Milesian  story.^' 
And  nymphs  were  there,  whose  very  eyes 
Seem'd  soften'd  o'er  with  breath  of  sighs; 
Whose  ev'ry  ringlet,  as  it  wreathed, 
A  mute  appeal  to  passion  breathed. 
Some  flew,  with  amber  cups,  around, 

Pouring  the  flowery  wines  of  Crete;" 
And,  as  they  pass'd  with  youthful  bound. 

The  onyx  shone  beneath  their  feet.^' 
While  others,  waving  arms  of  snow 

Entwined  by  snakes  of  burnish'd  gold," 
And  showing  charms,  as  loth  to  sliow, 

Througli  many  a  thin  Tarentian  fold. 
Glided  among  the  festal  throng 
Bearing  rich  urns  of  flowers  along. 
Where  roses  lay,  in  languor  breathing. 
And  the  young  bee-grape,""  round  them  wreatli- 

ing, 
Hung  on  their  blushes  warm  and  meek. 
Like  curls  upon  a  rosy  cheek. 

Oh,  Nea!  why  did  morning  break 

The  spell  th.at  thus  divinely  bound  me? 

Why  did  I  wake?  how  could  1  wake 

With  thee  my  own  and  hea'  -n  around  me  ? 


Well — peace  to  thy  hearf,.though  another's  it  be. 
And  health  to  that  cheek,  though  it  bloom  not  f^ii 

me! 
To-morrow  I  sail  for  those  cinnamon  groves," 
Where  nightly  the  ghost  of  the  Carribee  rotres. 


148 


MOOliE'S  WORKS. 


And,  far  from  the  light  of  those  eyes,  I  may  yet 
Their  allurements  forgive  and  their  splendor  forget. 

Farewell  to  Bermuda,"'  and  long  may  tlie  bloom 
Of  the  lemon  and  myrtle  its  valleys  perfume ; 
May  spring  to  eternity  hallow  the  shade, 
Where  Ariel  has  warbled  and  Waller'^  has  stray'd. 
And  thou — when,  at  dawn,  thou  shalt  happen  to 

roam 
Through  the  lime-cover'd  alley  that  leads  to  thy 

home, 
Where  oft,  when  the  dance  and  the  revel  were  done. 
And  the  stars  were  beginning  to  fade  in  the  sun, 
I  have  led  thee  along,  and  have  told  by  the  way 
What  my  heart  all  the  niglit  had  been  burning  to 

sa}' — 
Oh !  think  of  the  past — give  a  sigh  to  those  times. 
And  a  blessing  for  me  to  that  alley  of  limes. 


If  I  were  yonder  wave,  my  dear, 
And  thou  the  isle  it  clasps  around, 

I  would  not  let  a  foot  come  near 
My  land  of  bliss,  my  fairy  ground. 

If  I  were  yonder  concli  of  gold, 

And  thou  the  pearl  witliin  it  placed, 

I  would  not  let  an  eye  behold 
The  aacred  gems  my  arms  embraced. 

If  I  were  yonder  orange-tree, 

And  thou  the  blossom  blooming  there, 
I  would  not  yield  a  breath  of  thee 

To  scent  the  most  imploring  air. 

Oh  !  bend  not  o'er  the  water's  brink. 
Give  not  the  wave  lliat  odorous  sigli, 

Nor  let  its  burning  mirror  drink 
The  soft  rellection  of  thine  eye. 

That  glossy  hair,  that  glowing  cheek, 
So  pictured  in  the  waters  seem, 

That  I  could  gl.idly  plunge  to  seek 
Thy  image  in  the  glassy  stream. 

Blest  fate  I  at  once  my  cliilly  grave 
And  nuptial  bed  that  stream  might  be; 

I'll  wed  thee  in  its  mimic  wave, 
And  die  upon  the  sh.ndo  of  thee. 

Behold  the  leafy  mangrove,  bending 
O'er  llio  waters  blue  and  bright, 

Like  Nea's  silky  lashes,  lending 
Shadow  to  her  eyes  of  light. 


Oh,  my  beloved !  where'er  I  turn, 

Some  trace  of  tliee  enchants  mine  eyes ; 

In  every  star  thy  glances  burn ; 
Thy  blush  on  every  flow'rct  lies. 

Nor  find  I  in  creation  aught 
Of  bright,  or  beautiful,  or  rare, 

Sweet  to  the  sense,  or  pure  to  thought, 
But  thou  art  found  reflected  there. 


THE  SNOW  SPIRIT. 

No,  ne'er  did  the  wave  in  its  element  steep 

An  island  of  lovelier  charms ; 
It  blooms  in  the  giant  embrace  of  the  deep. 

Like  Hebe  in  Hercules'  arms. 
The  blush  of  your  bowers  is  light  to  the  eye. 

And  their  melody  balm  to  the  oar ; 
But  the  fiery  planet  of  d.ay  is  too  nigh, 

And  the  Snow  Spirit  never  comes  here. 

The  down  from  liis  wing  is  as  white  as  the  pearl 

That  shines  through  thy  lips  when  they  part. 
And  it  falls  on  the  green  earth  as  melting,  my  girl, 

As  a  murmur  of  thine  on  the  heart. 
Oh!  fiy  to  the  clime,  where  he  pillows  the  death, 

As  he  cradles  the  birth  of  the  year; 
Bright  are  your  bowers  and  balmy  their  breath. 

But  the  Snow  Spirit  cannot  come  here. 

How  sweet  to  behold  him,  when  borne  on  the  gi\Le, 

And  brightening  the  bosom  of  morn, 
He  flings,  like  the  priest  of  Diana,  a  veil 

O'er  the  brow  of  eacli  virginal  thorn. 
Yet  think  not  the  veil  he  so  chillingly  casts 

Is  the  veil  of  a  vestal  severe  ; 
No,  no,  thou  wilt  see,  what  a  moment  it  lasts, 

Should  the  Snow  Spirit  ever  come  here. 

But  fly  to  his  region — lay  open  (hy  zone. 

And  he'll  weep  all  his  briUi.iucy  dim. 
To  think  that  a  bosom,  as  while  as  his  own, 

Should  not  melt  in  the  daybcam  like  him. 
Oh  !  lovely  the  print  of  those  delicate  feet 

O'er  his  luminous  path  will  appear — 
Fly,  fly,  my  beloved !  this  island  is  sweet, 

But  the  Snow  Spirit  cannot  eoiiu)  here. 


POEMS  RELATING  TO  AMERICA. 


149 


I  STOLE  along  the  flowery  bank, 

While  many  a  bending  seagrapc"  dranlt 
The  sprinkle  of  the  feathery  oar 
That  wing'd  mo  rouiid  this  fairy  shore. 

'Twas  noon  ;  and  every  orange  bud 
llung  languid  o'er  the  crystal  Hood, 
Faint  as  the  lids  of  maiden's  eyes 
When  love-thoughts  in  her  bosom  rise. 
Oh,  for  a  naiad's  sparry  bower. 
To  shade  me  in  that  glowing  hour! 

A  little  dove,  of  milky  hue, 
Before  me  from  a  plantain  flew. 
And,  light  along  the  water's  brim, 
I  steer'd  my  gentle  bark  by  him ; 
For  fancy  told  me.  Love  liad  sent 
This  gentle  bird  with  kind  intent 
To  lead  my  steps,  where  I  should  meet — 
I  knew  not  what,  but  something  sweet. 

And — bless  the  little  pilot  dove! 
He  had  indeed  been  sent  by  Love, 
To  guide  mo  to  a  scene  so  dear 
As  fate  allows  but  seldom  here ; 
One  of  those  rare  and  brilliant  hours, 
That,  like  the  aloe's"  lingering  flowers. 
May  blossom  to  the  eye  of  man 
But  once  in  all  his  weary  span. 
Just  where  the  margin's  op'ning  shade 
A  vista  from  the  waters  made. 
My  bird  reposed  his  silver  plume 
Upon  a  rich  banana's  bloom. 
Oh  vision  bright !  oh  spirit  fair  ! 
What  spell,  what  magic  raised  her  there  ? 
'Twas  Nea !  slumb'ring  calm  and  mild. 
And  bloomy  as  the  dimpled  child, 
Whose  spirit  in  elysium  keeps 
Its  playful  sabbath,  while  he  sleeps 

The  broad  banana's  green  embrace 
Hung  shadowy  round  each  tranquil  grace ; 
One  little  beam  alone  could  win 
The  leaves  to  let  it  wander  in. 
And,  stealing  over  all  her  charms, 
From  lip  to  cheek,  from  neck  to  arms. 
New  lustre  to  eacli  beauty  lent, — 
Itself  all  trembling  as  it  went! 

Dark  lay  her  eyelid's  jetty  fringe 
Upon  that  cheek  whose  roseate  tinge 
Mix'd  with  its  shade,  like  evening's  light 
Just  touching  on  the  verge  of  night. 
Her  eyes,  though  thus  in  slumber  hid, 
Seem  d  glowing  through  the  ivory  lid, 


And,  as  I  thought,  a  lustre  threw 
Upon  her  lip's  reflecting  dew, — 
Such  as  a  night-lamp,  left  to  shine 
Alone  on  some  .secluded  shrine. 
May  shed  upon  the  votive  wreath. 
Which  pious  hands  have  hung  beneath. 

Was  ever  vision  half  so  sweet! 
Think,  think  how  quick  my  heart-pulse  oeat, 
As  o'er  the  rustling  bank  I  stole ; — 
Oh!  ye,  that  know  the  lover's  soul. 
It  is  for  you  alone  to  guess. 
That  moment's  trembling  happiness. 


A  STUDY  FROM  THE  ANTIQUE. 

Behold,  my  love,  the  curious  gem 
Within  this  simple  ring  of  gold  ; 

'Tis  hallow'd  by  the  touch  of  them 
Who  lived  in  classic  hours  of  old. 

Some  fair  Athenian  girl,  perhaps. 
Upon  her  hand  this  gem  displ.iy'd, 

Nor  thought  that  time's  succeeding  lapse 
Should  see  it- grace  a  lovelier  maid. 

Look,  dearest,  what  a  sweet  design ! 

The  more  we  gaze,  it  charms  the  more 
Come — closer  bring  th.at  cheek  to  mine, 

And  trace  with  me  its  beauties  o'er. 

Thou  seest,  it  is  a  simple  youth 

By  some  enamor'd  nymph  embraced— 

Look,  as  she  leans,  and  say  in  sooth. 
Is  not  that  hand  most  fondly  placed ! 

Upon  his  curled  head  behind 
It  seems  hi  careless  play  to  lie," 

Yet  presses  gently,  half  inclined 
To  bring  the  truant's  lip  more  nigh. 

Oh  happy  mala  !  too  happy  bey ! 

The  one  so  fond  and  little  loth. 
The  other  yielding  slow  to  joy — 

Oh  rare,  indeed,  but  blissful  both. 

Imagine,  love,  th.at  I  am  he, 

And  just  as  warm  .as  he  is  chilling; 

Imagine,  too,  that  thou  art  she. 
But  quite  .as  coy  as  she  is  willing. 


160 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


So  may  we  try  the  graceful  way 

In  which  their  gentle  arms  are  twined, 

And  thus,  like  her,  my  hand  1  lay 
Upon  thy  wreathed  locks  beliind: 

And  thus  I  feel  thee  breathing  sweet, 
As  slow  to  mine  thy  head  I  move; 

And  thus  our  lips  together  meet. 

And  thus, — and  thus, — I  kiss  thee,  love. 


There's  not  a  look,  a  word  of  thine. 

My  soul  hath  e'er  forgot  ; 
Thou  ne'er  hast  bid  a  ringlet  shine, 
Nor  given  thy  locks  one  graceful  twine 

Which  I  remember  not. 

There  never  yet  a  murmur  fell 
From  that  beguiling  tongue, 
Which  did  not,  with  a  ling'ring  spell, 
Upon  my  charmed  senses  dwell, 
Like  songs  from  Eden  sung. 

All  I  that  I  could,  at  once,  forget 

All,  all  that  haunts  me  so — 
And  yet,  thou  witching  girl, — and  yet. 
To  die  were  sweeter  than  to  let 
The  loved  remembrance  go. 

No;  if  this  slighted  heart  must  see 

Its  faithful  pulse  decay. 
Oh  let  it  die,  remcmb'ring  thee, 
And,  like  the  burnt  aroma,  be 

Consumed  in  sweets  away. 


JOSEPH  ATKINSON,  ESQ. 

raOU   DERMUDA.30 

•"The  daylight  is  gone — but,  before  we  depart, 
"  One  cup  shall  go  round  to  the  friend  of  my  heart, 
"The  kindest,  the  dearest — oil!  judge  by  the  tear 
"  I  now  shed  wliile  I  name  him,  liow  kind  and  how 
dear." 

TwdH  thus  in  the  shade  of  the  Calab.ish-Tree, 
With  a  few,  who  could  feel  and  remember  like  me. 
The  chnrm  that,  to  Hwccten  my  goblet,  I  threw 
Wan  n  Mij;)!  to  Iho  panl  and  n  blesaing  i>n  you. 


Oh !  say,  is  it  thus,  in  the  mirth-bringing  hour. 
When   friends   are   assembled,  when  wit.  in  full 

flower. 
Shoots  forth  from  the  lip,  under  Bacchus's  dew. 
In  blossoms  of  thought  ever  springing  and  new — 
Do  you  sometimes  remember,  and  hallow  the  brim 
Of  your  cup  with  a  sigh,  as  you  crown  it  to  him 
Who  is  lonely  and  sad  in  these  valleys  so  fair. 
And  would  pine  in  elysium,  if  friends  were  not 

there ! 

Last  night,  when  we  came  from  the  Calabash- 
Tree, 
When  my  limbs  were  at  rest  and  my  spirit  was 

free, 
Tlie   glow  of  the  grape  and  the  dreams  of  the 

day 
Set  the  magical  springs  of  my  fancy  in  play. 
And  oh, — such  a  vision  has  haunted  me  then 
I  would  slumber  for  ages  to  witness  again. 
The  many  I  like  and  the  few  I  adore. 
The  friends  who  were  dear  and  beloved  before. 
But  never  till  now  so  beloved  and  dear, 
At  the  call  of  my  fancy,  surrounded  me  here  ; 
And   soon, — oh,  at   once,  did  the   light  of  their 

smiles 
To  a  paradise  brighten  this  region  of  isles ; 
More  lucid  the  wave,  as  they  look'd  on  it,  flow'd. 
And  brighter  the  rose,  as  they  gathcr'd  it,  glow'd. 
Not  tlie  valleys  Ilerajan,  (though  water'd  by  rills 
Of  the  pearliest  (low,  from  those  pastoral  hills" 
Where  the  Song  of  the  Sliepherd,  primeval  and 

wild. 
Was  taught  to  the  nymphs  by  their  mystic.il  child,) 
Could  boast  such  a  lustre  o'er  land  and  o'er  wave 
As  the  magic  of  love  to  this  paradise  gave. 

Oh  magic  of  love  !  unombellisli'd  by  yon, 
Hath  the  garden  a  blush  or  the  landscape  a  hue? 
Or  shines  there  a  vista  in  nature  or  art. 
Like  that  which  Love  opes  through  the  eye  to  the 
heart  ? 

Alas,  that  a  vision  so  liappy  should  fade! 
That,  wlien  morning  arotuul  mo  in  brilliancy  pl.ay'd. 
The  rose  and  the  stream  I  had  thought  of  at  night 
Should  still  bo  before  me,  unfadingly  bright ; 
While  the  friends,  who  ii.ad  seoni'd  to  liang  ovef 

the  stream. 
And  to  gather  the  roses,  had  Hod  willi  my  ilream. 

But  look,  where,  all  ready,  in  sailing  arr.'iy. 
The  burk  that'.s  to  carry  these  pages  away," 
Impatiently  llutlcrs  her  wing  to  the  wind. 

And  will  scHin  leave  these  islets  of  Ariel  behind. 


POEMS  EELATING  TO  AMEEICA. 


151 


What  billows,  what  gales  is  she  fated  to  prove, 
Ere  she  sleep  in  the  lee  of  the  land  that  I  love ! 
Yet  pleasant  the  swell  of  the  billows  would  be, 
And  the  roar  of  those  gales  would  be  music  to  me. 
Not  the  tranquillost  air  that  the  winds  ever  blew, 
Not  the  snnniost  tears  of  tlie  sunnner-eve  dew, 
Were  as  sweet  as  the  storm,  or  as  briglit  as  the 

foam 
Of  .the   surge,  that  would   hurry  your  wanderer 

home. 


THE 

STEERSMAN'S  SONG, 

WRITTEN   ABOARD   TUB    BOSTON   PRIQATE   SStiI    APRIL.^* 

When  freshly  blows  the  northern  gale. 

And  under  courses  snug  we  fly ; 
Or  when  light  breezes  swell  the  sail, 

And  royals  proudly  sweep  the  sky; 
'Longside  tho  wlieel,  unwearied  still 

I  stand,  and,  as  my  watchful  eye 
Doth  mark  tlie  needle's  faithful  tin-ill, 

I  think  of  her  I  love,  and  cry. 

Port,  my  boy  !  port. 

When  calms  delay,  or  breezes  blow 

Riglit  from  the  point  we  wish  to  steer ; 
When  by  the  wind  close-haul'd  we  go. 

And  strive  in  vain  the  port  to  ne.ar; 
I  think  'tis  thus  the  fates  defer 

My  bliss  with  one  that's  far  away, 
And  while  remembrance  springs  to  her, 

I  watch  the  sails  and  sighing  say. 

Thus,  my  boy !  thus. 

But  see,  the  wind  draws  kindly  aft. 

All  hands  are  up  the  yards  to  square, 
And  now  the  floating  stu'n-sails  waft 

Our  stately  ship  through  waves  and  air. 
Oh !  then  I  think  that  yet  for  me 

Some  breeze  of  fortune  thus  may  spring, 
Some  breeze  to  waft  rae,  love,  to  thee — 

And  in  that  hope  I  smiling  sing. 

Steady,  boy !  so. 


TO 

THE  FIRE-FLY." 

At  mornnig,  when  the  earth  and  sky 
Are  glowing  with  the  light  of  spring. 

We  see  thee  not,  thou  humble  fly ! 
Nor  think  upon  thy  gleaming  wing. 


But  when  the  skies  have  lost  their  hue, 
And  sunny  lights  no  longer  play. 

Oh  then  we  see  and  bless  thee  too 
For  sparkling  o'er  the  dreary  way. 

Thus  let  me  hope,  when  lost  to  me 
The  lights  tliat  now  my  life  illume, 

Some  milder  joys  may  come,  like  thee. 
To  cheer,  if  not  to  warm,  the  gloom ! 


THE  LORD  VISCOUNT  FORBES. 

FROM  TIIIC   city  OF   WASUINOTON. 

If  former  times  had  never  left  a  trace 
Of  human  frailty  in  their  onward  race. 
Nor  o'er  their  patliway  written,  as  they  ran, 
One  dark  memorial  of  the  crimes  of  man ; 
If  every  age,  in  new  unconscious  prime. 
Rose  like  a  phenix,  from  the  fires  of  time, 
To  wing  its  way  unguided  and  alone. 
The  future  smiling  and  the  past  unknown  ; 
Then  ardent  man  would  to  himself  be  new. 
Earth  at  his  foot  and  heaven  within  his  view . 
Well  might  the  novice  hope,  the  sanguine  scheme 
Of  full  perfection  prompt  his  daring  dream. 
Ere  cold  experience,  with  her  veteran  lore. 
Could  tell  him,  fools  had  dreamt  as  much  before. 
But,  tracing  as  we  do,  through  age  and  clime. 
The  plans  of  virtue  midst  tlie  deeds  of  crime. 
The  thinking  follies  and  the  reasoning  rage 
Of  man,  at  once  tho  idiot  and  the  sage ; 
When  still  we  see,  through  every  varying  frame 
Of  arts  and  polity,  his  course  the  same. 
And  know  that  ancient  fools  but  died,  to  make 
A  space  on  earth  for  modern  fools  to  take ; 
'Tis  strange,  how  quickly  we  the  past  forget; 
Th.at  Wisdom's  self  should  not  be  tutor'd  yet, 
Nor  tire  of  watching  for  the  monstrous  birth 
Of  pure  perfection  midst  the  sons  of  earth ! 

Oh !  nothing  but  that  soul  which  God  has  given. 
Could  lead  us  thus  to  look  on  earth  for  heaven ; 
O'er  dross  without  to  shed  the  light  within, 
And  dream  of  virtue  wliile  we  see  but  sin. 

Even  here,  beside  the  proud  Potomac's  stream, 
Might  sages  still  pursue  the  flatt'ring  theme 
Of  days  to  come,  when  man  shall  conquer  fate, 
Rise  o'er  the  level  of  his  mortal  state. 
Belie  the  monuments  of  frailty  past. 
And  plant  perfection  in  this  world  at  last ' 


IJ2 


MOOEE'S  AVOEKS. 


"Here,"  might   tliey  say,  "shall   power's   divided 

reign 
"  Evin..e  tliat  patriots  have  not  bled  in  vain. 
"  Here  godlike  liberty's  herculean  youth, 
"  Cradled  in  peace,  and  nurtured  up  by  truth 
"  To  full  maturity  of  nerve  and  mind, 
"  Shall  crush  the  giants  that  bestride  mankind." 
'•  Here  shall  religion's  pure  and  balmy  draught 
'•  In  form  no  more  from  cups  of  state  be  quaff 'd, 
"  But  flow  for  all,  through  nation,  rank,  and  sect 
"  Free  as  that  heaven  its  tranquil  waves  reflect. 
"  Around  the  columns  of  the  public  shrine 
"  Shall  growing  arts  their  gradual  wreath  intwine, 
"  Nor  breathe  corruption  from  the  flow'ring  braid, 
"Nor  mine  that  fabric  which  they  bloom  to  shade. 
"No  longer  liere  shall  justice  bound  her  view, 
"Or  wrong  tlie  many,  while  she  rights  the  few; 
"  But  take  her  range  through  all  the  social  frame, 
"  Pure  and  pervading  as  that  vital  flame 
"  Which  warms  at  once  our  best  and  meanest  part, 
"  And  thrills  a  hair  wliile  it  expands  a  heart !" 

Oh  golden  dream!  what  soul  that  loves  to  scan 
The  bright  disk  rather  than  the  dark  of  man, 
That  owns  the  good,  while  smarting  with  tlic  ill. 
And  loves  the  world  with  all  its  frailty  still, — 
What  ardent  bosom  does  not  spring  to  meet 
The  generous  hope,  with  all  that  heavenly  heat. 
Which  makes  the  soul  unwilling  to  resign 
The  thoughts  of  growing,  even  on  earth,  divine! 
Yes,  dearest  friend,  I  see  thee  glow  to  think 
The  chain  of  ages  yet  may  boast  a  link 
Of  purer  texture  than  the  world  has  known, 
And  fit  to  bind  us  to  a  Godhead's  throne. 

Long  has  the  love  of  gold,  that  meanest  rage, 
And  latest  folly  of  man's  sinking  age, 
Which,  rarely  venturing  in  the  van  of  life. 
While  nobler  passions  wage  their  heated  strife, 
Comes  skulking  last,  with  selfishness  and  fear, 
And  dies,  collecting  lumber  in  the  rear, — 
Long  has  it  palsied  every  grasping  hand 
And  greedy  spirit  through  tliis  bartering  land ; 
Turn'd  life  to  traflic,  set  the  demon  gold 
So  loose  abroad  that  virtue's  self  is  sold, 
And  conscience,  truth,  and  honesty  arc  made 
To  rise  and  fall,  like  other  wares  of  trade." 

But,  while  I  thus,  my  friend,  in  flowcrleBs  song, 
So  feebly  paint,  what  yet  I  feel  so  strong. 
The  ills,  the  vices  of  the  land,  where  first 
Those  rebel  fiends,  that  rack  the  world,  were  nursed, 
Whore  IrcaHon's  nrni  by  royalty  was  nerved, 
Aiid  Frenchmen  learn'd  to  crush  the  throne  they 


Thou,  calmly  luU'd  in  dreams  of  classic  thought, 
By  bards  illumined  and  by  sages  taught, 
Pant'st  to  be  all,  upon  this  mort.al  scene. 
That  bard  hath  fancied  or  that  sage  hath  been. 
Why  should  I  wake  thee?  why  severely  chase 
The  lovely  forms  of  virtue  and  of  grace, 
That  dwell  before  thee,  like  the  pictures  spread 
By  Spartan  matrons  round  the  genial  bed. 
Moulding  thy  fancy,  and  with  gradual  art 
Bright'ning  the  young  conceptions  of  thy  heart. 

Forgive  me,  Forbes — and  should  the  song  destroy 
One  generous  hope,  one  throb  of  social  joy. 
One  high  pulsation  of  the  zeal  for  man. 
Which  few  can  feel,  and  bless  that  few  who  can, — 
Oh !  turn  to  him,  beneath  whose  kindred  eyes 
Thy  talents  open  and  thy  virtues  rise. 
Forget  wliere  nature  has  been  dark  or  dim. 
And  proudly  study  all  her  lights  in  him, 
Yes,  yes,  in  him  the  erring  world  forget, 
And  feel  that  man  may  reach  perfection  yet. 


LINES 

WaiTTUN"    ON    LEAVING    PHILADELPHIA. 

Alone  by  the  Sclniylkill  a  v.'andcrer  roved, 
And  bright  were  its  Iknvery  banks  to  his  eye; 

But  far,  very  far  were  the  friends  that  he  loved, 
And  he  gazed  on  lis  flowery  banks  with  a  sigh. 

Oh  Nature,  though  blessed  and  bright  are  thy  rays, 
O'er  the  brow  of  creation  enchanlingly  thrown, 

Yet  faint  are  they  all  to  the  lustre  that  plays 

111  a  smile  from  the  heart  that  is  fondly  oiir  own. 

Nor  long  did  the  soul  of  the  stranger  remain 
Unbless'd  by  the  smile  he  had   languish'd   to 
meet ; 
Though  scarce  did  he  hope  it  would  soothe  him 
•  again. 
Till  the  threshold  of  home  had  been  press'd  by 
Ills  feet. 

But.  the  lays  of  his  boyhood  had  stol'ii  to  their  ear. 

And  they  loved  what  they  know  of  so  humble  a 

name ; 

And  they  told  him,  with  llattory  welcome  and  dear, 

That  lliey  fnuiiil  in  his  heart  Homelhing  bolter 

than  fame. 

Nor  did   woman — oh   woman !    whose    form   and 
whoso  soul 
Are  the  dpell  mid  llie  light  of  each  p.ifh  we  pursue; 


POEMS  EELATING  TO  AMERICA. 


153 


Whether  sunn'd  in  the  tropics  or  chili'd  at  the  pole, 
If  woman  be  there,  there  is  happiness  too : — 

Nor  (lid  8lie  her  cnamoring  magic  deny, — 

That  inairic  his  heart  had  rcliiiqiiish'd  so  long, — 

Like  eyes  ho  had  loved  was  her  eloquent  eye. 
Like  lliem  did  it  soften  and  weep  at  his  song 

Oh,  bless'd  be  the  tear,  and  in  memory  oft 

May  its   sparkle   be   slied  o'er  the  wanderer's 
dream ; 
Thrice  bless'd   be  that  eye,  and   may  passion  as 
soft. 
As  free  from  a  pang,  ever  mellow  its  beam ! 

The  stranger  is  gone — but  he  will  not  forget, 
When  at  home  he  shall  talk  of  the  toils  he  has 
known. 
To  tell,  with  a  sigh,  what  endearments  he  met. 
As  he  stray'd  by  the  wave  of  the   Schuylkill 
alone. 


LINES 


WRITTEX    AT    THE    COHOES,    OR    FALLS    OF    THi: 
MOHAWK    MTEE." 

Gia  era  in  loco  ove  s'udia  ^1  rirabombo 

Dcir  acqua .  Dante. 

Fkom  rise  of  morn  till  set  of  sun 

I've  seen  the  mighty  Mohawk  run ; 

And  as  I  mark'd  the  woods  of  pine 

Along  his  miri-or  darkly  shine. 

Like  tall  and  gloomy  forms  that  pass 

Before  the  wizard's  midnight  glass; 

And  as  I  view'd  the  hurrying  pace 

With  which  he  ran  his  turbid  race, 

Rusliing,  alike  untired  and  wild, 

Through  shades  that  frown'd  and  [lowers  that 

smiled. 
Flying  by  every  green  recess 
That  woo'd  him  to  its  calm  caress. 
Yet,  sometimes  turning  with  the  wind. 
As  if  to  leave  one  look  behind, — 
Oft  have  I  thought,  and  thinking  sigh'd, 
How  like  to  thee,  thou  restless  tide, 
May  be  the  lot,  the  life  of  him 
Who  roams  along  thy  water's  brim ; 
Throngli  what  alternate  wastes  of  voe 
And  flowers  of  joy  my  path  may  go 
How  many  a  shelter'd,  calm  retreat 
May  woo  the  while  my  weary  feet, 
While  still  pursuing,  still  unbless'd, 
I  wander  on,  nor  dare  to  rest ; 
VOL.  n. — ^20 


But,  urgent  as  the  doom  that  calls 
Thy  water  to  its  destined  falls, 
I  feel  the  world's  bewild'ring  force 
Huiry  my  heart's  devoted  course 
From  lapse  to  lapse,  till  life  be  done, 
And  tlie  spent  current  cease  to  run 

One  only  prayer  I  dare  to  make, 
As  onward  thus  my  course  I  take; — 
Oh,  bo  ray  falls  as  bright  as  thine ! 
May  heaven's  relenting  rainbow  shine 
Upon  the  mist  that  circles  me, 
As  soft  as  now  it  hangs  o'er  thee ! 


SONG 

or 

THE    EVIL    SPIRIT    OF    THE    WOODS." 

Qua  via  ditBcilis,  quaque  est  via  nulla. 

Ovid,  Mctam,  lib.  iii.  v.  2^, 

Now  the  v.apor,  hot  and  d.amp. 
Shed  by  day's  e-vpiring  lamp. 
Through  the  misty  ether  spreads 
Every  ill  the  white  man  dreads ; 
Fiery  fever's  thirsty  thrill. 
Fitful  ague's  shivering  chill ! 

Hark!  I  hear  the  traveller's  song. 
As  he  winds  the  woods  along ; — 
Christian,  'tis  the  song  of  fear  ; 
Wolves  are  round  thee,  night  is  near. 
And  the  wild  thou  dar'st  to  roam — 
Think,  'twas  once  the  Indian's  home!" 

Hither,  sprites,  who  love  to  harm, 
Wheresoe'er  you  work  your  charm, 
By  the  creeks,  or  by  the  brakes. 
Where  the  pale  witch  feeds  her  snakes, 
And  the  cayman*°  loves  to  creep, 
Torpid,  to  his  wintry  sleep: 
Where  the  bird  of  carrion  flits, 
And  the  shudd'ring  murderer  sits," 
Lone  beneath  a  roof  of  blood  ; 
While  upon  his  poison'd  food. 
From  the  corpse  of  him  he  slew 
Drops  the  chill  and  gory  dew. 

Plithor  bend  ye,  turn  ye  liither. 
Eyes  th.at  blast  and  wings  tliat  wither! 
Cross  the  wand'ring  Christian's  way, 
Lead  him,  e;e  the  glimpse  of  day. 
Many  a  mile  of  raadd'ning  error. 
Through  the  maze  of  night  and  tcWor, 


154 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Till  the  morn  behold  him  Ijing 
On  the  damp  earth,  pale  and  dying. 
Mock  him,  when  his  eager  sight 
Seeks  the  cordial  cottage-light; 
Gleam  then,  like  the  lightning-bug, 
Tempt  him  to  the  den  that's  dug 
For  riie  foul  and  famish'd  brood 
01'  the  she-wolf,  gaunt  for  blood; 
Or,  unto  the  dangerous  pass 
0"or  the  deep  and  dark  morass, 
Where  the  trembling  Indian  brings 
Belts  olpon-clain,  pipes,  and  rings, 
Tributes,  to  be  hung  in  air. 
To  the  Fiend  presiding  there  I " 

Then,  when  night's  long  labor  past, 
Wilder"d,  faint,  he  falls  at  last, 
Sinking  where  the  causeway's  edge 
Moulders  in  the  slimy  sedge, 
There  let  every  noxious  thing 
Trail  its  filth  and  fix  its  sting ; 
Let  the  bull-toad  taint  him  over. 
Round  him  let  raoschetoes  hover, 
In  his  ears  and  eyeballs  tingling, 
With  his  blood  their  poison  mingling 
Till,  beneath  the  solar  fires, 
Rankling  all,  the  wretch  expires ! 


TO 


THE  nOXORABLE  W.  U.  SPENCER. 

FKOU    BUFFALO,    CrON    LAKE    EUIE. 

Nec  vcuit  ad  duros  rnusa  vocata  Getos. 

Ovlo.  ez  Panto,  lib.  i.  cp.  5, 

Tnou  oft  hast  told  mo  of  the  happy  hours 
Enjoy'd  by  lliee  in  fair  Ilalia's  bowers. 
Where,  ling'ring  yet,  the  ghost  of  ancient  wit 
•  Midst  modern  monks  profanely  dares  to  Hit, 
And  pagan  spirits,  by  tlio  pope  unlaid. 
Haunt  every  stream  and  sing  through  every  ehado. 
There  slill  the  bard  who  (if  his  numbers  bo 
His  tongue's  light  echo)   must  have   t.ilkcd  like 

thee, — 
The  courtly  bard,  from  whom  thy  mind  has  cauglit 
Those  playful,  sunshine  holidays  of  thought. 
In  which  the  spirit  baskingly  reclines, 
Bright  without  elTort,  resting  while  it  shines, — 
There  bIIII  he  roves,  und  laughing  loves  lo  see 
How  modiTii  priests  willi  ancicMil  rakes  agree; 
Mow,  'ncnlh  the  rowl,  the  fesUil  garland  shines. 
And  Lovo  Blill  finds  a  niche  in  Clirialbn  elirincs. 


There  still,  too,  roam  those  other  souls  of  song; 
With  whom  thy  spirit  hath  communed  so  long. 
That,  quick  as  light,  their  rarest  gems  of  thought. 
By  Jlemory's  Lagic  to  thy  lip  are  brought. 
But  here,  alas !  by  Erie's  stormy  lake, 
As,  far  from  such  bright  haunts  my  course  I  take, 
No  proud  remembrance  o'er  the  fancy  plays. 
No  tlassic  dream,  no  star  of  other  days 
Hath  left  that  visionary  light  behind. 
That  ling'ring  radiance  of  immortal  mind. 
Which  gilds  and  hallows  even  the  rudest  scene, 
The  humblest  slied,  where  genius  once  has  been! 

All  that  creation's  varying  mass  assumes 
Of  grand  or  lovely,  here  aspires  and  blooms; 
Bold  rise  the  mountains,  rich  the  gardens  glow. 
Bright  lakes  expand,  and  conquering"  rivers  flow 
But  mind,  immortal  mind,  without  whose  ray. 
This  W'Orld's  a  wilderness  and  man  but  clay. 
Mind,  mind  alone,  in  barren,  still  repose. 
Nor  blooms,  nor  rises,  nor  expands,  nor  flows. 

Is  this  the  region  then,  is  this  the  clime 
For  soaring  fancies  ?  for  those  dreams  sublime, 
Which  all  their  miracles  of  light  reveal 
To  heads  that  meditate  and  hearts  that  feel  ? 
Alas!  not  so — the  Muse  of  Nature  lights 
Her  glories  round  ;  she  scales  the  mountain  heights, 
And  roams  the  forests ;  every  wondrous  spot 
Burns  with  her  step,  yet  man  regards  it  not. 
She  whispers  round,  her  words  are  in  the  air. 
But  lost,  unheard,  they  linger  freezing  there," 
Without  one  breath  of  soul,  divinely  strong. 
One  ray  of  mind  to  tliaw  them  into  song. 

Yet,  yet  forgive  me,  oh  ye  sacred  few, 
Whom  late  by  Delaware's  green  banks  I  knew ; 
Whom,  known  and  loved  through  many  a  social  eve, 
'Twas  bliss  to  li.e  with,  and  'twas  pain  to  le.avo. 
Not  with  more  joy  the  lonely  exile  scann'd 
The  writing  traced  upon  the  desert's  sand, 
Where  his  lone  heart  but  little  Imped  to  find 
One  trace  of  life,  one  stamp  of  human  kind. 
Than  did  I  hail  the  pure,  th'  enlighten'd  zeal. 
The  strength  to  reason  and  the  warmth  to  feel, 
The  manly  poli^l)  and  the  illumined  taste, 
Which, — 'mid  the  niclanolioly,  hearlless  waste, 
My  foot  has  tra\ersed, — oh  you  sacreil  few! 
I  found  by  Delaware's  green  banks  with  you. 

Believe  me,  S^nenccr,  while  I  wing'd  the  hours 
Where  Schuylkill  winds  his  way  through  baidts  of 

llowers, 
Though  few  the  days,  Ihi'  happy  evenings  few, 
So  warm  witli  heart,  so  rich  with  mind  Ihoy  fluw, 


^ 


"^ 


■::uMb  .<u.tr..  ,jy 


POEMS  RELATING  TO  AMERICA. 


155 


Tiiat  my  cliarm'J  soul  forgot  its  wish  to  roam, 
And  rested  lliere,  as  in  a  dream  of  home. 
And  looks  I  met,  like  looks  I'd  loved  before, 
And  voices  too,  which,  as  they  trembled  o'er 
The  chord  of  memoiy,  found  full  many  a  tone 
Of  kindness  there  in  concord  with  their  own. 
Yes, — we  had  nights  of  that  communion  free, 
That  flow  of  heart,  wliich  I  liave  known  with  thee 
So  oft,  so  warmly;  nights  of  mirth  and  mind, 
Of  whims  that  taught,  and  follies  that  refined. 
Wlien  shall  we  both  renew  them?  when,  restored 
To  the  gay  feast  and  intellectual  board, 
Shall  I  once  more  enjoy  witli  thee  .and  thine 
Those  whims  tliat  tc.ach,  those  follies  that  refine? 
Even  now,  as  wand'ring  upon  Erie's  shore, 
I  hear  Niagara's  distant  cataract  roar, 
I  sigh  for  home, — alas !  these  weary  feet 
Have  many  a  mile  to  journey,  ere  we  meet. 


BALLAD  STANZAS. 

I  KNEW  by  the  smoke,  that  so  gracefully  ciirl'd 

Above  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage  was  near. 
And  I  said,  "  If  there's  peace  to  be  found  in  the 
world, 
"A  heart  that  was  humble   might  hope  for  it 
here !" 

It  w.is  noon,  .and  on  flowers  that  languish'd  around 
In  silence  reposed  the  voluptuous  bee  ; 

Every  leaf  was  at  rest,  and  I  heard  not  a  sound 
But  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  beech- 
tree. 

And,  "  Here  in  this  lone  little  wood,"  I  exclaim'd, 
"With  a  maid  who  was  lovely  to  soul  and  to 
eye, 
'■Wlio  would  blush  when  I  praised  her,  .and  weep 
if  I  blamed, 
"  How  blest  could  I  live,  .and  how  calm  could  I 
die! 

"By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,  whose  red  berry 
dips 
"  In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet  to  re- 
cline, 
"  And  to  know  that  I  sigh'd  upon  innocent  lips, 
"  Which  had  never  been  sigh'd  on  by  any  but 


A    CANADIAN    BOAT    SONG. 


WRITTICH   ON 


THE  RIVER  ST.  LAWRENCE." 
Et  remigcin  caiitus  liutaltir. 

Ut-INTILUN. 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime 
Our  voices  keep  tune  and  our  oars  keep  time. 
Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim. 
We'll  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn." 
Row,  brothers,  row,  the  stream  runs  fast. 
The  Rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight's  past. 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ? 
There  is  not  a  bre.ith  the  blue  wave  to  curl ; 
But,  when  the  wind  blows  oft'  the  shore. 
Oh !  sweetly  we'll  rest  our  weary  oar. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast. 
The  Rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight's  past. 

Utawas'  tide!  this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green'isle!  hear  our  praj'ers. 
Oh,  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  airs. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast. 
The  Rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight's  past. 


LADY    CHARLOTTE     RAW  DON. 

FROM    THK    BANKS   OF   THE    ST.   LAWRENCE. 

Not  many  months  have  now  been  dream'd  away 
Since  yonder  sun,  beneath  whose  evening  ray 
Our  boat  glides  swiftly  past  these  wooded  shores, 
S.aw  me  where  Trent  his  mazy  current  pours. 
And  Donington's  old  oaks,  to  every  breeze. 
Whisper  the  tale  of  bygone  centuries  ; — 
Those  oaks,  to  me  as  sacred  as  the  groves. 
Beneath  whose  shade  the  pious  Persian  roves, 
And  hears  the  spirit-voice  of  sire,  or  chief, 
Or  loved  mistress,  sigh  in  every  leaf." 
There,  oft,  dear  Lady,  while  thy  lip  liath  sung 
My  own  nnpolish'd  hays,  how  proud  I've  hung 
On  every  tuneful  .accent!  proud  to  feel 
That  notes  like  mine  should  have  the  fate  to  stfc.il 
As  o'er  thy  hallowing  lip  they  sigh'd  along, 
Such  breath  of  passion  and  such  soul  of  song. 
Yes, — I  have  wonder'd,  like  some  peasant  boy 
Who  sings,  on  S.abbath-eve,  his  strains  of  joy. 
And  when  he  hears  the  wild,  untutor'd  note 
Back  to  his  ear  on  softening  echoes  float, 


156 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Believes  it  still  some  answering  spirit's  tone, 
And  thinks  it  all  too  sweet  to  be  his  own ! 

I  dreamt  not  then  that,  ere  the  rolling  year 
Had  fiU'd  its  circle,  I  should  wander  here 
In  musing  awe ;  should  tread  this  wondrous  world, 
See  all  its  store  of  inland  waters  hurl'd 
In  one  vast  volume  down  Niagara's  steep. 
Or  calm  behold  them,  in  transparent  sleep, 
\Vhere  the  blue  hills  of  old  Toronto  shed 
Their  evening  shadows  o'er  Ontario's  bed  ; 
Should  trace  the  grand  Cadaraqui,  and  glide 
Down  the  white  rapids  of  liis  lordly  tide 
Through  massy  woods,  mid  islets  flowering  fair. 
And  blooming  glades,  where  the  first  sinful  pair 
For  consolation  might  have  weeping  trod. 
When  banish'd  from  the  garden  of  their  God. 
Oh,  Lady !  these  are  miracles,  which  man. 
Caged  in  the  bounds  of  Europe's  pigmy  span. 
Can  scarcely  dream  of, — which  his  eye  must  see 
To  know  how  wonderful  this  world  can  be ! 

But  !o, — the  last  tints  of  the  west  decline. 
And  night  falls  dewy  o'er  these  banks  of  pine. 
Among  the  reeds,  in  which  our  idle  boat 
Is  rock'd  to  rest,  the  wind's  complaining  note 
Dies  like  a  h.alf-breathed  whispering  of  flutes  ; 
Along  the  wave  the  gleaming  porpoise  shoots, 
And  I  can  trace  him,  like  a  watery  star," 
Down  the  steep  current,  till  he  fades  afar 
Amid  the  foaming  breakers'  silvery  light. 
Where  yon  rough  rapids  sparkle  through  the  night. 
Here,  as  along  this  sh.adowy  bank  I  stray. 
And  the  smooth  glass-snake,"  gliding  o'er  my  way. 
Shows  the  dim  moonlight  through  his  scaly  form. 
Fancy,  with  all  the  scene's  encliantment  warm. 
Hears  in  the  murmur  of  the  nightly  breeze 
Some  Indian  Spirit  warble  words  like  these: — 

From  the  land  beyond  tlie  .sea. 
Whither  happy  spirits  flee  ; 
Where,  transform 'd  to  s.tcred  doves," 
Many  a  blessed  Indian  roves 
Through  the  air  on  wing,  as  white 
As  those  wondrous  stones  of  light," 
Which  the  eye  of  morning  counts 
On  the  Apallachian  mount.s, — 
Hither  oft  my  flight  I  lake 
Over  Huron's  lucid  lake 
Where  the  wave,  as  clear  aft  dew, 
Sli'cps  beneath  the  light  canoo, 
Which,  reded  C(l,  floating  there, 
l.K>okR  OS  if  it  hung  in  nir." 

Then,  wlicn  I  have  .slrny'd  awhile 
Throu;{h  the  Mnnntnulin  l«lc," 


Breathing  all  its  holy  bloom, 
Swift  I  mount  me  on  the  plume 
Of  my  Wakon-Bird,"  and  fly 
Where,  beneath  a  burning  sky, 
O'er  the  bed  of  Erie's  lake 
Slumbers  many  a  water-snake. 
Wrapt  within  the  web  of  leaves, 
Which  the  water-lily  weaves."' 
Ne.\t  I  chase  the  flow'ret-king 
Through  his  rosy  realm  of  spring; 
See  him  now,  while  diamond  hues 
Soft  his  neck  and  wings  suffuse. 
In  the  leafy  ch.alice  sink, 
Thirsting  for  his  balmy  drink  ; 
Now  behold  him  all  on  fire, 
Lovely  in  his  looks  of  ire. 
Breaking  every  infant  stem, 
Sc.att'ring  every  velvet  gem. 
Where  his  little  tyrant  lip 
Had  not  found  enough  to  sip. 

Then  my  playful  hand  I  steep 
Where  the  gold-thread"  loves  to  creeps 
Cull  from  thence  a  tangled  wreath. 
Words  of  magic  round  it  breathe, 
And  the  sunny  chaplet  spread 
O'er  the  sleeping  fly-bird's  head"' 
Till,  with  dreams  of  honey  blest. 
Haunted,  in  his  downy  ne^t, 
By  the  garden's  fairest  spells. 
Dewy  buds  and  fragrant  bells, 
Fancy  all  his  soul  embowers 
In  the  fly-bird's  heaven  of  flowers. 

Oft,  \\iien  hoar  and  silvery  flakes 
Jlelt  along  the  ruftled  hakes. 
When  the  gray  moose  sheds  his  hoins, 
When  the  track,  at  evening,  warns 
Weary  hunters  of  the  way 
To  the  wigwam's  cheering  ray, 
Then,  aloft  through  freezing  air. 
With  the  snow-bird"*  soft  and  fair 
As  Ih.c  fleece  that  heaven  flings 
O'er  his  little  pearly  wings, 
i  jght  above  the  rocks  I  i)lay, 
\\'hcre  Niagara's  starry  sjiray 
Frozen  on  the  dilV,  appears 
Like  a  giant's  starting  tears. 
There,  amid  tlio  island-sedge. 
Just  upon  the  cataract's  edge, 
Wliero  the  foot  of  living  man 
Never  trod  since  lirjie  began, 
Lone  I  sit,  at  close  of  day, 
While,  beneath  the  golden  riiy, 
Icy  columns  gleam  below, 
Fcathcr'd  round  with  falling  snow, 


POEMS  RELATING  TO  AMERICA. 


157 


And  an  arch  of  glory  springs, 
Sparkling  as  tlie  chain  of  rings 
Round  the  neck  of  virgins  liung, — 
Virgins,""  wlio  have  wandcr'J  young 
O'er  tlie  waters  of  tlie  west 
To  tliu  hind  where  spirits  rest! 

Thus  liave  I  cliarm'd  with  visionary  lay, 
The  lonely  moments  of  the  night  away ; 
And  now,  fresh  daylight  o'er  the  water  beams ! 
Once  more  cmbark'd  upon  the  glitt'ring  streams, 
Our  boat  tlies  light  along  the  Ical'y  shore. 
Shooting  the  falls,  without  a  dip  of  oar 
Or  breath  of  zephyr,  like  the  mystic  bark 
The  poet  saw,  in  dreams  divinely  dark. 
Borne,  without  sails,  along  the  dusky  flood,"' 
While  on  its  deck  a  pilot  angel  stood. 
And,  with  his  wings  of  living  light  unfurl'd, 
Coasted  tlic  dim  shores  of  anotlior  world  I 

Yet,  oh !  believe  me,  mid  this  mingled  maze 
Of  nature's  beauties,  where  the  fancy  strays 
From  charm  to  charm,  where  every  flow'ret's  hue 
Hath  something  strange,  and  every  leaf  is  new, — 
I  never  foel  a  joy  so  pure  and  still. 
So  inly  felt,  as  when  some  brook  or  hill, 
Oi  veteran  oak,  like  those  remember'd  well. 
Some  mountain  echo,  or  some  wild-flower's  smell, 
(For,  who  can  say  by  what  small  fairy  ties. 
The  mcm'ry  clings  to  pleasure  as  it  flies  ?) 
Reminds  my  heart  of  many  a  silvan  dream 
I  once  indulged  by  Trent's  inspiring  stream  ; 
Of  all  my  sunny  morns  and  moonlight  nights 
On  Donninjfton's  green  lawns  and  breezy  heights. 

Whether  I  trace  the  tranquil  moments  o'er 
When  I  have  seen  thee  cull  tlie  fruits  of  lore, 
With  him,  the  polish'd  warrior,  by  thy  side, 
A  sister's  idol  and  a  nation's  pride  1 
When  thou  hast  read  of  lieroes,  trophied  high 
In  ancient  fiime,  and  I  have  seen  thine  eye 
Turn  to  the  living  hero,  while  it  read, 
For  pure  and  bright'ning  comments  on  the  dead ; — 
,Or  whether  memory  to  my  mind  recalls 
The  festal  grandeur  of  those  lordly  halls,, 
Wlien  guests  have  met  around  the  sparkling  board. 
And  welcome  warni'd  the  cup  that  luxury  pour'd; 
When  the  bright  future  star  of  England's  throne, 
With  magic  smile,  hath  o'er  the  banquet  shone, 
Winning  respect,  nor  claiming  what  he  won. 
But  tempering  greatness,  like  an  evening  sun 
Whose  light  the  eye  can  tranquilly  admire, 
Radiant,  but  mild,  all  softness,  yet  all  fire; — 
Whatever  hue  my  recollections  take, 
Fjven  the  regret,  the  very  pain  they  wake 


Is  mix'd  with  happiness; — but, ah!  nc  more — 
Lady  I  adieu — my  heart  has  linger'd  o'er 
Those  vanish'd  times,  till  all  that  round  me  lies. 
Streams,  banks,  and  bowers  have  faded  on  my  eyes! 


IMPROMPTU, 

AFTER    A    VISIT    TO   MUS.  ,    OF   MOSTaEAL. 

'TwAS  but  for  a  moment — and  yet  in  that  time 
She  crowded  th'  impressions  of  many  an  hour : 

Her  eye  had  a  glow,  like  the  sun  of  her  clime, 
Which  waked  every  feeling  at  once  into  flower. 

Oh  !  could  we  have  borrow'd  from  Time  but  a  day, 
To  renew  such  impressions  again  and  again. 

The  things  we  should  look  and  im.agine  and  say 
Would  be  worth  all  the  life  we  had  wasted  till 
then. 

What  we  had  not  the  leisure  or  language  to  speak. 
We  should  find  some  more  spiritual  mode  of  re- 
vealing. 

And,  between  us,  should  feel  just  as  much  in  a  week 
As  others  would  take  a  millennium  in  feeling. 


WRITTE.V 

ON  PASSING  DEADMAN'S  ISLAND," 

IN   THE 

GULF  OF  ST.  LAWRENCE, 
LATE   IN   THE   EVESINO,    SEi'TEMBEa,    180-1. 

See  you,  beneath  yon  cloud  &o  dark, 

Fast  gliding  along  a  gloomy  bark  ? 

Her  sails  are  full, — though  the  wind  is  still, 

And  there  blows  not  a  breath  her  sails  to  fill! 

Say  what  doth  that  vessel  of  darkness  bear  ? 
The  silent  calm  of  the  grave  is  there. 
Save  now  and  again  a  death-knell  rung. 
And  the  flap  of  the  sails  with  night-fog  hung. 

There  lieth  a  wreck  on  the  dism.il  shore 

Of  cold  and  pitiless  Labrador; 

Where,  under  the  moon,  upon  mounts  of  frost, 

Full  many  a  mariner's  bones  are  tosa'd. 

Yon  shadowy  bark  hath  been  to  that  wreck. 
And  the  dim  blue  fire,  that  lights  her  deck. 
Doth  play  on  as  p.ale  and  livid  a  crew 
As  ever  yet  drank  the  churchyard  dew. 


158 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


To  Deadman's  Isle,  in  the  eye  of  tlie  blast, 
To  Deadman's  Isle,  she  speeds  her  fast ; 
By  skeleton  shapes  her  sails  are  furl'd. 
And  the  hand  that  steers  is  not  of  this  world ! 

Oh !  hurry  thee  on — oh  !  hurry  thee  on, 
Thou  terrible  bark,  ere  the  night  be  gone, 
Nor  let  morning  look  on  so  foul  a  sight 
As  would  blanch  for  ever  her  rosy  light  I 


THE  BOSTON  FRIGATE,"' 

OS 

LEAVING  HALIFAX  FOR  ENGLAND. 

ocroBEE,  1804. 

With  triumph  this  morning,  oh  Boston!  I  hail 
The  stir  of  thy  deck  and  the  spread  of  thy  sail. 
For  they  tell  me  I  soon  shall  be  wafted,  in  thee, 
To  the  ilourisliing  isle  of  the  brave  and  the  free. 
And  that  chill  Nova-Scotia's  unpromising  strand"' 
Is  the  last  I  shall  tread  of  American  land. 
Well — pe.iee  to  the  land!  may  her  sons  know,  at 

length. 
That  in  high-minded  honor  lies  liberty's  strength. 
That  though  man  be  as  free  as  the  fetterless  wind. 
As  the  wantonest  air  that  the  north  can  unbind, 
Yet,  if  health  do  not  temper  and  sweeten  the  blast. 
If  no  harvest  of  mind  ever  sprung  whore  it  pass'd, 
Then   unblest  is   such   freedom,  and   baleful   its 

might, — 
Free  only  to  ruin,  and  strong  but  to  blight ! 

Farewell  to  the  few  I  have  left  with  regret; 
May  they  sometimes  recall,  what  I  cannot  forget. 
The  delight  of  those  evenings, — too  brief  a  delight ! 
When  in  converse  and  song  we  have  stolen  on  the 

night ; 
When  they've  ask'd  me  the  manners,  llie  mind,  or 

the  mien 
Of  some  bard  I  had  known,  or  some  chief  I  had 

seen, 
Whose  glory,  though  distant,  they  long  had  adored, 
Whose  name  had  oft  hallow'd  the  wino-cup  thoy 

pour'd ; 


And  still  as,  with  sympathy  humble  but  true, 
I  have  told  of  each  bright  son  of  fame  all  I  knew. 
They  have  listen'd,  and  sigh'd  that  the  powerful 

stream 
Of  America's  empire  should  pass,  like  a  dream, 
Vv'ithout  leaving  one  relic  of  genius,  to  say 
How  sublime  was  the   tide   whicli   had  vanish'd 

away ! 
Farewell  to  the  few — though  we  ne\er  may  meet 
On  this  planet  again,  it  is  soothing  and  sweet 
To  think  that,  whenever  my  song  or  n)y  n.ime 
Shall  recur  to  their  ear,  they'll  recall  me  the  same 
I  have  been  to  them  now,  young,  untlioughtful,  and 

blest, 
Ere  hope  had  deceived  me  or  sorrow  depress'd. 

But,  Douglas!  while  thus  I  recall  to  my  mind 
The  elect  of  the  land  we  shall  soon  leave  behind, 
I  can  re.id  in  the  weather-wise  glance  of  thine  eye, 
As  it  follows  the  r.ack  flitting  over  the  sky, 
That  the  faint  coming  breeze  will  be  fair  for  oui 

flight. 
And  shall  steal  us  away,  ere  the  falling  of  night. 
Dear  Douglas!   thou  knowest,  with   thee  by  my 

side, 
With  thy  friendship  to  soothe  me,  thy  courage  to 

guide, 
There  is  not  a  bleak  isle  in  Ihose  sunimcrless  seas 
Where  the  day  comes  in  darkiiess,  or  shines  but  to 

freeze. 
Not  a  tract  of  the  line,  not  a  barbarous  shore. 
That  I  could  not  with  patience,  with  pleasure  ex- 
plore ! 
Oh  think  then  how  gladly  I  follow  thee  now. 
When   Hope   smooths   the   billowy   path   of  our 

prow. 
And  cacli  prosperous  sigh  of  the   west-springing 

wind 
Takes  me  nearer  the  home  w  here  my  heart  is  in- 
shrined  ; 
Where  the  smile  of  a  father  shall  meet  me  .igain, 
And  the  tears  of  a  mother  turn  bliss  into  pain; 
Where  the  kind  voice  of  sisters  shall  steal  to  my 

heart, 
And  ask  jt,  in  sighs,  how  we  ever  could  part? — 

But  SCO ! — the  bent  top-sails  are  ready  to  swell — 
To  the  boat — I  am  witli  tliec — Columbia,  farewell  I 


POEMS  EELATING  TO  AMERICA. 


159 


NOTES 


(V)  PythoKoras  ;  w  ao  was  suiiposed  to  have  ii  power  of  wri- 
ting upon  the  MooL  by  the  rauaus  of  a  magic  mirror.— See 
Bavle,  art.  Pijtkng, 

(2)  Alhidiug  to  these  animated  lines  in  the  4Uh  Carmen  of 
CaluUus:— 

Jam  mens  pr.-ptrepidans  avet  vagari, 
Jam  I^li  studio  pedes  vigesciuit! 

(3)  A  very  high  mountain  on  one  of  the  Azores,  from  which 
(he  island  derives  its  name.  IL  is  said  by  some  to  be  as  high  as 
the  Peak  ofTeneriffe. 

(4)  I  believe  it  is  Guthrie  who  says,  that  the  inhabitants  of 
the  Azores  are  much  addicted  to  giillaiiLry.  Tliis  is  an  asser- 
tioa  in  which  even  Guthrie  may  bo  credited. 

(5)  These  islands  belong  to  the  Portuguese. 

(6)  It  is  the  opinion  of  St.  Austin  upon  Genesis,  and  I  believe 
of  nearly  all  the  Fathers,  that  birds,  like  fish,  were  originally 
produced  from  the  waters;  in  defence  of  which  idea  they  have 
collected  every  fanciful  circumstance  which  can  tend  to  prove 
a  kindred  similitude  between  tliem.  Willi  this  thought  in  our 
minds,  when  we  first  see  the  Flying-Fish,  we  could  almost  fancy 
that  we  are  present  at  the  moment  of  creation,  and  witness  the 
birth  of  the  first  bird  from  the  waves. 

(7)  A  trifling  attempt  at  musical  composition  accompanied 
this  Epistle. 

(8)  Bermuda. 

(9)  The  Great  Dismal  Swamp  is  ten  or  twelve  miles  distant 
from  Norfolk,  and  the  Lake  in  the  middle  of  it  (about  seven 
miles  long)  is  called  Drummond's  Pond. 

(10)  Lady  Donegal!,  I  had  reason  to  suppose,  was  at  this  time 
Btill  in  Switzerland,  where  the  well-known  powers  of  her  pencil 
must  have  been  frequently  awakened. 

(11)  The  chapel  of  William  Tell  on  the  Lake  of  Lucerne. 

(12)  M.  Gebelin  says,  in  his  J)/onrffi  Frzmid/,  "  Lorsque  Stra- 
bon  criJt  que  les  anciens  tbSoIogiens  et  pot-tes  placaient  les 
champs  ^lysees  dans  les  isles  de  TOc^'ail  Atlantique,  il  n'enten- 
dit  rien  a  leur  doctrme."  M.  Gebelin's  supposition,  I  have  no 
doubt,  is  the  more  correct;  but  thatof  Strabo  is  in  the  present 
instance,  most  to  my  purpose. 

(13)  Nothing  can  be  more  romantic  than  the  little  harbor  of 
St.  George's.  The  number  of  beautiful  islets,  the  singular 
clearness  of  the  water,  and  the  animated  play  of  the  graceful 
little  boats,  gliding  for  ever  between  the  islands,  and  seeming 
to  sail  from  one  cedar-grove  into  another,  formed  altogether 
as  lovely  a  miniatm-e  of  natm*e's  beauties  as  can  well  be  im- 
agined. 

(14)  This  is  an  allusion  which,  to  the  few  who  ai-e  fanciful 
enough  to  indulge  in  it,  renders  the  scenery  of  Bermuda  par- 


ticularly interesting.  In  the  short  but  beautiful  twilight  ol 
their  spring  evenings,  the  wiute  cottaues,  ecattered  over  tho 
islands,  and  but  partially  seen  through  the  trees  that  surround 
them,  assume  often  the  appearance  of  little  Grecian  temples  ; 
and  a  vivid  fancy  may  embelliah  the  poor  li^horman's  hut  with 
columns  such  as  the  pencil  of  a  Claude  might  ifuitate.  I  hail 
one  favorite  object  of  this  kind  in  my  walks,  which  tlie  hospi- 
tality of  its  owner  robbed  me  of,  by  asking  me  to  visit  bini.  He 
was  a  plain  good  man,  and  received  me  well  and  warmly,  but 
I  could  never  turn  his  house  into  a  Grecian  temple  again. 

(15)  This  gentleman  is  attached  to  the  British  consulate  at 
Norfolk.  His  talents  arc  woithy  of  a  much  higher  sphere  ;  but 
the  excellent  dispositions  of  the  family  with  whom  be  resides, 
and  the  cordial  repose  he  enjoys  amongst  some  of  the  kindest 
hearts  in  the  world,  should  be  almost  enough  to  atone  to  him 
for  the  worst  caprices  of  fortune.  The  consid  himself.  Colonel 
Hamilton,  is  one  among  tlie  very  few  instances  of  a  man,  ar- 
dently loyal  to  his  king,  and  yet  beloved  by  the  Americans. 
His  bouse  is  the  very  temple  of  hospitality,  and  I  sincerely  pity 
the  heart  of  that  stranger  who,  worm  from  the  welcome  of  such 
aboard,  could  sit  down  to  write  a  libel  on  his  host,  in  the  true 
spirit  of  a  modern  philosophist.  See  the  Travels  of  the  Duke 
de  la  Rouchefoucault  Liancourt,  vol.  ii. 

(16)  We  were  seven  days  on  our  passage  from  Norfolk  to 
Bermuda,  during  three  of  which  wo  were  forced  to  lay  to  in  a 
gale  of  wind.  The  Driver  sloop  of  war,  in  which  I  went,  was 
built  at  Bermuda  of  cedar,  and  is  accounted  an  excellent  sea- 
boat.  She  was  then  commanded  by  my  very  much  regretted 
friend  Captain  Compton,  who  in  July  last  was  killed  aboard  the 
Lilly  in  an  action  with  a  French  privateer.  Poor  Compton  I  ho 
fell  a  victim  to  the  strange  impolicy  of  allowing  such  a  miser- 
able thing  as  the  Lilly  to  remain  in  the  service;  so  small, 
crank,  and  unmanageable,  that  a  well-manned  merchantman 
was  at  any  time  a  match  for  her. 

(17)  This  epigram  is  by  Paul  the  Silentiary,  and  may  be  found 
in  the  Analecta  of  Brunck,  vol.  iii.  p.  72. 

(18j  The  water  is  so  cleai-  around  the  island,  that  the  rocks 
are  seen  beneath  to  a  very  great  depth  ;  and,  as  we  entered  the 
harbor,  they  appeared  to  us  so  near  the  surface  that  it  seemed 
impossible  we  should  not  strike  on  them.  There  is  no  neces- 
sity, of  course,  for  heaving  the  lead  ;  and  the  negro  pilot,  look- 
ing down  at  the  rocks  from  the  bow  of  the  ship,  takes  her 
through  this  difficult  navigation  with  a  skill  and  confidence 
which  seem  to  astonish  some  of  the  oldest  sailors. 

(19)  In  Kircher's  "  Ecstatic  Journey  to  Heaven,"  Cosmiel,  the 
genius  of  the  world,  gives  Theodidactus  a  boat  of  asbestos, 
with  which  he  embarks  into  the  regions  of  the  sun.  "  Videa 
(says  Cosmiel)  banc  abestinara  naviculam  commoditati  tuae 
pra-paratam." — Itinerar.  I.  Dial.  i.  cap.  5.  This  work  of  Kir- 
cher  abounds  with  strange  fancies. 

(20)  When  the  Genius  of  the  world  and  his  fellow-traveller 
arrive  at  the  planet  Venue,  tliey  find  an  island  <)f  loveliness,  full 
of  odors  and  intelHgences,  where  angels  preside,  who  shed  ibe 
cosmetic  influence  of  this  planet  over  the  earth ;  such  being, 
according  to  astrologers,  the  "  vis  influxiva"  of  Venus.    Wheo 


IGO 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Ihey  are  in  llii^  part  of  the  heavens,  a  casuistical  question  oc- 
curs lo  TheodiJuctus,  and  he  asks,  "  AVhelher  baptism  may  be 
performed  with  the  waters  of  Venus  V'— ^'  An  aquis  globi  Vene- 
ris baptisrous  institui  possil?"  to  which  the  Genius  auswers, 
*»  Certainly." 

(21)  This  idea  is  Father  Kircher's.  '-Tot  animates  soles  dix- 
Isses."— ft  I  wfrar.  I.  Dial.  i.  cap.  5. 

(22)  Gassendi  thinks  that  the  gardens,  which  Pausanias  men- 
tions in  his  firel  book,  were  those  of  Epicurus  ;  and  Stuart  says. 
in  his  Antiquities  of  Athens,  "  Near  this  convent  (the  convent 
of  Ilagios  Asomatos)  is  the  place  called  at  present  Kepoi,  or 
the  Gardens;  and  Aropelos  Kepos,  or  the  Vineyard  Garden: 
these  were  probably  the  gardens  which  Paiisauias  visited." 
Vol.  i.  chap.  2. 

(23)  This  method  of  polishing:  pearls,  by  leaving  them  awhile 
to  be  played  with  by  doves,  is  mentioned  by  the  fanciful  Car- 
danusf  de  Rerurn  Varietat.  lib.  vii.  cap.  34. 

(24)  In  Ilercj-nio  Germaniai  saitu  inusitata  genera  alitum  ac- 
cepimus>  quarum  plumET,  ignium  modo,  colluceant  noclibus.— 
Plin,  lib.  X.  cap.  47. 

(25)  The  Milesiacs,  or  Milesian  fables,  had  their  origin  in  Mi- 
letus, a  luxurious  town  of  Ionia.  Aristides  was  the  most  cele- 
brated author  of  these  licentious  fictions.     See  Platarchy  (in 

'  Cr&sso.) 

(26)  ^  Some  of  the  Cretan  wines,  from  their  fragrancy  resem- 
bling that  of  the  finest  flowers."— Barry  on  ff'incs,  chap.  vii. 

(^  It  appears  that  in  very  splendid  mansions,  the  floor  or 
pavement  was  frequently  of  onyx.  ThusMartial:  "Calcatnsque 
<iio  sub  pede  lucct  onyx,"'    Epig.  50,  lib.  xii. 

(38J  Brncelels  of  this  shape  wcro  a  favorite  ornament  among 
the  women  of  antiquity.  Phito^rat.  Epist.  xl.  Sec  Lvicinn, 
Amr»refl,  where  he  describes  the  dressing-room  of  a  Grecian 
lady,  and  we  And  the  "silver  vase," the  rouge,  the  tooth-powder, 
and  all  the  '■  mystic  order"  of  a  modern  toilet. 

(29)  .A plana,  mentioned  by  Pliny,  lib.  xiv.,  and  "now  called 
the  Muscatel,  (a  muscarum  tells,")  says  PanciroUua,  book  i.^ 
Bcct.  1.  chop.  17. 

(30)  I  had,  at  this  lime,  some  idea  of  paying  a  visit  to  the 
West  Indies. 

(31)  The  Inhnbitunls  pronounce  the  name  as  if  it  were  writ- 
ten Berraoodo.  See  the  commentators  on  the  words  "still- 
vcx'd  Herraoothe^  '  in  the  Tempest.— I  wnndtr  it  did  not  occur 
lo  some  of  llioen  nil-reading  gontlez.cT»  that,  possibly,  the  dis- 
coverer of  this  "Island  of  hogs  and  devils"  might  have  been  no 
Irsfl  a  perdonnge  than  the  great  John  IJermudcz,  who,  obout 
the  name  period  (the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  centur))  was 
sent  Patriorchof  the  Latin  church  to  Kthlopin,  and  has  left  us 
iniiRt  wonderful  stories  of  the  Amazons  and  tlm  Grilllns  which 
he  encountered.— TfdcW*  of  the  Jcautt^y  vol.  i.  1  urn  afraid. 
however,  tl  would  tuko  the  Patriarch  rather  too  much  out  of 
bis  way, 

(K)  Johnson  docs  not  think  that  U'lilh-r  wns  ever  nt  Her- 
muda;  but  the  "Account  of  the  European  .«cltlemcnt8  In 
Ami-ncu"  anirms  it  conlldenlly.  (vol.  11.)  I  mention  this  work, 
howi'vcr,  lens  fitr  lln  authority  than  for  the  pleniurn  1  f«*el  in 
quoting  an  unacknowledged  production  of  the  great  Edmund 
llurkfl. 

rJ3)  Tbo  tcatide  or  maiu;rrjvo  grape,  a  natlvo  of  the  WotI 
iBdlct. 


(34)  The  Agave.  This,  I  am  aware,  is  an  errnneous  notion, 
but  it  is  quite  true  enough  for  poetry,  Plato,  I  ^bink,  allows  a 
poet  to  be  "  three  removes  from  truth." 

(35)  Somewhat  like  the  syraplegraa  of  Cupid  and  Psyche  at 
Florence,  in  which  the  position  of  Psyche's  hand  is  finely  and 
delicately  expressive  of  affection.  See  the  Museum  Florenli- 
num.tom.ii.  tab.  43,  44.  Tliere  are  few  subjects  on  which  poetry 
could  be  more  interestingly  employed  than  in  illustrating  some 
of  these  ancient  statues  and  gems. 

(36)  Pinkertou  has  said  that  "a  good  historj-  and  des^criplion 
of  the  Bermudas  might  afford  a  pleasing  addition  to  the  geo- 
graphical library;"  but  there  certainly  ai-e  not  materials  for 
such  a  work.  The  island,  since  the  time  of  its  discovery,  has 
experirnced  so  very  few  vicissitudes,  the  people  have  been  so 
indolent,  and  Ihoir  tr,ideso  limited,  that  there  is  but  little  which 
the  historian  could  ampliiy  into  importance  ;  and,  with  respect 
to  the  natural  productions  of  the  country,  the  few  which  the 
inhabitants  can  bo  induced  to  cultivate  are  so  common  in  the 
West  Indies,  that  they  have  been  described  by  every  naturalist 
who  h,as  written  any  account  of  those  islands. 

It  is  often  asserted  by  the  trans-Atlantic  politicians  that  this 
little  colony  deserves  more  attention  from  the  mother-country 
than  it  receives,  and  it  certainly  possesses  advantages  of  situa- 
tion, to  which  we  should  not  be  long  insensible  if  it  were  once 
in  the  hands  of  an  enemy.  I  was  told  by  a  celebrated  friend  of 
Washington,  at  New  York,  that  they  had  formed  a  plan  for  its 
capture  towards  the  conclusion  of  [he  Americ;in  War;  "with 
the  intention  (as  he  expressed  himself)  of  making  it  a  nest  of 
hornets  for  the  annoyance  of  British  trade  in  that  part  of  tho 
world."  And  there  is  no  doubt  it  lies  so  conveniently  in  the 
track  to  the  West  Indies,  that  an  enemy  might  with  ease  con- 
vert it  inio  a  very  harassing  impediment.    ^ 

The  plan  of  Bishop  Berkeley  for  a  college  at  Bermuda,  whero 
American  savages  might  be  converted  and  educated,  though 
concurred  in  by  the  government  of  the  day,  was  a  wild  and 
useless  speculation.  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  was  governor  of  tho 
island  some  years  since,  ])roposed,  if  I  mistake  nttt,  the  et*(ab* 
lishment  of  a  murine  academy  for  the  instruction  of  thoBO  chil- 
dren of  \VcBt  Indians,  who  might  he  intended  for  any  nautical 
employment.  This  was  a  more  ratitmal  idea,  and  for  something 
oMhis  nature  the  island  is  admirably  calculnled.  Hut  tlio  plan 
should  be  much  more  extensive,  and  embrace  a  general  syslem 
of  education  ;  which  would  relievo  the  colonists  from  tho  al- 
ternative to  which  they  are  reduced  at  present,  of  either  send- 
ing their  sons  to  England  for  instruction,  or  intrusting  them  to 
colleges  in  the  states  of  .\merica,  whero  ideas,  by  no  means 
fiivorable  to  Great  Britain,  are  very  sedulously  inculcated. 

The  women  of  Bermuda,  though  not  generally  handsome, 
have  an  affectionate  languor  in  their  look  and  manner,  which 
is  always  interesting.  What  the  French  imply  by  their  epithet 
aimantc  Beems  very  much  Iho  characler  of  the  young  Bertnu- 
dlan  girls- that  predisposition  to  loving,  which,  without  being 
nwiikcne<l  by  any  particular  object,  dilfuses  itself  through  tho 
general  manner  in  a  tone  of  tenderness  that  never  falls  lo  fas- 
cinnle.  Tho  men  of  the  isl.'ind,  I  confess,  are  not  very  civilized : 
and  tho  old  philosopher,  who  Imnglned  that,  uHer  this  life, 
men  would  becbaugetl  inlomuk">,nnd  women  Inlo  turlle-doves, 
would  llud  (be  nietauiorphosls  In  somo  degree  anliclpated  nt 
Dcrmuda. 

(37)  Mountains  of  Sicily,  upon  which  Daphnls,  tho  Ih-Ht  In- 
ventor ttf  bucolic  poplry,  was  nurned  by  the  nymphs.  See  tho 
lively  deacrlpllon  of  these  mountains  in  Diud<)rufl  Siculus, 
lib.  I  v. 

(3H)  A  whip,  ready  to  sail  for  England. 

(3a)  I  h  fl  Brrmuda  In  the  lh>r.ton  about  (he  middle  of  A|  rll, 
in  company  with  Iho  t'ambrlan  and  Leander,  aboard  tho  lut- 
Irr  of  which  wrm  the   Admiral.  Sir   Andrew  Mlicholl,  who 


POEMS  RELATING  TO  AMERICA. 


161 


divides  his  year  between  Halifax  and  Rermuda,  and  is  the  very 
eoul  of  aociely  and  good-feUowsliip  to  both.  We  sepaiated  in 
a  few  days,  and  the  Itosion,  after  a  sliort  cruise,  proceeded  lo 
Now  Vork. 

(40)  The  lively  and  varying  illumination,  with  which  these 
fire-Hiea  li^'ht  U|>  Ihe  woods  at  ni^lit,  pives  quito  uti  idea  of  en- 
chaiitmyiit.  *'  Puis  cva  nioiiches  se  dt:vehjppatit  de  Tobscurite 
de  ces  abres  et  s'approchant  de  nous,  nous  les  voyions  aur  les 
Grangers  voisiris,  quails  inettaient  tout  en  feu,  nous  rcndant  la 
vuc  de  leui-s  beaux  fruits  dories  que  la  nuit  avait  ravie,^^  &.c. 
&.C. — See  IJ* Hisioire  dca  JlntilUst  art,  2,  chap.  4,  Uv.  i. 

(41)  Thus  Morse.  "Here  the  sciences  and  the  arts  of  civilized 
life  are  to  receive  their  highest  improvements:  here  civil  and 
religious  liberty  are  to  flourish,  unchecked  by  the  cruel  hand  of 
civil  or  ecclesiastical  tyranny:  here  genius,  aided  by  all  the 
improvements  of  former  ages,  is  to  be  exerted  in  humanizing 
manlcind,  in  expanding  and  enriching  their  minds  with  reli- 
gious and  philosophical  knowledge,"  &.C.  fcc— p.  5G9. 

(42)  ''Nous  voyons  que,  dans  les  pays  ou  Ton  n'est  affects 
que  de  I'esprit  de  commerce,  on  tratique  de  toutes  les  actions 
humaines  ut  de  toutes  les  vcrtus  morales." — Montesquieu^  de 
P Esprit  des  I^ois,  liv.  xx.  chap.  2. 

(43)  There  is  a  dreary  and  savage  character  in  the  country 
imuiediately  about  these  Falls,  which  is  much  more  in  harmony 
with  the  wildness  of  such  a  scene  than  the  cultivated  lands  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Niagara.  See  the  di'awing  of  them  in  Mr. 
Weld's  book.  According  to  him,  the  perpendicular  height  of 
the  CohoL'S  Fall  is  fifty  feet;  but  the  Marqiiia  de  Chastellux 
makes  it  seventy-six. 

The  fine  rainbow,  which  is  continually  forming  and  dissolving 
as  the  epray  rises  into  the  light  of  ilie  sun,  is  perhaps  the 
most  interesting  beauty  which  these  wonderful  cataracts  ex- 
hibit. 

(44)  The  idea  of  this  poem  occurred  to  me  in  passing  through 
the  very  dreary  wilderness  between  Batavia,  a  new  settlement 
in  the  midst  of  the  woods,  and  the  little  village  of  Buffalo  upon 
Lake  Erie.  This  is  the  most  fatiguing  part  of  the  route,  in 
travelling  through  the  Genesee  country  to  Niagara. 

(45)  "The  Five  Confederated  Nations  (of  Indians)  were  set- 
tled along  the  banks  of  ihe  Susquehannah  and  the  adjacent 
country,  until  the  year  1779,  when  General  Sullivan,  with  an 
army  of  4UUU  men,  drcve  them  from  their  country  to  Niagara, 
where,  being  obliged  to  live  on  salted  provisions,  to  which 
they  were  unaccustomed,  great  numbers  of  thera  died.  Two 
hundred  of  them,  it  is  said,  were  buried  in  one  grave,  where 
they  had  encamped." — Jl/o.-seV  .American  Oeography. 

(46)  The  alligator,  who  is  supposed  to  lie  in  a  torpid  state  all 
the  winter,  in  the  bant  of  some  creek  or  pond,  having  pre- 
viously swallowed  a  large  number  of  pine-knots,  which  are  his 
only  sustenance  during  the  time. 

(47)  This  was  the  mode  of  punishment  for  murder  (as 
Charlevoix  tells  us)  among  the  Hurons.  "-They  laid  the  dead 
body  upon  poles  at  the  top  of  n  cabin,  and  the  murderer  was 
obliged  to  remain  several  days  together,  and  to  receive  all  that 
dropped  from  the  caixass,  not  only  onliimself  but  on  his  food." 

(48)  "  We  find  also  collars  of  porcelain,  tobacco,  ears  of 
maize,  skins,  &c.,  by  the  aide  of  difficult  and  dangerous  ways, 
on  rocks,  or  by  the  side  of  the  falls ;  and  these  are  so  many 
offerings  made  to  the  spirits  which  preside  in  these  places." — 
See  Charlevoiz''s  Letter  on  the  Traditions  and  the  Religion  of 
Vie  Savages  of  Canada. 

Father  Hennepin  too  mentions  this  ceremony;  he  also  says, 
••  We  took  notice  of  one  barbarian,  who  made  a  kind  of  sacri- 
VOL.  II. — 21 


flee  upon  on  oak  at  the  Cascade  of  St.  Antony  of  Padua,  upon 
the  river  Mississippi."— See  JUennrpin's  Voyage  into  Xorlk 
Jlmcrica, 

(49)  This  epithet  was  suggested  by  Charlevoix's  striking  de- 
scription of  the  confluence  of  the  Missouri  with  the  Missis- 
sippi. "I  believe  this  ia  the  finest  confluence  in  tho  world. 
The  two  rivers  are  much  of  the  same  breadth,  each  about  half 
a  league  ;  but  the  Missouri  is  by  far  the  most  rapid,  and  scema 
to  enter  the  Mi.'^siasippi  like  a  conqueror,  through  which  it  car- 
ries its  white  waves  lo  the  opposite  shore,  witliout  mixing  them  ; 
afterwards  it  gives  its  color  to  tho  Mississippi,  which  it  never 
loses  again,  but  curries  quite  down  to  the  sea." — Letter  xxvii. 

(50)  Alluding  to  the  fanciful  notion  of  "  words  congealed  in 
northern  air." 

(51)  I  wrote  these  words  to  an  air  which  our  boatmen  suni; 
to  us  frequently.  The  wind  was  so  unfavornlile  that  Ihcy  were 
obliged  to  row  all  the  way,  and  we  were  five  days  in  descend- 
ing the  river  from  Kingston  to  Montreal,  exposed  to  an  intense 
sun  during  the  day,  and  at  night  Itnced  to  take  shelter  from 
tho  dews  in  any  miserable  hut  upon  the  banks  that  would 
receive  us.  Hut  the  magnificent  scenery  of  the  St.  Lawrence 
repays  all  such  difliculties. 

Our  royageurs  had  good  voices,  and  sung  perfectly  in  tune 
together.  The  original  words  of  the  air,  to  wliich  1  adapted 
these  stanzas,  appeared  to  be  a  hjng-  incoherent  story,  of  which 
1  could  understand  but  little,  from  the  barbarous  pronuncia- 
tion of  the  Canadians.    It  begins 

Dans  mon  chemin  j'ai  rcncontr6 

Deux  cavaliers  tres-bien  montes; 

And  the  refrain  to  every  verse  was, 

A  I'ombre  d'un  bois  je  m'en  vais  jouer, 
A  Tombre  d'un  buis  je  m'en  vais  danser. 

I  ventured  to  harmonize  this  air,  and  have  published  it. 
Without  that  charm  which  association  gives  to  every  liltie 
memorial  of  scenes  or  feelings  that  are  past,  the  melody  may, 
perhaps,  be  thought  coniuion  and  trifling;  but  1  remember 
when  we  have  eniered,  ai  sunset,  upon  one  uf  those  beautiful 
lakes  into  wliich  llie  Si.  Lawrence  so  grandly  and  unexpect- 
edly opens,  1  have  heard  this  simple  air  with  a  pleasure  which 
the  finest  compositions  of  the  finest  masters  have  never  given 
me  ;  and  now  there  is  not  a  note  of  it  which  does  not  recall  to 
my  memof)'  the  dip  of  our  oars  in  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  fliglit 
of  our  boat  down  tho  Rnpids,  and  all  those  new  and  faucifu.' 
impressions  to  which  my  licart  was  alive  during  the  whole  ol 
this  very  interesting  voyage. 

The  above  stanzas  are  supposed  to  be  sung  by  those  voya- 
gcurs  who  go  to  the  Grand  Portage  by  the  Utawas  River.  For 
an  account  of  this  wonderful  undertaking,  see  Sir  Alexander 
Mackenzie's  General  History  of  tho  Fvir  Trade,  prefixed  to  his 
Journal. 

(52)  "  At  the  Rapid  of  St.  Ann  they  are  obliged  to  take  out 
part,  if  not  the  whole,  of  their  lading.  It  is  from  this  sptd  the 
Canadians  consider  they  take  their  departure,  as  it  possesses 
tho  last  church  on  the  island,  which  is  dedicated  to  the  tutelar 
saint  of  voyagers." — .lijc/.c«:ic,  Oeneral  History  of  the  Far 
Trade. 

(53)  "  Avendo  i^ssi  per  costume  di  avere  in  venerazione  gli 
alberi  grandi  et  antichi,  quasi  che  siano  sjiesso  ricetlaccoU  di 
aniuio  beate." — Pietro  dt.Ua  Valle^  part,  seooud.,  leliera  IG,  da  1 
giardini  di  Sciraz. 

(54)  Anburey,  in  his  Travels,  has  noticed  this  shooting  illu- 
mination which  porpoises  diffuse  at  night  through  the  river 
St.  Lawrence.    Vol.  i.  p.  '-9. 

(55)  The  glass-suake  is  brittle  and  tranaparenU 


162 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


(56)  •*The  departed  spirit  goes  into  tbe  Country  of  Souls, 
where,  according  to  some,  it  is  transformed  into  a  dove."— 
Charlevoix^  upon  the  Traditions  and  the  Reli^on  of  the  Savages 
of  Canada.  See  the  curious  fable  Df  the  American  Orpheus  in 
Lafitaa,  torn.  i.  p.  400. 

(57)  "The  mountains  appeared  to  be  sprinkled  with  while 
etones,  which  glistened  in  the  sun,  and  were  called  by  the 
Indians,  manetoe  aseniah,  or  spirit-stones."  —  J^Iaekeniie's 
Journal. 

(58)  These  lines  were  suggested  by  Carver's  description  of 
one  of  the  American  lakes.  "When  it  was  calm,"  he  says, 
"  and  the  sun  shone  bright,  I  could  sit  in  my  canoe,  where  the 
depth  was  upwards  of  six  fathoms,  and  plainly  see  huge  piles 
of  stone  at  the  bottom,  of  different  shapes,  some  of  which 
appeared  as  if  they  had  been  hewn ;  the  water  was  at  this 
lime  as  pure  and  transparent  as  air,  and  my  canoe  seemed  as 
If  it  hun^  suspended  in  that  element.  It  was  impossible  to 
look  attentively  through  this  limpid  medium,  at  the  rocks 
below,  without  finding,  before  many  minutes  were  elapsed, 
your  head  swim,  and  your  eyes  no  longer  able  to  behold  the 
dazzling  scene." 

(59)  Apres  avoir  traverse  plusieurs  iles  peu  considerables, 
nous  en  trouvimes  le  quatrieme  jour  imo  fameuse  nommCe 
rile  de  Manitoualin.— Foi/«^c.?  du  Baron  de  LvJiontan^  tom.  i. 
let.  15.  Manataulin  signifies  a  Place  of  Spirits,  and  this  island 
in  Lake  Huron  is  held  sacred  by  the  Indians. 

(60)  "The  VVakon-Bird,  which  probably  is  of  the  same  spe- 
cies with  the  Bird  of  Paradise,  receives  its  name  from  the 
ideas  the  Indians  have  of  its  superior  excellence  ;  the  Wa- 
kon-llird  being,  in  their  language,  the  Bird  of  the  Great 
SpiriL" — Morse. 

(61)  The  islands  of  Lake  Erie  are  surrounded  to  a  consldcr- 
oble  distance  by  the  large  pond-lily,  whoso  leaves  spread 
thickly  over  the  surface  of  the  lake,  and  form  a  kind  of  bed 
for  tho  water-snakes  in  summer. 

(62)  "Tlie  gold  thread  is  of  tho  vino  kind,  and  grows  in 
■wamps.  The  roots  spread  themselves  just  under  the  surface 
of  the  morasses,  and  are  easily  drawn  out  by  handfuls.  They 
resemblo  a  largo  entangled  skein  of  silk,  and  are  of  n  bright 
yellow.** — Morse, 

(63)  "L*ol9eau  moucho,  (^ros  comrao  un  hanneton,  est  de 
lout«i  couIeurVf  vives  et  cbungeuDtes :  11  tire  sa  subsistence  des 


fleurs  comme  les  ahcilles:  son  nid  eel  fnit  d'un  coton  tres-fin 
Buspendu  a  une  t^ranche  d'arbre." — Voyages  aux  Indcs  Occiden- 
tales,  par  JiT.  Bossu,  secondt  part,  lett.  xt 

(G4)  Emberlza  byemalis.—  See  Imlay*s  Kentucky.^  p.  280, 

(65)  Lafitau  supposes  that  there  was  an  order  of  vcatalt 
established  among  the  Iroquois  Indians. — .M<Lurs  des  SauvafTe$ 
.^miricains,  ic,  lorn.  i.  p.  173. 

(66)  Vedi  che  sdegna  gli  argomenti  nmani ; 
Si  che  rcmo  non  vuol,  ne  oltro  velo, 
Che  1*  ale  sue  Ira  liti  si  lontani. 

Vedi  come  V  ha  drilte  verso  *1  cielo 
Trattando  V  aere  con  1'  eterne  penue  ; 
Che  uun  si  mutan,  come  mortal  pelo. 

Dante,  Purgator.,  cant.  il. 

(67)  Tliis  is  one  of  the  Magdalen  Islands,  and,  singularly 
enough,  is  the  property  of  Sir  Isaac  Coffin.  The  above  lines 
were  suggested  by  a  superstition  very  common  among  sailors, 
who  call  this  ghoat-ship,  I  think,  "  the  flying  Dutchman." 

Wo  were  thirteen  days  on  our  passage  from  Quebec  to 
Halifax,  and  I  had  been  so  spoiled  by  the  truly  splendid  hos- 
pitality of  my  friends  of  the  Phaeton  and  Boston,  that  I  was 
but  ill  prepared  for  the  miseries  of  a  Canadian  vessel.  Tho 
weather,  however,  was  pleasant,  and  the  scenery  along  tho 
river  delightful.  Our  passage  through  the  Cut  of  Canso,  with 
a  bright  sky  and  a  fair  wind,  was  paiticidiirly  striking  and 
romantic. 

(68)  Commanded  by  Captain  J.  E.  Douglas,  with  whom  I  re- 
turned to  England,  and  to  whom  I  am  indebted  fur  many, 
many  kindnesses.  In  truth,  I  should  but  offend  tho  delicacy 
of  my  friend  Douglas,  and,  at  the  same  time,  do  injustice  to  mj 
own  feelings  of  gratitude,  did  I  attempt  to  say  how  much  1 
owe  to  him. 

(69)  Sir  John  Wentworth.  the  Governor  of  Nova  Pcotin,  very 
kindly  allowed  me  to  accompany  him  on  his  visit  to  tho  College, 
which  they  have  lately  established  at  Windsor,  about  forty 
miles  from  Halifax,  and  I  was  indeed  most  pleasantly  surprised 
by  the  beauty  and  fertility  of  the  country  which  opened  upon 
ua  after  tho  bleak  anil  rocky  wildLMness  by  which  Halifax  ts 
surrounded. — I  was  tuUl  tliat,  in  travollim,'  onwards,  wo  should 
find  the  soil  and  the  scenerj'  improve,  arul  it  gave  mc  much 
pleasure  to  know  that  tho  worthy  Governor  has  by  no  means 
such  an  "  inamabilo  regnum"  as  I  wia,  at  first  sight,  iuclincd  1' 
beliove. 


BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC. 


TO-DAY,  DEAREST  1   IS  OURS. 

f  '1-DAY,  dearest !  J3  ours ; 

\Vliy  should  Love  carelessly  lose  it? 
This  life  shines  or  lowers 

Just  as  we,  weak  mortals,  use  it. 
'Tis  time  enough,  when  its  flow'rs  decay, 

To  think  of  the  thorns  of  Sorrow ; 
And  Joy,  if  left  on  the  stem  to-day, 

May  wither  before  to-morrow. 

Then  why,  dearest !  so  long 

Let  the  sweet  moments  fly  over? 
Though  now,  blooming  and  young. 

Thou  hast  me  devoutly  thy  lover: 
Yet  Time  from  both,  in  his  silent  lapse. 

Some  treasure  may  steal  or  borrow; 
Thy  charms  may  be  less  in  bloom,  perhaps. 

Or  I  less  in  love  to-morrow. 


WHEN  ON  THE  LIP  THE  SIGH  DELAYS. 

When  on  the  lip  the  sigh  delays. 

As  if 'twould  linger  there  for  ever; 
When  eyes  would  give  the  world  to  gaze. 

Yet  still  look  down,  and  venture  never: 
When,  though  with  fairest  nymphs  we  rove, 

There's  one  we  dream  of  more  than  any— 
If  all  this  is  not  real  love, 

'Tis  something  wondrous  like  it,  Fanny ! 

To  think  and  ponder,  when  apart. 

On  all  we've  got  to  say  at  meeting  ; 
And  yet  when  near,  with  heart  to  heart. 

Sit  mute,  and  listen  to  their  beating: 
To  see  but  one  bright  object  move, 

The  only  moon,  where  stars  are  many — 
If  all  this  is  not  downright  love, 

I  prithee  say  what  is,  my  Fanny  I 


When  Hope  foretells  the  brif  htest,  best, 

Though  Reason  on  the  daikest  reckons; 
When  Passion  drives  us  to  the  west. 

Though  Prudence  to  the  eastward  beckons" 
When  all  turns  round,  below,  above. 

And  our  own  heads  the  most  of  any — 
If  this  is  not  stark,  staring  love, 

Then  you  and  I  are  sages,  Fanny 


THE  EAST  INDIAN. 

Come,  May,  with  all  thy  flowers, 

Thy  sweetly-scented  thorn. 
Thy  cooling  ev'niiig  showers. 

Thy  fragrant  breath  at  morn : 
When  May-flies  haunt  the  willow. 

When  May-buds  tempt  the  bee, 
Then  o'er  the  shining  billow 

My  love  will  come  to  me. 

From  Eastern  Isles  she's  winging 

Through  wat'ry  wilds  her  way, 
And  on  her  cheek  is  bringing 

The  bright  sun's  orient  ray : 
Oh,  come  and  court  her  hither. 

Ye  breezes  mild  and  warm — 
One  winter's  gale  would  wither 

So  soft,  so  pure  a  form. 

The  fields  where  she  was  straying 

Are  blest  with  endless  liglit, 
With  zephyrs  always  playing 

Through  gardens  always  bright. 
Then  now,  sweet  May  !  be  sweeter 

Than  e'er  thou'st  been  before ; 
Let  sighs  from  roses  meet  her 

Whe'n  she  Comes  near  mir  shore. 


164 


MOORE'S  -WOEKS. 


HERE,  TAKE  MY  HEART. 

Here,  take  my  heart — 'twill  be  safe  in  thy  keeping, 
Wliile  I  go  \vand"iing  o'er  land  and  o'er  sea ; 

Smiling  or  sorrowing,  waking  or  sleeping, 
What  need  I  care,  so  my  heart  is  with  thee  "i 

If,  in  the  race  we  arc  dus'.ined  to  run,  love. 

They  who  have  light  hearts  the  happiest  be, 
Then,  happier  still  must  be  they  who  have  none, 
love. 
And  that  will  be  my  case  when  mine  is  with 
thee. 

It  matters  not  where  I  may  now  be  a  rover, 
I  care  not  how  many  bright  eyes  I  may  see; 

Should  Venus  herself  come  and  ask  mo  to  love 
her, 
I'd  tell  her  I  couldn't — my  heart  is  with  thee. 

And  there  let  it  lie,  gi'owing  fonder  and  fonder — 
For,  even  should  Fortune  turn  truant  to  me, 

WTiy,  let  her  go — I've  a  treasure  beyond  her, 
Ab  long  as  my  heart's  out  at  int'rest  with  thee  ! 


OH,  CALL  IT  BY  SOME  BETTER  NAME. 

f 

On,  call  it  by  some  better  name. 

For  Friendship  sounds  too  cold, 
While  Love  is  now  a  worldly  flame, 

Whose  shrine  tnust  be  of  gold; 
And  Passion,  like  the  -sun  at  noon. 

That  burns  o'er  all  ho  sees. 
Awhile  as  warm,  will  set  as  soon — 

Then,  call  it  none  of  these. 

imagine  something  purer  far. 

More  free  from  stain  of  clay 
Than  I'Viendship,  Love,  or  Passion  are, 

Yet  human  still  as  they: 
And  if  thy  lip,  for  love  like  this. 

No  mortal  word  can  frame, 
Go,  nnk  of  iingels  what  it  is. 

And  call  it  by  that  name! 


POOR  WOUNDED  HEART. 

Poon  wounded  liearl,  farewell ! 
'J'liy  hour  of  rest  is  uomo  ; 
■  Thou  Boon  wilt  reuch  thy  home, 
Poor  wounded  heart,  farowell ! 


The  pain  thou'lt  feel  in  breaking 

Less  bitter  far  will  be, 
Than  that  long,  deadly  aching, 

Tliis  life  has  been  to  thee. 

There — broken  heart,  farewell  I 
The  pang  is  o'er — 
The  parting  pang  is  o'er; 
Thou  now  wilt  bleed  no  more, 
Poor  broken  heart,  liirewcll ! 
No  rest  for  thee  but  dying — 

Like  waves,  whose  strife  is  past. 
On  death's  cold  shore  thus  lying. 
Thou  sleep'st  in  peace  at  last — 
Poor  broken  heart,  farewell ! 


POOR  BROILEN  FLOWER. 

Poor  broken  tlow"r !    what  art  can  now  recover 
thee? 
Torn  from  the  .stem  that  fed  thy  rosy  breath — 
In  vain  the  sunbeams  seek 
To  warm  that  faded  cheek  ; 
The  dews  of  heav'n,  that  once  like  balm  fell  over 
thee, 
Now  are  but  tears,  to  weep  thy  early  death. 

So  droops  the  maid  whose  lover  hath  forsaken  her,— 
Thrown  from  his  arms,  as  lone  and  lost  as  thou 
In  vain  the  smiles  of  all 
Like  sunbeams  round  her  fall ; 
The  only  smile  tliat  could  from  death  awaken  ter 
That  smile,  alas!  is  gone  to  others  now. 


THE  PRETTY  R03ETREK 

Being  weary  of  love, 

I  tlew  to  the  grove 
And  chose  mo  a  tree  of  the  fairest; 

Saying,  "  I'rotty  Ilose-lree, 

"Thou  my  mistr"s3  shalt  be, 
"  And  I'll  worship  each  buu  thou  bcaresL 
"  For  the  hearts  of  this  worhl  are  hollo\» 
"  And  fickle  the  smiles  we  follow 

"  Anil  'tis  sweet,  when  all 

"Their  wilch'ries  pall, 
"To  h;ivo  n  pure  love  to  lly  to: 

"So,  my  pretty  Rose-tree, 

"  Thou  my  mistress  tihall  bo, 
"  And  the  only  one  now  I  nliall  M{;h  to." 


BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC 


165 


When  the  boauliful  hue 

Of  thy  check  through  the  dew 

Of  morniniT  h  huslifully  peeping-, 
"  Sweet  tears,"  I  shall  say, 
(As  I  brush  them  away,) 

"  At  least  there's  no  art  in  this  weeping." 
Although  thou  shouldst  die  to-morrow, 
'Twill  not  be  from  pain  or  sorrow; 
And  the  thorns  of  thy  stem 
Are  not  like  them 

With  wliich  men  wound  each  other : 
So,  my  pretty  Rose-tree, 
Thou  my  mistress  shalt  be, 

And  I'll  ne'er  again  sigh  to  another. 


THE  YOUNG  MULETEERS  OF  GRENADA. 

Oh,  the  joys  of  our  ev'ning  posada, 

Where,  resting  at  close  of  day. 
We,  young  Muleteers  of  Grenada, 

Sit  and  sing  the  sunshine  away; 
So  merry,  that  even  the  slumbers, 

That  round  us  hung,  seem  gone ; 
Till  the  lute's  soft  drowsy  numbers 

Again  beguile  them  on. 
Oil,  the  joys,  &c. 

Then  as  each  to  his  loved  sultana 

In  sleep  still  breathes  the  sigh. 
The  name  of  some  black-eyed  Tirana 

Escapes  our  lips  as  we  lie. 
Till,  with  morning's  rosy  twinkle. 

Again  we're  up  and  gone — 
While  the  mule-bell's  drowsy  tinkle 

Beguiles  the  rough  way  on. 
Oh,  the  joys  of  our  merry  posada, 

Where,  resting  at  close  of  day. 
We,  young  Muleteers  of  Grenada, 

Thus  sing  the  gay  moments  away. 


And  would  Love,  too,  bring  his  B^yeetncss, 

With  our  otiier  joys  to  weave, 
Oh  what  glory,  what  completeness. 

Then  would  crown  this  bright  May  Evol 
Shine  out;  Stars !  let  night  assemble 

Round  us  every  festal  ray. 
Lights  that  move  not,  lights  that  tremble, 

To  adorn  this  Eve  of  JIay. 


SHINE  OUT,  STARS  I 

Shine  out.  Stars !  let  Heav'n  assemble 

Round  us  ev'ry  festal  ray. 
Lights  that  move  not,  lights  that  tremble, 

All  to  grace  this  Eve  of  May. 
Let  the  flow'r-beds  all  lie  waking, 

And  the  odors  shut  up  there, 
From  their  downy  prisons  breaking. 

Fly  abroad  through  sea  and  air. 


TELL  HER,  OH,  TELL  HER. 

Tell  her,  oh,  tell  her,  the  lute  she  left  lying 
Beneath  the  green  arbor,  is  still  lying  there ; 

And  breezes,  like  lovers,  around  it  are  sighing. 
But  not  a  soft  whisper  replies  to  their  pray'r. 

Tell  her,  oh,  tell  her,  the  tree  th.at,  in  going. 
Beside  the  green  arbor  she  playfully  set, 

As  lovely  as  ever  is  blushing  and  blowing. 
And  not  a  briglit  leaflet  has  fall'n  from  it  yet 

So  while  away  from  that  arbor  forsaken. 
The  maiden  is  wandering,  still  let  her  be 

As  true  as  the  lute,  that  no  sighing  can  waken. 
And  blooming  for  ever,  unchanged  as  the  tro« 


NIGHTS  OF  MUSIC. 

Nights  of  music,  nights  of  loving. 

Lost  too  soon,  remember'd  long. 
When  we  went  by  moonlight  roving 

Hearts  all  love,  and  lips  all  song. 
When  this  faithful  lute  recorded 

All  my  spirit  felt  to  thee ; 
And  that  smile  the  song  rewarded — 

Worth  whole  years  of  fame  to  me ! 

Nights  of  song,  and  nights  of  splendoi 

Fill'd  with  joys  too  sweet  to  last — 
Joys  that,  like  the  starlight,  tender. 

While  they  shone,  no  shadow  cast 
Though  all  other  happy  hours 

From  my  fading  mem'ry  fly. 
Of  that  starlight,  of  those  bowers, 

Not  a  beiim,  a  leaf  shall  die  I 


166 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


OUR  FIRST  YOUNG  LOVE. 

OuK  first  young  love  resembles 

That  short  but  brilliant  ray, 
Wliicli  smiles,  and  weeps,  and  trembles 

Through  April's  earliest  day. 
And  not  all  life  before  us, 

Howe'er  its  lights  may  play. 
Can  shed  a  lustre  o'er  us 

Like  that  first  April  ray. 

Our  summer  sun  may  squander 

A  blaze  serener,  grander; 

Our  autumn  beam 

May,  like  a  dream 

Of  heav'n,  die  calm  away; 

But,  no — let  life  before  us 

Bring  all  the  liglit  it  may. 
'Twill  ne'er  shed  lustre  o'er  us 
Like  that  first  youthful  ray. 


BLACK  AND  BLUE  ETEa 

The  brilliant  black  eye 

May  in  triumph  let  fly 
All  its  darts  witliout  caring  who  feels  'em; 

But  the  soft  eye  of  blue. 

Though  it  scatter  wounds  too, 
Is  much  better  pleased  when  it  heals  'em — 

Dear  Fanny ! 

But  tlic  soft  eye  of  blue, 

Thougli  it  scatter  wounds  too, 
Is  much  better  pleased  when  it  heals  'em. 

The  black  eye  may  say, 

"  Come  and  worship  ray  ray — 
"By  adoring,  perhaps,  you  may  move  mo!" 

But  the  blue  eye,  lialf  liid. 

Says,  from  under  its  lid, 
"I  love,  and  ara  yours,  if  you  love  me!" 

Yes,  Fanny ! 

The  blue  eye,  half  hid, 

Says,  from  under  its  lid, 
"I  love,  and  am  yours,  if  you  love  mo!" 

Como  tell  me,  then,  why. 

In  that  lovely  blue  eye. 
Not  a  chann  of  its  tint  I  discover; 

Oh,  why  hliould  you  wear 

TIh!  only  blue  pair 
Th«t  tV(jr  Mid  "  No"  tn  a  lovwrl 


Dear  Fanny ! 

Oh,  why  should  you  wc.ir 
The  only  blue  pair 
That  ever  said  "  No"  to  a  lover  ? 


DEAR  FAmfY. 

"  She  has  beauty,  but  still  you  must  keep  youi 
heart  cool ; 
"She  has  wit,  but  you  mustn't  be  caught  so  :" 
Thus  Reason  advises,  but  Reason's  a  fool, 
And  'tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so, 

Dear  Fanny, 
'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so. 

"She  is  lovely;  then  love  her,  nor  let  the  bliss  fly; 

"  'Tis  the  charm  of  youth's  vanishing  season :" 
Thus  Love  has  advised  me,  and  who  will  deny 

That  Love  reasons  much  better  than  Reason, 
Dear  Fanny  ? 

Love  reasons  much  better  than  Reason. 


FROM  LIFE  WITHOUT  FREEDOM. 

Fko.1i  life  without  freedom,  say,  who  would  not  fly  1 
For  one  day  of  freedom,  oh!  who  would  not  die? 
Hark! — hark! — 'tis  the  trumpet:   the  call  of  the 

brave, 
The  death-song  of  tyrants,  the  dirge  of  the  slave. 
Our  country  lies  bleeding — haste,  haste  to  her  .aid; 
One  .arm  that  defends  is  worth  hosts  that  invade. 

In  death's  kindly  bosom  our  last  hope  remains — 
The  dead  fear  no  tyrants,  the  grave  has  no  chains. 
On,  on  to  the  combat;  the  heroes  that  bleed 
For  virtue  and  mankind  are  heroes  indeed. 
And  oh,  ev'ii  if  Freedom  from  Ihis  world  be  driven, 
Despair  not — at  least  we  shall  llnd  her  in  heaven. 


HERE'S  THE  BOWER 

Hekk's  the  bower  she  loved  so  mucr:, 

And  the  tree  she  planted ; 
Here's  the  harp  she  used  to  touch — 

Oh,  how  that  touch  onclianted  ! 
Roses  now  unheeded  sigh  ; 

Wiiero's  tho  Iinnd  to  wreathe  them? 
Songs  around  neglected  lie; 

Where's  the  liji  to  breathe  tliom' 
Hert'd  tho  iTowcr,  &c. 


BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC. 


167 


Spiiiig  may  bloom,  but  she  wo  loved 

Ne'er  sliall  feel  its  sweetness ; 
Time,  that  once  so  fleetly  moved, 

Now  hath  lost  its  flectness. 
Years  wci'e  days,  when  here  she  stniy'd. 

Days  were  moments  near  her; 
Ilcav'n  ne'er  Ibrin'd  a  brighter  maid, 

Nor  Pity  wept  a  dearer ! 

Here's  the  bower,  &c. 


I  SAW  THE  MOON  RISE  CLEAR. 

A   FINLAND    LOVE   SONO. 

I  SAW  the  moon  rise  clear 

O'er  hills  and  vales  of  snow. 
Nor  told  my  fleet  reindeer 

The  track  I  wish'd  to  go. 
Yet  quick  he  bounded  forth; 

For  well  my  reindeer  knew 
I've  but  one  path  on  earth — 

The  path  which  leads  to  you. 

The  gloom  that  winter  cast 

How  soon  the  heart  forgets, 
Wlien  Summer  brings,  at  last. 

Her  sun  that  never  sets ! 
So  dawn'd  my  love  for  you ; 

So,  fix'd  througli  joy  and  pain. 
Than  summer  sun  more  true, 

'Twill  never  set  again. 


LOVE  AND  THE  SUN-DIAL. 

Young  Lovt  found  a  Dial  once,  in  a  dark  shade, 
Where   man   ne'er  had    wander'd    nor    sunbeam 

play'd; 
"  Why  thus  in  darkness  lie,"  whisper'd  young  Love ; 
"  Thou,  whose  gay  hours  in  sunshine  should  move  ?" 
"  I  ne'er,"  said  the  Dial,  "  have  seen  the  warm  sun, 
"So  noonday  and  midnight  to  me,  Love,  are  one." 

Then  Love  took  the  Dial  away  from  tlie  shade. 
And  placed  her  where   Heaven's    beam   warmly 

play'd. 
There  she  reclined,  beneath  Love's  gazing  eye. 
While,  mark'd  all  witli  sunsliiiie,  her  hours  flew  by. 
"  Oh,  how,"  said  the  Dial,  "  can  any  fair  maid, 
"Tiiat's  born  to  be  shone  upon,  rest  in  tlie  shade?" 

Cut  night  now  comes  on,  and  the  sunbeam's  o'er, 
And  Love  stops  to  gaze  on  the  Dial  no  more. 


Alone  and  neglected,  while  bleak  rain  and  winds 
Are  storming  around  her,  with  sorrow  she  finds 
That  Love  liad  but  number'd  a  few  sunny  houra,— 
Then  left  the  remainder  to  darkness  and  showers ! 


LOVE  AND  TIME. 

'Tis  said — but  whether  true  or  not 

Let  bards  declare  who've  seen  'em— 
That  Love  and  Time  have  only  got 

One  pair  of  wings  between  'em. 
In  courtship's  first  delicious  hour. 

The  boy  full  oft  can  spare  'em. 
So,  loit'ring  in  his  lady's  bower. 

He  lets  the  grey-beard  wear  'em 
Then  is  Time's  hour  of  play  ; 
Oh,  how  he  flies,  flies  away  ! 

But  short  the  moments,  short  as  bright. 

When  he  the  wings  can  borrow; 
If  Time  to-day  has  had  his  flight. 

Love  takes  his  turn  to-morrow. 
Ah!  Time  and  Love,  your  change  is  then 

The  saddest  and  most  trying, 
Wlien  one  begins  to  limp  again, 

And  t'other  Uikea  to  flying. 
Then  is  Love's  hour  to  stray; 
Oh,  how  he  flies,  flies  away ! 

But  there's  a  nymph,  whose  chains  I  feel 

And  bless  the  silken  fetter, 
Who  knows,  the  dear  one,  how  to  deal 

With  Love  and  Time  much  better. 
So  well  she  checks  their  wanderings. 

So  peacefully  she  pairs  'em. 
That  Love  with  her  ne'er  thinks  of  wings, 

And  Time  for  ever  wears  'em. 
This  is  Tune's  holiday  ; 
Oh,  how  he  flies,  flies  away ! 


LOVE'S  LIGHT  SUMMER-CLOUD. 

Pain  and  sorrow  shall  vanish  before  us — 
Youth  may  wither,  but  feeling  will  last , 
All  tlie  shadow  that  e'er  shall  fall  o'er  us. 
Love's  light  summer-cloud  only  shall  cast. 
Oh,  if  to  love  thee  more 
Each  hour  I  number  o'er 
If  this  a  passion  be 
Worthy  of  thee, 


168 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Then  be  happy,  for  thus  I  adore  thee. 

Charms  may  wither,  but  feeling  shall  last: 
All  the  shadow  that  e'er  shall  foil  o'er  thee. 

Love's  light  summer-cloud  sweetly  shall  cast. 

Rest,  dear  bosom,  no  sorrows  shall  pain  thee. 

Sighs  of  pleasure  alone  shalt  thou  steal ; 
Beam,  bright  eyelid,  no  weeping  shall  stain  thee, 
Tears  of  rapture  alone  shalt  thou  feel. 
Oh,  if  there  be  n  charm 
In  love,  to  banish  harm — 
If  pleasure's  truest  spell 
Be  to  love  well, 
Then  he  happy,  for  thus  I  adore  thee. 

Charms  may  wither,  but  feeling  shall  last: 
All  the  sh.adow  that  e'er  shall  fall  o'er  thee, 
Love's  light  summer-cloud  sweetly  shall  cast. 


LOVE,  WAND-RING  THROUGH  THE 
GOLDEN  MAZE. 

Love,  wand'ring  through  the  golden  maze 

Of  my  beloved's  hair. 
Traced  every  lock  with  fond  delays 

And,  doting,  linger'd  there. 
And  soon  he  found  'twere  vain  to  fly; 

His  heart  was  close  confined, 
For,  every  ringlet  was  a  tie — 

A  chain  by  beauty  twined. 


MERRILY  EVERY  BOSOM  BOUNDETH. 

THE   IVEOLESE   BONO    OF    LIBEETV. 

Merrily  ever)t  bosom  boundeth, 

Merrily,  oh ! 
Where  the  song  of  Freedom  soundeth. 
Merrily,  oh! 
There  the  warrior's  .arms 

Shed  more  splendor; 

There  the  maiden's  charms 

Shine  more  lender; 

Ev'ry  joy  the  land  surroundetli, 

Merrily,  oh !  merrily,  oh ! 

Wearily  every  bosom  pinctli, 

We.irily,  oh ! 
WhiTo  the  bond  of  Hiavory  twineth. 

Wearily,  oh ! 


There  the  w  arrior's  dart 

Hath  no  fleetness; 
Tliere  the  maiden's  lie.art 

Hath  no  sweetness — 
Ev'ry  fiow'r  of  life  declincth. 
Wearily,  oh !  wearily,  oil ! 

Cheerily  then  from  hill  .and  valley 

Cheerily,  oil ! 
Like  your  n.itive  fountains  sally, 
Cheerily,  oh ! 
If  a  glorious  de.ith. 
Won  by  bravery. 
Sweeter  be  than  breath 
Sigh'd  in  slavery. 
Round  the  flag  of  Freedom  rally. 
Cheerily,  oh !  cheerily,  oh ! 


1 


REMEMBER  THE  TIMR 

THE   CASTILIAN   MAID. 

Remember  the  time,  in  La  Mancha's  sh.ade-s 

When  our  moments  so  blissfully  flow ; 
When  you  eall'd  me  the  flower  of  Castilian  ni.aids. 

And  I  blush'd  to  be  eall'd  so  by  you; 
When  I  taught  you  to  warble  the  gay  seguadille, 

And  to  dance  to  the  light  Castanet ; 
Oh,  never,  dear  youth,  let  you  roam  where  you  will, 

The  delight  of  those  moments  forget. 

They  tell  me,  you  lovc»s  from  Erin's  green  isle, 

Every  hour  a  new  passion  can  fee! ; 
And  that  soon,  in  the  light  of  some  lovelier  smile. 

You'll  forget  the  poor  maid  of  Castile. 
But  they  know  not  how  brave  in  the  battle  you  are. 

Or  they  never  could  think  you  would  rove; 
For  'tis  alvv.ays  the  spirit  most  gallant  in  war 

That  is  fondest  and  IruoHt  in  love 


OH,  SOON  RETURN. 

Our  while  sail  caught  the  ev'ning  ray. 

The  wave  beneath  us  secin'd  to  burn. 
When  all  the  weeping  maid  could  say 

Was,  "  Oh,  soon  return  I" 
Through  many  a  clime  our  ship  was  driven, 

O'er  many  a  billow  rudely  thrown; 
Now  chiird  bencnlli  a  northern  heaven, 

Now  sunii'd  ill  Humincr'rt  zone: 


BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC. 


169 


And  still,  where'er  we  bent  our  way, 

Hopes,  that  now  beguilmg  leave  me, 

Wlieri  evening  bid  tlie  west  wave  burn, 

Joyn,  that  lie  in  slumber  cold — 

(  fancied  still  I  lieard  her  say, 

All  would  wake,  couldst  thou  but  give  mo 

"  Oh,  soon  return !" 

One  dear  smile  like  those  of  old. 

If  ever  yet  my  bosom  found 

No — there's  nothing  left  us  now. 

Its  tlioughts  one  moment  turn'd  from  thee, 

But  to  mourn  tlie  past; 

'Twas  when  the  combat  raged  around, 

Vain  was  every  ardent  vow — 

And  brave  men  look'd  to  me. 

Never  yet  did  heaven  allow 

But  though  the  war-tield's  wild  alarm 

Love  so  warm,  so  wild,  to  last. 

For  gentle  Love  was  all  unmeet, 

Not  even  hope  could  now  deceive  me — 

He  lent  to  Glory's  brow  the  charm, 
Which  made  even  danger  sweet. 

And  still,  when  vict'ry's  calm  came  o'er 
The  hearts  wliere  rage  had  ceased  to  burn, 

Those  parting  words  I  heard  once  more, 
"  Oh,  soon  return ! — Oh,  soon  return  !" 


LOVE  THEE! 

Love  thee? — so  well,  so  tenderly 

Thou'rt  loved,  adored  by  me, 
Fame,  fortune,  wealth,  and  liberty, 

Were  worthless  without  thee. 
Though  brimm'd  with  blessings,  pure  and  rare, 

Life's  cup  before  me  lay, 
Unless  thy  love  were  mingled  there, 

I'd  spurn  the  draught  away. 
Love  thee  1 — so  well,  so  tenderly 

Thou'rt  loved,  adored  by  me. 
Fame,  fortune,  wealth,  and  liberty, 

Are  worthless  without  thee. 

Without  thy  smile,  the  monarch's  lot 

To  me  were  dark  and  lone, 
While,  with  it,  ev'n  the  humblest  cot 

Were  brighter  than  his  throne. 
Those  worlds,  for  which  the  conqu'ror  sighs, 

For  me  would  h.ave  no  charms; 
BIy  only  world  thy  gentle  eyes — 

My  throne  thy  circling  arms  ! 
Oh,  yes,  so  well,  so  tenderly 

Thou'rt  loved,  adored  by  me. 
Whole  realms  of  light  and  liberty 

Were  worthless  witliout  thee. 


ON^E  DEAR  SMILE. 

CouLDST  thou  look  as  dear  as  when 

First  I  sigh'd  for  tliee  ; 
Couldst  thou  make  me  feel  again 
Every  wish  I  breathed  thee  then. 

Oh,  how  blissful  life  would  be  ! 
VOL.  11.— 22 


Life  itself  looks  dark  and  cold : 
Oh,  tliou  never  more  canst  give  me 
One  dear  smile  like  those  of  old. 


YES,  YES,  WHEN  THE  BLOOM. 

Yes,  yes,  when  the  bloom  of  Love's  boyhood  is  o'er. 
He'll  turn  into  friendship  that  feels  no  decay ; 

And,  though  Time  may  take  from  him  the  wings 
he  once  wore. 

The  charms  that  remain  will  be  bright  as  before, 
And  he'll  lose  but  his  young  trick  of  flying  away. 

Then  let  it  console  thee,  if  Love  should  not  stay, 

That  Friendship  our  last  happy  moments  will 

crown : 

Like  the  shadows  of  morning,  Love  lessens  away. 

While  Friendship,  like  those  at  the  closing  of  day. 

Will  linger  and  lengthen  as  life's  sun  goes  down. 


THE  DAY  OF  LOVK 

The  beam  of  morning  trembling 
Stole  o'er  the  mountain  brook. 

With  timid  ray  resembling 
Affection's  early  look. 
Thus  love  begins — sweet  morn  of  love ! 

The  noontide  ray  ascended. 
And  o'er  tlie  v.nlley's  stream 

Diffused  a  glow  as  splendid 
As  passion's  riper  dream. 
Thus  love  e.xpands — warm  noon  of  love ! 

But  evening  came,  o'ershading 

The  glories  of  the  sky, 
Like  faith  and  fondness  fading 

From  passion's  alter'd  eye. 
Thus  love  declines — cold  eve  of  love  I 


170 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


LUSITANIAN  VTAR-SOJIG. 

The  song  of  war  shall  echo  through  our  mountains, 

Till  not  one  liateful  link  remains 

Of  slavery's  lingering  chains  ; 

Till  not  one  tyrant  tread  our  plains, 
Nor  traitor  lip  pollute  our  fountains. 

No !  never  till  that  glorious  day 

Shall  Lusitania's  sons  he  gay, 

Or  hear,  oh  Peace,  thy  welcome  lay 
Resounding  through  her  sunny  mountains. 

The  song  of  war  shall  echo  through  our  mountains. 
Till  Victory's  self  shall,  smiling,  say, 
"  Your  cloud  of  foes  liath  pass'd  away, 
"And  Freedom  comes,  with  new-horn  ray, 

"  To  gild  your  vines  and  light  your  fountains." 
Oh,  never  till  that  glorious  day 
Shall  Lusitania's  sons  be  g;iy, 
Or  hear,  sweet  Peace,  tliy  welcome  lay 

Resounding  through  her  sunny  mountains. 


THE  YOUNG  ROSK 

The  young  rose  I  give  thee,  so  dewy  and  bright. 
Was  the  flow'ret  most  dear  to  the  sweet  bird  of 

night, 
Who  oft,  by  the  moon,  o'er  lier  blushes  hath  hung. 
And  thriU'd  every  leaf  with  the  wild  l.iy  he  sung. 

Oh,  take  thou  this  young  rose,  and  let  her  life  be 
Prolong'd  by  the  breath  she  will  borrow  from  thee ; 
For,  while  o'er  her  bosom  thy  soft  notes  shall  thrill, 
She'll  tliink  the  sweet  night-bird  is  courting  her  still. 


WHEN  MIDST  THE  GAY  I  MEET. 

WiiF.!i  midst  the  gay  I  meet 

That  gentle  smi'o  of  thine, 
Though  still  on  me  it  turns  most  sweet, 

I  scarce  can  call  it  mine  : 
Hut  when  to  me  alone 

Your  secret  tears  you  show, 
Oh,  then  I  feel  those  tears  my  own, 

And  claim  them  while  they  flow.' 
Then  Htill  with  bright  looks  bless 

The  gay,  tlio  cold,  the  free  ; 
Give  xmilcs  to  tlinsc  who  love  you  lesii, 

But  keep  your  tears  for  mo. 


The  snow  on  Jur.Vs  steep 

Can  smile  in  many  a  beam. 
Yet  still  in  chains  of  coldness  sleep. 

How  bright  soe'er  it  seem. 
But,  when  some  deep-felt  ray. 

Whose  touch  is  fire,  appears. 
Oh,  then  tlie  smile  is  warm'd  away. 

And,  melting,  turns  to  tears. 
Then  still  with  bright  looks  bless 

The  gay,  the  cold,  the  free ; 
Give  smiles  to  those  who  love  you  less, 

But  keep  your  tears  for  me. 


"WHEN  TWILIGHT  DEWS. 

When  twilight  dews  are  filling  soft 

Upon  the  rosy  sea,  love, 
I  watch  the  star,  whose  beam  so  oft 

Has  lighted  me  to  thee,  love. 
And  thou,  too,  on  that  orb  so  dear, 

Dost  often  gaze  at  even, 
And  think,  though  lost  for  ever  here, 

Thou'lt  yet  be  mine  in  ho.iven. 

There's  not  a  garden  walk  I  tread. 

There's  not  a  flow'r  I  see,  love. 
But  brings  to  mind  some  hope  that's  fled, 

Some  joy  that's  gone  with  thee,  love. 
And  still  I  wish  that  hour  was  near, 

When,  friends  and  foes  forgiven. 
The  pains,  the  ills  we've  wept  through  here 

May  turn  to  smiles  in  heaven. 


YOUNG  JESSICA. 

Young  Jessica  sat  .all  the  day, 

With  heart  o'er  idle  love-thoughts  pining; 
Her  needle  bright  beside  her  lay. 

So  active  once ! — now  idly  shining. 
Ah,  Jessy,  'tis  in  idle  hearts 

That  lovo  and  mischief  arc  most  nimble; 
The  safest  shield  against  the  darts 

Of  Cupid,  is  Minerva's  thimhle. 

The  child,  who  with  a  magnet  plays, 

Well  knowing  all  its  arts,  so  wily, 
'I'lie  tempter  near  a  needle  lays, 

And  l.'ingliing,  says,  "  We'll  steal  it  slyly." 
The  needle,  having  naught  to  do. 

Is  pleased  to  let  the  magiuit  wheedle; 
Till  closer,  closer  come  the  I  wo. 

And — nfl",  nt  loni;th,  elopes  the  needle. 


^^ 


AH,   JESSY,    'TIS    IK   XDLE    HEASJTS  , 
THAT    IC/li    fe  MlSCHIEi-'  A3^  liOST  JIIMBI^ 
THLE   SAFEST    SEIELU    AGATTT3T  IHE  DARTS 
OF  CUPID,  IS    JlCTNEKA*^ S    THIMBLE. 


BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC. 


171 


Now,  had  this  needle  turii'd  its  eye 

To  some  gay  reticule's  construction, 
It  ne'er  had  slray'd  fVom  duty's  tie, 

Nor  felt  the  magnet's  sly  seduction. 
Tlius,  girls,  would  you  keep  quiet  hearts, 

Your  snowy  fingers  must  ho  nimble; 
The  safest  shield  against  the  darts 

Of  Cupid,  is  Minerva's  thimble. 


HOW  HAPPY,  ONCE. 

How  hapjjy,  once,  though  wing'd  with  sighs, 

My  moments  flew  along, 
While  looking  on  those  smiling  eyes. 

And  list'ning  to  thy  magic  song! 
But  vanish'd  now,  like  summer  dreams. 

Those  moments  smile  no  more; 
For  me  that  eye  no  longer  beams, 

That  song  for  me  is  o'er. 
Mine  the  cold  brow, 
That  speaks  tliy  alter'd  vow, 
While  others  feel  thy  sunshine  now. 

Oh,  could  I  change  my  love  like  thee. 

One  hope  might  yet  be  mine — 
Some  other  eyes  as  bright  to  see, 

And  hear  a  voice  as  sweet  as  thine. 
But  never,  never  can  this  heart 

Be  waked  to  life  again ; 
With  thee  it  lost  its  vital  part. 

And  wither'd  then ! 
Cold  its  pulse  lies. 
And  mute  are  ev'n  its  sighs. 
All  other  grief  it  now  defies. 


I  LOVE  BUT  THEE. 

If,  after  all,  you  still  will  doubt  and  fear  me. 
And  think  this  heart  to  otlier  loves  will  stray, 

If  I  must  swe.ar,  then,  lovely  doubter,  hear  me; 
By  ev'ry  dream  I  have  when  thou'rt  away. 

By  ev'ry  throb  I  feel  when  thou  art  near  nie, 
I  love  but  thee — I  love  but  thee ! 

By  those  dark  eyes,  where  light  is  ever  playing. 
Where  Love,  in   depth   of  sh.adow,    holds   his 
throne, 
And  by    those  lips,   which  give  whate'er  thou'rt 
saying, 
Or  grave  or  gay,  a  music  of  its  own, 
A  music  far  beyond  all  minstrel's  playing, 
I  love  but  thee — I  love  but  thee! 


By  that  fair  brow,  where  Innocence  reposes. 
As  pure  as  moonlight  sleeping  upon  snow. 

And  by  that  cheek,  whose  fleeting  blush  discloses 
A  hue  too  bright  to  bless  this  world  below, 

And  only  fit  to  dwell  on  Eden's  rose.s, 
I  love  but  thee — I  love  but  thee! 


LET  JOY  ALONE  BE  REMEMBER'D  NOW. 

Let  thy  joys  alone  be  remember'd  now, 

Let  thy  sorrows  go  sleep  awhile ; 
Or  if  thought's  dark  cloud  come  o'er  thy  brow. 

Let  Love  light  it  up  with  his  smile. 
For  thus  to  meet,  and  thus  to  find. 

That  Time,  whose  touch  can  chill 
E.ach  flower  of  form,  each  grace  of  mind. 

Hath  left  thee  blooming  still, — 
Oh,  joy  alone  should  be  thought  of  now. 

Let  our  sorrows  go  sleep  awhile  ; 
Or,  should  thought's  dark  cloud  come  o'er  thy  brow, 

Let  Love  light  it  up  with  his  smile. 

When  the  fiowers  of  life's  sweet  garden  fade, 

If  but  one  bright  leaf  remain, 
Of  the  many  that  once  its  glory  made. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  complain. 
But  thus  to  meet  and  thus  to  wake 

In  all  Love's  early  bliss ; 
Oh,  Time  all  other  gifts  may  take. 

So  he  but  leaves  us  this ! 
Then  let  joy  alone  be  remember'd  now, 

Let  our  sorrows  go  sleep  awhile  ; 
Or  if  thought's  dark  cloud  come  o'er  thy  brow, 

Let  Love  light  it  up  with  his  smile! 


LOVE  THEE,  DEAREST?  LOVE  THEE  I 

Love  thee,  dearest  ?  love  thee  ? 

Yes,  by  yonder  star  I  swear. 
Which  through  fears  above  thee 

Shines  so  sadly  fair ; 
Though  often  dim. 
With  tears,  like  him. 
Like  him  my  truth  will  shine, 

And — love  thee,  dearest?  love  thee  ? 
Yes,  till  death  I'm  thine. 

Leave  thee,  dearest  ?  leave  thee  ? 
No,  that  star  is  not  more  true  , 
When  my  vows  deceive  thee, 
•        He  will  w.ander  too. 


172 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


A  cloud  of  night 

May  veil  liis  light, 

And  death  shall  darken  mine — 

But — leave  thee,  dearest  ?  leave  thee  1 
No,  till  death  Fni  thine. 


MY  HEART  AKD  LUTE. 

1  GIVE  thee  all — 1  can  no  more — 

Though  poor  the  oft''ring  be ; 
My  heart  and  lute  are  .ill  the  store 

That  I  can  bring  to  thee. 
A  lute  whose  gentle  song  reveals 

The  soul  of  love  full  well ; 
And,  better  far,  a  lienrt  tliat  feels 

Much  more  than  lute  could  tell. 

Though  love  and  song  may  foil,  alas ! 

To  keep  life's  clouds  away, 
At  least  'twill  make  them  lighter  pass 

Or  gild  them  if  they  stay. 
And  ev"n  if  Care,  at  moments,  flings 

A  discord  o'er  life's  happy  strain. 
Let  love  but  gently  touch  the  strings. 

Twill  all  be  sweet  again  ! 


PEACE,  PEACE  TO  HIM  TEATS  GONE  I 

When  I  am  dead 

Then  lay  my  head 
In  some  lone,  distant  dell, 

Where  voices  ne'er 

Shall  stir  the  air, 
Or  break  its  silent  s])ell. 

If  any  sound 

Be  heard  around, 
Ix)t  the  sweet  bird  alone. 

That  weeps  in  song 

Sing  all  night  long, 
"  Peace,  peace,  to  him  that's  gone !" 

Yet,  oh,  were  mine 

One  nigh  of  thine. 
One  pitying  word  frora  thee. 

Like  gleams  of  lieav'n, 

To  Binncm  giv'n, 
Would  b«  that  word  to  me.  . 


Howe'er  unbless'd. 

My  shade  would  rest 
While  list'ning  to  that  tone; 

Enough  'twould  be 

To  hear  from  thee, 
"  Pe.ice,  peace,  to  him  that's  gone  !" 


ROSE  OF  THE  DESERT. 

Rose  of  the  Desert !  thou,  whose  blushing  ray, 
Lonely  and  lovely,  fleets  unseen  .iway ; 
No  hand  to  cull  thee,  none  to  woo  thy  sigh, — 
In  vestal  silence  left  to  live  and  die, — 
Rose  of  the  Desert !  thus  should  woman  be, 
Shining  uncourted,  lone  and  safe,  like  tliee. 

Rose  of  the  Garden,  how  unlike  thy  doom! 
Destined  for  others,  not  thyself,  to  bloom  ; 
Cull'd  ere  thy  beauty  lives  through  h.ilf  its  df.y ; 
A  moment  cherish'd,  and  then  cast  away ; 
Rose  of  the  Garden  !  such  is  woman's  lot, — 
Worshipp'd,  while  blooming — when  she  fades,  for- 
got. 


'TIS  ALL  FOR  THEE. 

If  life  for  me  liath  joy  or  light, 

'Tis  all  from  thee. 
My  thoughts  by  day,  my  dreams  by  night. 

Are  but  of  thee,  of  only  thee. 
Whate'er  of  hope  or  peace  I  know, 
My  zest  in  joy,  my  balm  in  woe. 
To  those  dear  eyes  of  tliine  I  owe, 

'Tis  all  from  thee. 

My  heart,  ev'n  ere  I  saw  those  eyes, 

Seeni'd  doom'd  to  thee ; 
Kept  pure  till  then  from  other  ties, 

'Twas  all  for  thee,  for  only  thee. 
Like  ])Iants  that  sk^ep,  till  sunny  May 
Calls  forth  their  life,  my  spirit  lay. 
Till,  toucli'd  by  IjOvo's  awak'ning  ruy, 

It  lived  for  tliee,  it  lived  for  thi>-». 

When  Fame  would  call  mo  to  her  lu'lglits, 

She  speuks  by  thee  ; 
And  dim  would  shinu  her  proudest  lights, 

UuBhared  by  thee,  unshared  by  tb«ic. 
Whene'er  I  seek  llio  M  use's  shrijie. 
Where  Hards  have  hung  their  wreaths  divine, 
And  wihli  those  wreatlis  of  glory  mine 

'Tis  nil  for  thoe,  for  only  thee. 


BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC. 


173 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  OLDKN  TIME.' 

There's  a  sonjf  of  tlie  olden  lime, 

Fulling  s:id  o'er  tlie  ear, 
Like  tlie  dream  of  some  village  chime, 

Wliich  in  youth  we  loved  to  hear. 
And  ev'n  amidst  the  grand  and  gay, 

When  Music  tries  her  gentlest  art, 
I  never  hear  so  sweet  a  lay. 

Or  one  that  hangs  so  round  my  heart. 
As  that  song  of  the  olden  time, 

Falling  sad  o'er  the  ear. 
Like  the  dream  of  some  village  chime, 

Which  in  youth  we  loved  to  hear. 

And  when  all  of  this  life  is  gone, — 

Ev'n  the  hope,  ling'ring  now. 
Like  the  last  of  tlie  leaves  left  on 

Autumn's  sere  and  faded  bough, — 
'Twill  seem  as  still  those  friends  were  near. 

Who  loved  me  in  youth's  early  day. 
If  in  that  parting  hour  I  hear 

The  same  sweet  notes,  and  die  away, — 
To  that  song  of  the  olden  time. 

Breathed,  like  Hope's  farewell  strain, 
To  say,  in  some  brighter  clime. 

Life  and  youth  will  shine  again ! 


WAKE  THEE,  MY  DEAR. 

Wake  thee,  my  dear — thy  dreaming 
Till  darker  hours  will  keep; 

While  such  a  moon  is  beaming, 

'Tis  wrong  tow'rds  Heav'n  to  sleep. 

Moments  there  are  we  number. 

Moments  of  pain  and  care. 
Which  to  oblivious  slumber 

Gladly  the  \\'retch  would  sp.ire. 
But  now — who'd  think  of  dreaming 

When  Love  his  watch  should  keep? 
Wliile  such  a  moon  is  beaming, 

'Tis  wrong  tow'rds  Heav'n  to  sleep. 

If  e'er  the  Fates  should  sever 

My  life  and  hopes  from  thee,  love, 
The  sleep  that  lasts  for  ever 

Would  then  be  sweet  to  me,  love; 
But  now, — away  with  dreaming! 

Till  d.arker  hours  'twill  keep; 
While  such  a  moon  is  beaming, 

'Tis  wrong  tow'rds  He.iv'n  to  sleep. 


THE  BOY  OF  TEE  ALPS. 

LicnTi.y,  Alpine  rover. 

Tread  the  mountains  over; 

Rude  is  the  path  thou'st  yet  to  go; 

Snow  clifTs  hanging  o'er  thee, 

Fields  of  ice  before  thee, 
While  the  hid  torrent  moans  below. 
Hark,  the  deep  thunder, 
Through  the  vales  yonder! 
'Tis  the  huge  av'lanche  downward  cast, 

From  rock  to  rock 

Rebounds  the  shock. 
But  courage,  boy !  the  danger's  past. 

Onward,  youthful  rover, 

Tread  the  glacier  ovm- 
Safe  shall  thou  reach  thy  home  at  last. 
On,  ere  light  forsake  thee. 
Soon  will  dusk  o'ertake  thee: 
O'er  yon  ico-bridge  lies  thy  way  ! 

Now,  for  the  risk  prepare  thee ; 

Safe  it  yet  may  bear  thee, 
Though  'twill  melt  in  morning's  ray. 

Haric,  that  dread  howling ! 
'Tis  the  wolf  prowling, — 
Scent  of  thy  track  the  foe  hath  got ; 

And  cliff  and  shore 

Resound  his  roar. 
But  courage,  boy  ! — the  danger's  past ! 

Watching  eyes  have  found  thee, 

Loving  arms  are  round  thee. 
Safe  hast  thou  reach'd  thy  father's  cot. 


FOR  THEE  ALONE. 

For  thee  alone  I  brave  the  boundless  deep. 
Those  eyes  my  light  through  ev'ry  distant  sea ; 

My  waking  thoughts,  the  dream  that  gilds  my  sleep, 
The  noontide  rev'ry,  all  are  given  to  thee. 
To  thee  alone,  to  thee  alone. 

Though  future  scenes  present  to  Fancy's  eye 
Fair  forms  of  light  that  crowd  the  distant  air, 

When  nearer  view'd,  the  fairy  phantoms  fly. 
The  crowds  dissolve,  and  thou  alone  art  there, 
Thou,  thou  alone.  ' 

To  wun  thy  smile,  I  speed  from  shore  to  shore. 
While  Hope's  sweet  voice  is  heard  in  every  blast, 

Still  whisp'ring  on,  that  when  some  years  are  o'er, 
One  bright  reward  sh.all  crown  my  toil  at  last, 
Thy  smile  alone,  thy  smile  alone. 


174 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


— 1 

Oh,  place  beside  the  transport  of  that  hour 

And  if  that  sunnier  hour  sliould  shine. 

All  earth  can  boast  of  fair,  of  rich,  and  bright. 

We'll  know  its  brightness  cannot  stay, 

Wcaltli's  radiant  mines,  the  lofty  thrones  of  power, — 

But  happy,  while  'tis  thine  and  mine, 

Then  ask  where  first  thy  lover's  choice  would 
light? 

On  thee  alone,  on  thee  alone. 

Complain  not  when  it  fades  away. 

So  shall  we  reach  at  last  that  Fall 

Down  which  life's  currents  all  must  go,— 

The  d;irk,  the  brilliant,  destined  all 
To  sink  into  the  void  below. 

HER  LAST  WOEDS,  AT  PARTING. 

Nor  ev'n  that  hour  shall  waist  its  charms, 

If,  side  by  side,  still  fond  we  keep. 

Her  last  words,  at  parting,  how  can  I  forget  ? 

And  calmly,  in  each  other's  arms 

Deep  treasured  through  life,  in  my  heart  they 

Together  link'd,  go  down  the  steep. 

shall  stay; 

Like  music,  whose  charm  in  the  soul  lingers  yet. 

When  its  sounds  from  the  car  have  long  melted 

away. 

Let  Fortune  assail  me,  her  threat'nings  are  vain ; 

LOVE'S  VICTORY. 

Those  still-breathing  words  shall  mv  talisman 

be,— 

Sing  to  Love — for,  oh,  'twas  he 

"  Remember,  in  absence,  in  sorrow,  and  pain, 

Who  won  the  glorious  day; 

"  There's  one  heart,  unchanging,  that  beats  but 

Strew  the  wre.aths  of  victory 

for  thee." 

Along  the  conqu'ror's  way. 

Yoke  the  Muses  to  his  car, 

From  the  desert's  sweet  well  though  the  pilgrim 

Let  them  sing  each  trophy  won ; 

must  hie, 

While  his  mother's  joyous  star 

Never  more  of  that  fresli-springing  fount:iin  to 

Shall  light  the  triumph  on. 

taste, 

ilc  hath  still  of  its  bright  drops  a  treasured  supply. 

Hail  to  Love,  to  mighty  Love, 

Whose  sweetness  lends  life  to  his  lip^  through 

Let  spirits  sing  around  ; 

the  waste. 

While  the  hill,  the  dale,  and  grove, 

So,  dark  as  my  fate  is  still  doom'd  to  remain, 

With  "mighty  Love"  resound; 

These  words  shall  my  well  in  the  wilderness 

Or,  should  a  sigh  of  sorrow  steal 

be,— 

Amid  the  sounds  thus  ccho'd  o'er. 

"  Remember,  in  absence,  in  sorrow,  and  pain, 

'Twill  but  teach  the  god  to  feel 

"  There's  one  heart,  unchanging,  that  beats  but 

His  victories  the  more. 

for  thee." 

See  his  wings,  like  amethyst 

Of  sunny  Ind  their  hue  ; 

Briglit  as  when,  by  I'syche  kiss'd. 

LETS  TAKE  THIS  WOULD  AS  SOME 

They  trembled  through  and  through. 

WIDE  SUENE 

Flowers  spring  beneath  his  feet ; 

Angel  forms  beside  him  run  ; 

Let's  fake  this  world  as  some  wide  scene, 

While  nnnumber'd  lips  repeat 

Through  which,  in  frail,  but  buoyant  boat. 

"  Love's  victory  is  won  !" 

With  skies  now  dark  and  now  serene. 

Hail  to  Love,  to  mighty  Love,  &.O. 

Tofjelhcr  thou  and  I  must  lloat ; 

Beholding  oft,  on  either  shore, 

Bright  spotu  where  we  Bhould  love  to  sljiy ; 

But  Time  plies  swift  Ills  (lying  oar, 

And  away  we  npccd,  away,  nway. 

SONO  OF  UEICCULES  TO  HIS  DAUlillTEll 

Sliould  chilling  winds  and  rains  come  on, 

"  I've  been,  oh,  sweet  daughter, 

We'll  rniw  our  awning  'gainst  the  Hhow'r; 

"  To  fdiinlain  and  sea, 

Hit  eloxcr  till  the  Mnrm  is  gone, 

"To  seek  in  Ihtdr  water 

And,  wniliii;;,  wail  a  Hunnier  hour. 

"Some  brig'.t  gem  for  thee. 

BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC. 


175 


«  Where  diamonds  were  sleeping, 
"Their  sparkle  I  sought, 

«  Where  crystal  was  weeping, 
"  Its  tears  I  have  caught. 

"  The  sea-nymph  I've  courted 

"In  rich  coral  lialls; 
Witli  Naiads  have  sported 

"  By  bright  waterfalls. 
"  But  sportive  or  tender, 

"  Still  sought  I,  .around, 
"  That  gem,  witli  whose  splendor 

"  Thou  yet  shalt  be  crown'd. 

"  And  see,  while  I'm  speaking, 

"  Yon  soft  light  afar ; — 
"  The  pearl  I've  been  seeking 

"  There  floats  like  a  star ! 
"In  the  deep  Indian  Ocean 

"  I  see  the  gem  sliine, 
"  And  quick  as  light's  motion 

"  Its  wealth  shall  be  thine." 

Then  eastward,  like  lightning. 

The  hero-god  flew. 
His  sunny  looks  bright'ning 

The  air  he  went  through. 
And  sweet  was  the  duty, 

And  hallovv'd  the  hour. 
Which  saw  thus  young  Beauty 

Erabellish'd  by  Power. 


THE  DREAM  OF  HOME. 

Who  has  not  felt  !iow  sadly  sweet 

The  dre.am  of  home,  the  dream  of  home, 
Steals  o'er  the  heart,  too  soon  to  fleet. 

When  far  o'er  sea  or  land  we  roam  1 
Sunlight  more  soft  may  o'er  us  fall. 

To  greener  shores  our  bark  may  come ; 
But  far  more  bright,  more  dear  than  all. 

That  dream  of  home,  that  dream  of  home. 

Ask  of  the  s.ailor  youth  when  far 

His  light  bark  bounds  o'er  ocean's  foam. 
What  charms  him  most,  when  ev'ning's  star 

Smiles  o'er  the  wave  ?  to  dream  of  home. 
Fond  thoughts  of  absent  friends  and  loves 

At  th.at  sweet  hour  .around  him  come ; 
His  heart's  best  joy  where'er  he  roves. 

That  dream  of  home,  that  dream  of  home. 


THEY  TELL  ME  THOU'KT  THE  FAVOR,'D 
GUEST.= 

They  tell  me  thou'rt  the  favor'J  guest 
Of  every  fair  and  brilliant  throng; 

No  wit  like  thine  to  wake  the  jest. 

No  voice  like  tliine  to  breathe  the  song; 

And  none  could  guess,  so  gay  thou  art. 

That  thou  and  I  are  far  apart. 

Alas!  .alas!  how  diff 'rent  flovTs 
With  thee  and  me  the  time  .away  ! 

Not  that  I  wish  tliee  sad— heav'n  knows — 
Still  if  thou  canst,  be  light  and  g.ay ; 

I  only  know,  tliat  v.-itliout  tliee 

The  sun  himself  is  d.ark  to  rae. 

Do  I  thus  liaste  to  hall  and  bower 
Among  the  proud  and  gay  to  shine  ? 

Or  deck  my  hair  with  gem  and  flower. 
To  flatter  other  eyes  tlian  thine  ? 

Ah,  no,  with  me  love's  smiles  are  past. 

Thou  hadst  the  first,  thou  hadst  the  last. 


THE  YOUNG  INDIAN  MAID. 

There  came  a  nymph  dancing 

Gracefully,  gracefully, 
Her  eye  a  light  gl.ancing 

Like  the  blue  sea; 
And  while  all  this  gladness 
Around  her  steps  hung, 
Such  sweet  notes  of  sadness. 
Her  gentle  lips  sung, 
That  ne'er  while  I  live  from  ray  raera'ry  shall  fade 
The  song,  or  the  look,  of  that  young  Indian  maid 

Her  zone  of  bells  ringing 

Cheerily,  cheerily, 
Chimed  to  her  singing 

Light  echoes  of  glee ; 
But  in  v.ain  did  she  borrow 

Of  mirth  the  gay  tone, 
Her  voice  spoke  of  sorrow, 

And  sorrow  alone. 
Nor  e'er  while  I  live  from  my  mem'ry  shall  fade 
The  song,  or  the  look,  of  that  young  Indian  maid 


176 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


THE  HOMEWARD  MARCH. 

Be  still,  my  heart :  I  hear  them  come  : 
Those  sounds  announce  my  lover  near : 

The  march  that  brings  our  warriors  home 
Proclaims  he'll  soon  be  here. 

Hark,  the  distant  tread. 

O'er  the  mountain's  head, 
While  hills  and  dales  repeat  the  sound; 

And  the  forest  deer 

Stand  still  to  hear, 
As  those  echoing  steps  ring  round. 

Be  still,  my  heart,  I  hear  them  come, 

Those  sounds  that  speak  my  soldier  near; 

Those  joyous  steps  seem  wing'd  for  liome, — 
Rest,  rest,  he'll  soon  be  here. 

But  hark,  more  faint  the  footsteps  grow, 
And  now  they  wind  to  distant  glades; 

Not  here  their  home, — alas,  they  go 
To  gladden  happier  maids  I 

Like  sounds  in  a  dream, 

The  footsteps  seem. 
As  down  the  hills  they  die  away ; 

And  the  march,  whose  song 

So  pcal'd  along. 
Now  fades  like  a  funeral  lay. 

Tis  past,  'tis  o'er, — hush,  heart,  thy  pain ! 

And  though  not  here,  alas,  they  come. 
Rejoice  for  those,  to  whom  that  strain 

Brinirs  sons  and  lovers  home. 


WAKE  UP,  SWEET  MELODY. 

Wake  up,  sweet  melody ! 

Now  is  the  hour 
When  young  and  loving  hearts 

Feel  most  thy  pow'r. 
Ore  note  of  music,  by  moonlight's  soft  ray — 
O'-,  'l^  worth  thousands  heard  coldly  by  day. 
Then  wake  up,  sweet  melody  ! 

Now  is  the  hour 
When  young  and  loving  heiirtn 

Feel  most  thy  pow'r. 

Ask  the  fond  nightingale, 

When  bin  sweet  flow'r 
Loves  moil  to  hear  his  Nong, 

In  her  green  bow'r? 


Oh,  he  will  tell   tliee,  throuirh  summer-nights 

long. 
Fondest  she  lends  her  wliole  soul  to  his  song. 
Then  wake  up,  sweet  melody! 

Now  is  the  hour 
When  young  and  loving  hearts 
Feel  most  thy  pow'r. 


CALM  BE  THY  SLEEP. 

Calm  be  thy  sleep  as  infants"  slumbers! 

Pure  as  angel  tlioughts  thy  dreams! 
May  ev'ry  joy  this  bright  world  nambers 

Shed  o'er  thee  their  mingled  beams! 
Or  if,  where  Pleasure's  wing  hath  glided, 

There  ever  must  some  pang  remain, 
Still  be  thy  lot  with  me  divided, — 

Thine  all  the  bliss,  and  mine  the  pain ! 

Day  and  night  my  thoughts  shall  hover 

Round  thy  steps  where'er  they  stray; 
As,  ev'n  when  clouds  his  idol  cover. 

Fondly  the  Persian  tracks  its  ray. 
If'tliis  be  wrong,  if  Ileav'n  offended 

By  worship  to  its  creature  be. 
Then  let  my  vows  to  both  be  blended, 

Half  breathed  to  Heav'n  and  half  to  thee. 


THE  EXILE. 

Night  waneth  fast,  the  morning  ulnr 

Saddens  with  light  the  glimm'ring  sea, 
Whose  waves  shall  soon  to  realms  afar 

Waft  me  from  hope,  from  love,  and  thee. 
Coldly  the  beam  from  yonder  sky 

Looks  o'er  the  waves  that  onward  stray ; 
But  colder  still  the  stranger's  eye 

To  him  whose  home  is  far  nway. 

Oh,  nut  at  hour  so  chill  and  bleak, 

Let  thoughts  of  me  come  o'er  thy  breast 
Hut  of  the  lost  one  think  and  speak. 

When  summer  suns  sink  calm  ti  rest. 
So,  as  I  wander,  Fnnoy's  dream 

Shall  bring  me  o'er  the  sunset  seas, 
Thy  look,  in  ev'ry  melting  beam, 

Thy  whisper,  in  each  dying  breeze. 


BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC. 


177 


THE  FANCY  FAIR. 
Come,  maids  and  youths,  for  here  we  sell 

Oh,  ask  not  then  for  passion's  lay. 

From  lyre  so  coldly  strung; 
With  this  I  ne'er  can  sing  or  play, 

All  wondrous  things  of  earth  and  air; 

As  once  I  play'd  and  sung-. 

Whatever  wild  romaneers  tell, 

No,  bring  that  long-loved  lute  again, — 

Or  poets  sinfj,  or  lovers  swear, 

Though  cldll'd  liy  years  it  be, 

You'll  find  at  this  our  Fancy  Fair. 

U  Ihou  wilt  call  the  slumb'ring  strain, 

'Twill  wake  agaiii  for  thee. 

Here  eyes  are  made  liUo  stars  to  shine, 

And  kept,  for  years,  iii  such  repair, 

Though  time  have  froz'n  the  tuneful  stream 

That  ev'u  wlien  turn'd  of  thirty-nine. 

Of  thoughts  that  gusli'd  along. 

They'll  hardly  look  the  worse  for  wear. 
If  bought  at  this  our  Fancy  Fair. 

We've  lots  of  tears  for  bards  to  show'r, 
And  hearts  that  sucli  ill  usage  bear, 

That,  tliough  they're  broken  ev'ry  hour, 
They'll  still  in  rhyme  fresh  breaking  bear. 
If  purchased  at  our  Fancy  Fair. 

As  fashions  change  in  ev'ry  thing, 

We've  goods  to  suit  each  season's  air, 

Eternal  friendships  for  the  spring. 

And  endless  loves  for  summer  wear, — 
All  sold  at  this  our  Fancy  Fair. 

We've  reputations  white  as  snow 
That  long  will  last,  if  used  with  care. 

Nay,  safe  through  all  life's  journey  go 
If  pack'd  and  mark'd  as  '■  brittle  ware," — 
Just  purchased  at  the  Fancy  Fair. 


IF  THOU  WOULDST  HAVE  ME  SING 
AND  PLAY. 

If  thou  wouldst  have  me  sing  and  play. 

As  once  I  play'd  and  sung, 
First  take  this  time-worn  lute  away, 

And  bring  one  freshly  strung. 
Call  back  the  time  when  pleasure's  sigh 

First  breathed  among  the  strings ; 
And  Time  himself,  in  flitting  by, 

Made  music  with  his  wings. 

But  how  is  this?  thougli  new  the  hite, 

And  shining  fresh  tlio  chords, 
Beneath  this  hand  they  slumber  mute, 

Or  speak  but  dreamy  words. 
In  vain  I  seek  the  soul  that  dwelt 

Within  that  once  sweet  shell. 
Which  told  so  warndy  what  it  felt. 

And  felt  what  naught  could  tell. 
vol..  H.— 23 


One  look  from  tlioe,  like  summer's  beam, 

Will  thaw  them  into  song. 
Then  give,  oh  give,  that  wak'ning  ray, 

And  once  more  blithe  and  young, 
Thy  bard  again  will  sing  and  play. 

As  once  lie  play'd  and  sung. 


STILL  WHEN  DAYLIGHT. 

Still  when  daylight  o'er  the  wave 
Bright  and  soft  its  farewell  gave, 
I  used  to  hear,  while  light  was  falling. 
O'er  the  wave  a  sweet  voice  calling, 
Mournfully  at  distance  calling. 

Ah !  once  how  blest  that  maid  would  come, 
To  meet  her  sea-boy  hast'ning  home ; 
And  through  the  night  those  sounds  repeating. 
Hail  his  bark  with  joyous  greeting, 
Joyously  his  light  bark  greeting. 

But,  one  sad  night,  when  winds  were  high, 
Nor  earth,  nor  heaven,  could  hear  her  crv, 
She  saw  his  boat  come  tossing  over 
Midnight's  wave, — but  not  her  lover  I 
No,  ncxer  more  her  lover. 

And  still  that  sad  dream  loth  to  leave, 
She  comes  with  wand'ring  mind  at  eve,  ' 

And  oft  we  hear,  when  night  is  falling, 
Faint  her  voice  through  twilight  calling, 
Mournfully  at  twilight  calling. 


THE  SUMMER  WEBS. 

The  summer  webs  that  float  .and  shine, 

The  summer  dews  that  fall, 
Though  light  they  be,  this  heart  of  mine 

Is  lighter  still  than  all. 


178 


MOORE'S  WORKS 


It  tells  me  every  cloud  is  past 
Which  lately  seem'd  to  low'r ; 

That  Hope  hath  wed  young  Joy  at  last, 
And  now's  their  nuptial  hour  I 

With  light  thus  round,  within,  above, 

With  naught  to  wake  one  sigh, 
Except  the  wish,  that  all  we  love 

Were  at  this  moment  nigh, — 
It  seems  as  if  life's  brilliant  sun 

Had  stopp'd  in  full  career, 
To  make  this  hour  its  brightest  one, 

And  rest  in  radiance  here. 


MIND  NOT  THOUGH  DAYLIGHT. 

MiXD  not  though  daylight  around  us  is  breaking, — 
Who'd  tliiiik  now  of  sleeping  when  morn's  but  just 

waking? 
Sound  the  merry  \iol,  and,  daylight  or  not, 
Bo  all  for  one  hour  in  the  gay  dance  forgot. 

See  young  Aurora,  up  heaven's  hill  .advancing. 
Though  fresh  from  her  pillow,  ev'n  she   too   is 

dancing; 
While  thus  .all  creation,  e.arth,  heaven,  and  se.a. 
Arc  d.anciiig  around  us,  oh,  why  should  not  we? 

Who'll  say  that  moments  wc  use  thus  are  wasted  ? 
Such  sweet  drops  of  time  only  flow  to  be  tasted ; 
WhJe  hearts  are  high  beating,  and  harps  full  in 

tune, 
Th?  fault  is  all  morning's  for  coming  so  soon. 


THEY  MET  BUT  ONCE. 

They  met  but  once,  in  youth's  sweet  hour, 

And  never  since  that  day 
IFath  absence,  lime,  or  grief  had  pow'r 

To  chase  that  dream  nw.iy. 
They've  seen  the  suns  of  other  skies. 

On  other  shores  have  Hought  delight; 
Hut  never  more,  to  bless  their  eyes, 

Can  come  a  dream  so  bright ! 
They  met  but  once, — a  day  was  all 

Of  Love's  young  hopes  they  knew; 
Atid  still  their  hearts  that  day  recall, 

As  fresh  a»  then  it  flew. 

Swpct  drenm  of  youth  !  oh,  ne'er  again 

I.<rl  cither  meet  the  brow 
They  left  so  smooth  and  smiling  then, 

Or  (tec  whal  it  n  now. 


For,  Youth,  the  spell  w.as  only  thine ; 

From  thee  alone  th'  enchantment  flows, 
That  makes  the  world  around  thee  shine 

With  light  thyself  bestows. 
They  met  but  once, — oh,  ne'er  again 

Let  either  meet  the  brow 
They  left  so  smooth  .and  smiling  then. 

Or  see  what  it  is  now. 


WITH  MOONLIGHT  BEAMING. 

With  moonlight  beaming 

Thus  o'er  the  deep, 
Who'd  linger  dreaming 

In  idle  sleep? 
Leave  joyless  souls  to  live  by  day, — 
Our  life  begins  with  yonder  ray; 
And  while  thus  brightly 

The  moments  flee. 
Our  barks  skim  lightly 

The  shining  se.a. 

To  h.alls  of  splendor 

Let  gre.at  ones  hie ; 
Through  light  more  tender 

Our  pathways  lie. 
While  round,  from  b.anks  of  brook  or  lake, 
Our  company  blithe  echoes  make  ; 
And,  as  we  lend  'cm 

Sweet  word  or  strain, 
Still  back  they  send  'em, 

More  sweet,  again. 


CHILD'S   SONG. 


niOM    A    MASWK. 


1  HAVK  a  garden  of  my  own. 

Shining  with  llow'rs  of  ev'ry  hue; 
I  loved  it  dearly  while  alone. 

But  I  shall  love  it  more  with  you : 
And  there  the  golden  bees  shall  come, 

In  summer-time  at  break  of  morn. 
And  wake  us  with  their  busy  hum 

Arnuuii  tlie  Siha's  fragrant  thorn. 

I  have  a  fawn  from  Aden's  land, 

On  leafy  buds  and  berries  nursed  ; 
And  you  shall  feed  him  from  your  hand, 

Though  he  may  start  with  fear  at  first. 
And  I  will  lead  you  where  he  lies 

For  shelter  in  the  iioonlide  heat; 
And  yiui  may  touch  his  sleeping  eyoH, 

And  feel  Ws  little  »:!v'ry  feet. 


BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC. 


179 


THE  HALCYON  HANGS  O'ER  OCEAN. 

The  li.'ilcyon  liungs  o'er  oco.in, 
The  .sea-l.irk  skims  the  brine; 

This  briijht  world's  .all  in  motion, 
No  heart  seems  s:id  but  mine. 

To  walk  throngh  sun-bright  pl.ices, 
With  heart  all  eold  the  while ; 

To  look  in  smiling  faces, 

When  we  no  more  can  smile ; 

To  feel,  while  earth  and  heaven 
Around  thee  shine  with  bliss, 

To  thee  no  light  is  given, — 
Oh,  whiit  a  doom  is  this  ! 


THE  'WORLD  WAS  HUSH'D. 

The  world  was  hush'd,  the  moon  above 

Sail'd  through  ether  slowly. 
When,  near  the  casement  of  my  love. 

Thus  I  whisper'd  lowly, — 
"Awake,  awake,  how  canst  thou  sleep? 

"  The  field  I  seek  to-morrow 
"  Is  one  where  ra.an  h.ath  fame  to  reap, 

"  And  wom.an  gleans  but  sorrow." 

"  Let  battle's  field  be  what  it  may," 

Thus  spoke  a  voice  replying, 
•'Think  not  thy  love,  while  thou'rt  away, 

"  Will  here  sit  idly  sighing. 
"  No — woman's  soul,  if  not  for  fame, 

"For  love  can  brave  all  danger!" 
Then  forth  from  out  the  casement  came 

A  plumed  and  armed  stranger. 

A  stranger?     No;  'tw.as  she,  the  maid, 

Herself  before  me  beaming. 
With  casque  array'd,  .and  fiilchion  blads 

Beneath  her  gii-dle  gleaming! 
Close  side  by  side,  in  freedom's  figlit. 

That  blessed  morning  found  us  ; 
In  Vict'ry's  light  we  stood  ere  night. 

And  Love,  the  morrow,  crown'd  us ! 


THE  TWO  LOVES. 

There  .are  two  Loves,  the  poet  sings. 
Both  born  of  Beauty  .at  a  birth  : 

The  one,  akin  to  he.aven,  hath  wings. 
The  other,  earthly,  walks  on  earth. 


With  this  through  bowers  below  wo  pl.ay, 
With  that  through  clouds  .above  we  soar; 

With  both,  perchance,  may  lose  our  way : — 
Then,  tell  me  which. 
Tell  me  which  shall  we  adore  ? 

The  one,  when  tempted  down  from  air, 

At  Pleasure's  fount  to  lave  his  lip, 
Nor  lingers  long,  nor  oft  will  dare 

His  wing  within  the  wave  to  dip. 
While,  plunging  doep  and  long  beneath. 

The  other  bathes  him  o'er  .and  o'er 

In  th.at  sweet  current,  ev'n  to  death  : — 

Then,  tell  me  which. 

Tell  me  which  shall  we  adore? 

The  boy  of  hcav'n,  even  while  he  lies 

In  Beauty's  hap,  recalls  his  home; 
And  when  most  happy,  inly  sighs 

For  something  happier  still  to  come. 
While  he  of  earth,  too  fully  bless'd 

With  this  bright  world  to  dream  of  more, 
Sees  all  his  heav'n  on  Beauty's  bi-east: — 
Tlien,  tell  me  which. 

Tell  me  which  shall  we  .adore? 

The  maid  who  heard  the  poet  sinf 

These  twin-desires  of  earth  and  sky. 
And  saw,  while  one  inspired  his  string, 

The  other  glisten'd  in  his  eye, — 
To  name  the  earthlier  boy  .ashamed, 

To  choose  the  other  fondly  loth, 
At  length,  all  blushing,  she  exclaim'd, — 
"  Ask  not  which, 

"Oh,  ask  not  which — we'll  worship  both. 

"Th'  extremes  of  each  thus  taught  to  shun, 

"  With  hearts  .and  souls  between  tliera  given, 
"When  weary  of  this  earth  with  one, 

"We'll  with  the  other  wing  to  heaven." 
Thus  pledged  the  maid  her  vow  of  bliss; 

And  while  one  Love  wrote  down  the  o.ath, 
The  other  scal'd  it  with  a  kiss  : 
.\nd  Heav'n  look'd  on, 

Heav'n  look'd  on,  and  hallow'd  both. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  TUCK  THE  FAIRY. 

WotTLDST  know  what  tricks,  by  the  pale  moonlight. 
Are  play'd  by  me,  the  merry  little  .Sprite, 
Wlio  wing  through  air  from  the  camp  to  tho  court, 
From  king  to  clown,  .and  of  .all  make  sport  : 


180 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Singing,  I  am  the  Sprite 
Of  tlie  mer  y  midnight, 
Who  laugh  at  weak  mortals,  and  love  the  moon- 
light? 

To  a  miser's  bed,  where  he  snoring  slept 
And  dreamt  of  his  cash,  I  slyly  crept ; 
Chink,  chink  o'er  his  pillow  like  money  I  rang, 
And  he  waked  to  catch — but  away  I  sprang, 
Singing,  I  am  the  Sprite,  &c. 

I  saw  through  the  leaves,  in  a  damsel's  bower. 
She  was  waiting  her  love  at  that  starlight  hour: 
"  Hist — hist !"  quoth  I,  with  an  amorous  sigh, 
And  she  flew  to  the  door,  but  away  flew  I, 
Singing,  I  am  the  Sprite,  &c. 

Wiile  a  bnrd  sat  inditing  an  ode  to  his  love, 
Like  a  pair  of  blue  meteors  I  stared  from  above, 
And  he  swoon'd — for  he  thought  'twas  the  ghost, 

poor  man ! 
Of  hia  lady's  eyes,  while  away  I  ran, 

Singing,  I  am  the  Sprite,  &c. 


BEAUTY  AND  SONG. 

Down  in  yon  summer  vale, 

Where  the  rill  flows. 
Thus  said  a  Nightingale 

To  his  loved  Rose : — 
"  Thougli  rich  the  pleasures 
"  Of  song's  sweet  measures, 
"  Vain  were  its  melody, 
•'  Rose,  without  thee." 

Then  from  the  green  recess 

Of  her  night-bow'r. 
Beaming  with  bashfulnees, 

Spoke  the  bright  flow'r : — 
■  Though  morn  nhould  lend  her 
'  Its  sunniest  splendor, 
'  What  would  the  Rose  be, 
^  Unsung  by  thoc  ?" 

Thus  Htill  let  Song  attend 

Woman's  bright  way ; 
Thus  Hiill  let  woman  lend 

liight  to  the  lay. 
Like  Ht'irs,  through  heaven's  sea, 
Floating  in  harmony, 
Bcniily  shall  glide  along, 
Ciroli'd  bv  Song. 


WHEN  THOU  ART  NIGH. 

When  thou  art  nigh,  it  seems 

A  new  creation  round  ; 
The  sun  hatli  fairer  beams. 

The  lute  a  softer  sound. 
Though  thee  alone  I  see. 

And  hear  alone  thy  sigh, 
'Tis  light,  'tis  song  to  me, 

'Tis  all — when  thou  art  nigh. 

When  thou  art  nigh,  no  thought 

Of  grief  comes  o'er  my  heart ; 
I  only  think — could  anght 

But  joy  be  where  thou  art  ? 
Life  seems  a  waste  of  breath. 

When  far  from  thee  I  sigh ; 
And  death — .iy,  even  death 

Were  sweet,  if  thou  wert  nigh. 


SONG  OF  A  HYPERBOREAN. 

I  COME  from  a  land  in  the  sun-bright  deep, 

Wlierc  golden  gardens  grow; 
Wliere  the  winds  of  the  north,  becalra'd  in  sleep, 
Their  conch-shells  never  blow.' 
Haste  to  that  holy  Isle  with  me. 
Haste — haste ! 

So  near  the  track  of  the  stars  are  we,' 

That  oft,  on  night's  pale  beams. 
The  distant  sounds  of  their  harmony 

Come  to  our  ears,  like  dreams. 

Then,  haste,  &c.  &c. 

The  Moon,  too,  brings  her  world  so  nigh,* 

That  when  the  night-seer  looks 
To  that  shadowless  orb,  in  a  vernal  sky, 

He  can  number  its  liills  and  brooks. 

Then,  haste,  &c.  &c. 

To  the  Sun-god  all  oiir  he.arls  anil  lyres' 

By  day,  by  niglits,  belong; 
And  the  breath  we  draw  from  his  living  firoo. 

We  give  him  back  in  song. 

Then,  h.aato,  &-C.  &c. 

From  us  descends  the  m:iid  who  brings 

To  Dclos  gifis  divine  ; 
And  our  wild  bees  lend  their  rainbow  wings 
To  glitter  on  Delphi's  shrine.' 

Then,  haste  to  llmt  holy  Isle  with  me, 
Hiisto — haste! 


I  3AW  THROUCH  THt.  l.ljV.I:    IN  AEAMSF.I 


BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC. 


181 


THOU  BIDD'ST  ME  SING. 

Tliou  bidd'st  me  «ing  the  Iny  I  sung  to  tlieo 

In  other  days  ere  joy  had  left  this  brow  ; 
But  think,  though  still  unchanged  the  notes  may 
be, 

How  diff 'rent  feels  the  heart  that  breathes  them 
now ! 
The  rose  thou  vvear'st  to-night  is  still  the  same 

We  saw  this  morning  on  its  stem  so  gay  ; 
But,  all !  lliat  dew  of  dawn,  that  breath  which  came 

Like  life  o'er  all  its  leaves,  hath  pass'd  away. 

Since  first  that  music  touch'd  thy  heart  and  mine, 

How    many    a  joy    and    pain    o'er    both   have 
pass'd, — 
The  joy,  a  light  too  precious  long  to  shine. 

The  pain,  a  cloud  whose  shadows  always  last. 
And  though  that  lay  would  like  the  voice  of  home 

Breathe   o'er   our   ear,   'twould   waken   now   a 
sigh— 
Ah !  not,  as  then,  for  fancied  woes  to  come. 

But,  sadder  far,  for  real  bliss  gone  by. 


CUPID  ARMED. 

Place  the  helm  on  thy  brow. 
In  thy  hand  take  the  spear ; 
Thou  art  arm'd,  Cupid,  now. 
And  thy  battle-hour  is  near. 
March  on  !  march  on !  thy  shaft  and  bow 

Were  weak  against  such  charms ; 
March  on!  march  on!  so  proud  a  foe 
Scorns  all  but  martial  arms. 

See  the  darts  in  her  eyes, 

Tipp'd  with  scorn,  how  they  shine  I 
Ev'ry  shaft,  as  it  flies. 

Mocking  proudly  at  thine. 
March  on !  march  on  !  thy  feather'd  darts 

Soft  bosoms  soon  might  move; 
But  ruder  arms  to  ruder  hearts 
Must  teach  what  'tis  to  love. 
Place  the  helm  on  thy  brow ; 

In  thy  hand  take  the  spear, — 
Thou  art  arm'd,  Cupid,  now. 

And  thy  battle-hour  is  near. 


ROUND  THE  WORLD  GOES. 

Round  the  world  goes,  i)y  day  and  night, 

While  with  it  also  round  go  we; 
And  in  the  flight  of  one  day's  light 

And  linage  of  all  life's  course  we  see. 
Rouml,  round,  while  thus  we  go  round, 

The  best  thing  a  man  can  do. 
Is  to  make  it,  at  least,  a  ni«rry-go-round, 

By — sending  the  wine  round  too. 

Our  first  gay  stage  of  life  is  when 

Youth,  in  its  dawn,  salutes  the  eye — 
Season  of  bliss!     Oh,  who  wouldn't  then 

Wish  to  cry,  "  Stop !"  to  earth  and  sky  1 
But,  round,  round,  both  boy  and  girl 

Are  whisk'd  through  that  sky  of  blue; 
And  much  would  their  hearts  enjoy  the  whirl, 

If — their  heads  didn't  whirl  round  too. 

Next,  we  enjoy  our  glorious  noon. 

Thinking  all  life  a  life  of  light ; 
But  shadows  come  on,  'tis  evening  soon. 

And,   ere   we   can   say,   "  How   short !" — 'tia 
night. 
Round,  round,  still  all  goes  round, 

Ev'n  while  I'm  thus  singing  to  you  ; 
And  the  best  way  to  make  it  a  merry-go-round, 

Is  to — -chorus  ray  song  round  too. 


OH,  DO  NOT  LOOK  SO  BRIGHT  AND 

BLEST. 

Oh,  do  not  look  so  bright  and  blest, 

For  still  there  comes  a  fear. 
When  brow  like  thine  looks  happiest, 

That  grief  is  then  most  near. 
There  lurks  a  dread  in  all  delight, 

A  shadow  near  each  ray, 
That  warns  us  then  to  fear  their  flight, 

When  most  we  wish  their  stay. 
Then  look  not  thou  so  bright  and  ble.'it, 

For  ah !  there  comes  a  fear, 
Wlien  brow  like  thine  looks  happiest, 

That  grief  is  then  most  near. 

Why  is  it  thus  that  fairest  things 
The  soonest  fleet  and  die  1 — 

That  when  most  light  is  on  their  vvings, 
They're  then  but  spread  to  fly  ! 

And,  sadder  still,  the  pain  will  stay — 
The  bliss  no  more  appears  ; 


182 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


As  rainbows  take  their  light  away. 
And  leave  us  but  the  tears ! 

Tlien  look  not  thou  so  bright  and  blest, 
For  ah  I  there  comes  a  fear, 

When  brow  like  thine  looks  happiest. 
That  grief  is  then  most  near. 


THE  MUSICAL  BOX. 

'•  Look  here,"  said  Rose,  with  laughing  eyes, 

"  Within  this  box,  by  magic  hid, 
"  A  tuneful  SprrJe  imprison'd  lies, 

"  Who  sings  to  me  wliene'er  he's  bid. 
"  Though  roving  once  his  voice  and  wing, 

"  He'll  now  lie  still  the  whole  day  long; 
"Till  thus  I  touch  the  magic  spring — 

"  Then  hark,  how  sweet  and  blithe  his  song !" 

(A  symphony.) 

"  Ah,  Rose,"  I  cried,  "  the  poet's  lay 

'•  Must  ne'er  ev'n  Beauty's  slave  become ; 
"Through  earth  and  air  his  song  may  stray, 

"If  all  the  while  his  heart's  at  home. 
"  And  though  in  Freedom's  air  he  dwell, 

"  Nor  bound  nor  chain  his  spirit  knows, 
"  Touch  but  the  spring  thou  know'st  so  well, 

"  And — hark,  how  sweet  the  love-song  flows !" 

(A  symphony.) 

Thus  pleaded  I  for  Freedom's  right; 

But  when  young  Beauty  t;ikes  the  field. 
And  wise  men  seek  defence  in  flight. 

The  doom  of  poets  is  to  yield. 
No  more  my  heart  th'  enchantress  braves, 

I'm  now  in  Beauty's  prison  hid ; 
The  Sprite  and  I  are  felhuv-sl.ives. 

And  I,  too,  sing  whene'er  I'm  bid. 


WHEN  TO  SAD  MUSIC  SILENT  YOU 
LISTEN. 

When  to  sad  Music  silent  you  listen, 

And  tears  on  those  eyelids  tremble  like  dew. 
Oh,  then  there  dwells  in  those  eyes  as  they  glisten 

A  sweet  holy  charm  that  mirth  never  knew. 
But  when  some  lively  strain  resounding 

Lights  up  the  sunsliinu  of  joy  on  that  brow, 
Then  the.  young  reindeer  o'er  the  hills  hounding 

Wn^  ne'er  in  it.s  mirth  so  graceful  as  thou. 

When  on  the  Hkies  at  midnight  thou  guzcst, 
A  liistro  DO  pure  Ihy  features  then  wear, 


That,  when  to   some  star    that  bright  eye   thou 
raisest. 

We  feel  'tis  thy  home  thou'rt  looking  for  there. 
But,  when  the  word  for  the  gay  dance  is  givin. 

So  buoyant  thy  spirit,  so  heartfelt  thy  mirth. 
Oh  then  we  exclaim,  "  Ne'er  leave  earth  for  heaven, 

"But  linger  still  here,  to  make  heaven  of  earth." 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  FLOWERS. 

Fly  swift,  ray  light  gazelle. 

To  her  who  now  lies  waking. 
To  hear  thy  silver  bell 

The  midnight  silence  breaking. 
And,  when  thou  com'st,  with  gladsome  feet, 

Beneath  her  lattice  springing. 
Ah,  well  she'll  know  how  sweet 

The  words  of  love  tliou'rt  bringing. 

Yet,  no — not  words,  for  they 

But  half  can  tell  love's  feeling; 
Sweet  flowers  alone  can  say 

What  passion  fears  revealing. 
A  once-bright  rose's  withcr'd  leaf, 

A  tow'riiig  lily  broken, — 
Oh  these  may  paint  a  grief 

No  words  could  e'er  have  spoken. 

Not  such,  my  gay  gazelle. 

The  wreath  thou  speedest  over 
Yon  moonlight  dale,  to  tell 

My  lady  how  I  love  lier. 
And,  what  to  her  will  sweeter  be 

Than  gems,  the  richest,  rarest. 
From  Truth's  imniorlnl  tree" 

One  fadeless  leaf  thou  bearest 


THE  DAWN  IS  BREAKING  O'ER  VS. 

The  dawn  is  broakiiig  o'er  us. 

See,  heaven  hath  caught  its  hue! 
We've  day's  long  liglil  hot'oro  -is, 

What  sport  shall  we  pursue? 
The  hunt  o'er  hill  and  lea  ? 
The  sail  o'er  summer  sea? 
Oh  let  not  hour  so  sweet 
Unwing'd  by  plcasnre  fleet. 
The  dawn  is  breaking  o'er  us, 

See,  heaven  hath  caught  ils  hue! 
We've  day's  long  light  before  us, 

What  Hjiort  shall  we  pursue? 


BALLADS,  SONGS,  ETC. 


183 


But  see,  while  we're  deciding, 

Alas  !  why  thus  delaying  1 

Wliat  moriiinn;  sport  to  play, 

We're  now  at  evening's  hour; 

The  dial's  hand  is  gliding, 

Its  farewell  beam  is  playing 

And  tnorn  liath  pass'd  away  ! 

O'er  hill  and  wave  and  bower. 

Ah,  who'd  have  thought  that  noon 

That  light  we  thought  would  last, 

Would  o'er  us  steal  so  soon, — 

Behold,  cv'n  now,  'tis  past ; 

That  morn's  sweet  liour  of  prime 

And  all  our  morning  dreams 

Would  last  so  short  a  lime? 

Have  vaiiish'd  with  its  beams ! 

But  conic,  we've  day  before  us. 

But  come !  'twere  vain  to  borrow 

Still  heaven  lofy/is  bright  and  blue ; 

Sad  lessons  from  this  lay. 

Quick,  quick,  ere  eve  comes  o'er  us, 

For  man  will  be  to-morrow — 

What  sport  shall  we  pursue  ? 

Just  what  he's  been  to-day. 

NOTES. 


(1)  In  this  sonp;-,  which  i3  one  of  the  many  set  to  music  by 
myself,  the  occasional  lawlessness  of  the  metre  arises,  I  need 
hardly  say,  from  the  peculiar  structure  of  the  air. 

(2)  Founded  on  the  fable  reported  by  Arrian,  (in  Tndicis,)  of 
Hercules  haviug  searched  the  Indian  Ocean,  to  find  the  pearl 
with  which  he  adorned  his  daughter  Pandaea. 

C3)  Part  of  a  translation  of  some  Latin  verses,  supposed  to 
have  been  addressed  by  Hippolyta  Taurella  to  her  husband, 
during  his  absence  at  the  gay  court  of  Leo  the  Tenth,  The 
versea  may  be  found  in  the  Appendix  to  Roscoe's  Work. 

(4)  On  the  Tower  of  the  Winds,  at  Athens,  there  is  a  conch- 
sheU  placed  in  the  hands  of  Boreas,— See  Stuart^s  Antiquities, 


"  The  north  wind,"  says  Herodotus,  in  speaking  of  the  Hyper 
boreans,  '•  never  blows  with  them." 

(5)  "Sub  Ipso  siderum  cardinejacent."— Pompon.  Mela, 

(6)  "  They  can  show  the  moon  very  near."— Diouor.  Sicul. 

(7)  Hecataius  tells  us,  that  this  Hyperborean  island  was  ded- 
icated to  Apollo;  and  most  of  the  inhabitanta  were  eithei 
priests  or  songsters. 

(8)  Pausan. 

(9)  The  tree,  called  in  the  Etst,  Amrita,  or  the  Immortal. 


THE    SUMMEE    Ei]TE. 


THE  HOlS'ORABLE  MRS.  NORTON. 


For  tlio  ground  work  of  the  following  I'oein  I 
am  indebted  to  a  memorable  Fete,  given  some 
years  since,  at  Boyle  Farm,  tlie  seat  of  the  late 
Lord  Henry  Fitzgerald.  In  commemoration  of  that 
evening — of  which  the  lady  to  whom  these  pages 
arc  inscribed  was,  I  well  recollect,  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  ornaments — I  was  induced  at  the 
time  to  write  some  verses,  which  were  afterwards, 
however,  thrown  aside  unfinished,  on  my  discover- 
ing that  the  same  tisk  had  been  undertaken  by  a 
noble  poet,'  whose  playful  and  happy  jeu-d'esprit 
on  the  subject  has  since  been  published.     It  was 


but  lately,  tli.at,  on  linding  tlie  fragments  of  my 
own  sketch  among  my  papers,  I  thought  of  found- 
ing on  them  such  a  description  of  an  imaginary  Fcto 
ns  might  furnish  me  with  situations  for  the  intro- 
duction of  music. 

Such  is  the  origin  and  object  of  the  following 
Poem,  and  to  j\[ns.  Norto.v  it  is,  with  every  feeling 
of  admiration  and  regard,  inscribed  by  her  father's 
warmly  attached  friend, 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

Sloperton  Cottage^ 
J^Tovembcry  183' 


THE  SUMMER  FETE. 


"  Where  are  ye  now,  ye  summer  days, 

"  That  once  inspired  the  poet's  l.-iys  1 

"  Blcss'd  lime !  ere  England's  nymphs  and  swains, 

"For  lack  of  sunbeams,  took  to  co.ils — 
"  Summers  of  light,  undiiiinrd  by  rains, 
"  Whose  only  mocking  trace  remains 

"  In  watering-pots  and  parasols." 

Thus  spoke  a  young  Patrici.in  maid, 
Ah,  on  the  morning  of  that  F6tc 
Which  bards  unborn  shall  celebrate, 

She  backward  drew  her  curljiin's  sliade, 

And,  closing  one  half-dazzled  eye, 

I'eep'tl  with  the  other  at  the  sky — 

Th'  Important  cky,  whoso  light  or  gloom 

Wb»  to  decid?',  Ilii<  day,  the  doom 


Of  some  few  hundred  beauties,  wits. 
Blues,  Dandies,  Swains,  and  Exquisites. 

Paint  were  her  hopes  ;  for  .Tune  had  now 

Set  in  with  all  his  usual  rigor ! 
Young  Zephyr  yet  scarce  knowing  how 
To  nurse  a  bud,  or  fan  a  bough. 
But  Eurus  in  perpetual  vigor; 
And,  such  the  biting  summer  air. 
That  she,  the  nymph  now  nestling  Ihcro— 
Snug  as  her  own  bright  gems  recline. 
At  night,  wilhiii  their  collon  shrine — 
Had,  nxirc  than  once,  been  caught  of  late 
Kneeling  before  her  blazing  grate, 
Like  a  young  worshipper  of  fire, 
Wilh  har.ds  uplifted  In  the  (lame, 


THE  SUMMER  FETE. 


185 


Whose  glow,  as  if  to  woo  them  iiiglier, 

She,  like  another  Epicurus, 

Tlirouifh  the  white  fiiijrer.s  lUishing'  came. 

Sets  dancing  thus,  and  calls  "  the  World" 

But  oil !  the  light,  tli'  unhopetl-fbi-  light, 

Beliohl  how  biisy  in  those  bowers, 

That  now  illumed  this  morning's  heaven  ! 

(Like  May-Hies,  in  and  out  of  flowers,; 

Up  sprung  lanthe  at  the  siglit. 

The  countless  menials  swarming  run. 

Though — hark ! — the  clocks  but  strike  eleven, 

To  furnish  forth,  ere  set  of  sun, 

And  rarely  did  the  nymph  surprise 

The  b;in(inet-table  richly  laid 

Blankind  so  early  witli  her  eyes. 

Beneath  yon  awning's  lengthen'd  shade, 

Where  fruits  shall  tempt,  and  wines  entice. 

Who  now  will  say  tlwt  England's  sun 

And  Ijuxnry's  self,  at  Gunter's  call. 

(Like  England's  self,  these  spendthrift  days) 

Breathe  from  her  summer-throne  of  ice 

His  stock  of  wealth  hath  near  outrun, 

A  spirit  of  coolness  over  all. 

And  must  retrench  his  golden  rays — 

Pay  for  tlie  pride  of  sunbeams  past, 

And  now  th'  important  hour  drew  nigh, 

And  to  mere  moonshine  come  at  last? 

When,  'neath  the  Hush  of  evening's  sky. 

The  west  end  "  world"  for  mirth  let  loose, 

"Calumnious  thought!"  lanthe  cries. 

And  moved,  as  he  of  Syracuse" 

While  coming  mirth  lit  up  each  glance, 

Ne'er  dreamt  of  moving  worlds,  by  force. 

And,  prescient  of  the  ball,  her  eyes 

Of  four-horse  power,  had  all  combined 

Already  had  begun  to  dance: 

Through  Grosvenor  Gate  to  speed  their  course, 

For  brighter  sun  than  that  which  now 

Leaving  th.at  portion  of  mankind, 

Sparkled  o'er  London's  spires  and  towers, 

Whom  they  call  "  Nobody,"  behind; — 

Had  never  bent  from  heaven  his  brow 

No  star  for  London's  feasts  to-day. 

To  kiss  Firenze's  City  of  Flowers. 

No  moon  of  beauty,  new  this  May, 

To  lend  the  night  her  crescent  ray ; — 

What  must  it  be — if  thus  so  fair 

Nothing,  in  short,  for  ear  or  eye. 

'Mid  the  smoked  groves  of  Grosvenor  Square — 

But  veteran  belles,  and  wits  gone  by. 

What  must  it  be  where  Thames  is  seen 

The  relics  of  a  past  beau-raonde. 

Gliding  between  his  banks  of  green. 

A  world,  like  Cuvier's,  long  dethroned  ! 

While  rival  villas,  on  each  side, 

Ev'n  Parliament  this  evening  nods 

Peep  from  their  bowers  to  woo  his  tide, 

Bene.ath  th'  harangues  of  minor  gods, 

And,  like  a  Turk  between  two  rows 

On  half  its  usual  opiate's  share; 

Of  Harem  beauties,  on  he  goes — 

The  great  dispensers  of  repose, 

A  lover,  loved  for  ev'n  the  grace 

The  first-rate  furnishers  of  prose 

With  which  he  slides  from  their  embrace. 

Being  all  eall'd  to — prose  elsewhere. 

In  one  of  those  enchanted  domes. 

Soon  as  through  Grosvenor's  lordly  square — " 

One,  the  most  flow'ry,  cool,  and  bright 

That  last  impregnable  redoubt, 

Of  all  by  which  that  river  roams, 

Where,  guarded  with  Patrician  care, 

The  Fete  is  to  be  held  to-night — 

Primeval  Error  still  holds  out — 

That  Fete  already  link'd  to  fame, 

Where  never  gleam  of  gas  must  dnre 

Whose  cards,  in  many  a  fair  one's  sight 

'Gainst  ancient  Darkness  to  revolt. 

(When  look'd  for  long,  at  last  they  came,) 

Or  smooth  Macidam  hope  to  spare 

Seem'd  circled  with  a  fairy  light ; — 

The  dowagers  one  single  jolt ; — 

That  Fete  to  which  the  cull,  the  flower 

Where,  far  too  stately  .and  sublime 

Of  England's  beauty,  rank,  and  power. 

To  profit  by  the  lights  of  time. 

'i'roni  the  young  spinster,  just  come  out. 

Let  Intellect  march  how  it  will. 

To  the  old  Premier,  too  long  in — 

They  stick  to  oil  and  watchmen  still : — 

Fi-om  legs  of  far  descended  gout. 

Soon  as  through  that  illustrious  square 

To  the  last  new-moustachio'd  chin — 

The  first  epistolary  bell. 

All  were  convoked  by  Fashion's  spells 

Sounding  by  fits  upon  the  air, 

To  the  small  circle  where  she  dwells, 

Of  parting  pennies  rung  the  knell; 

Collecting  nightly,  to  allure  us, 

Warn'd  by  that  tellt.ale  of  the  hours, 

ijive  atoms,  which,  together  hurl'd, 

And  by  the  daylight's  westering  beam. 

186 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


The  young  liinthe,  who,  witli  flowers 

"  Can  match  for  sweetness,  strength,  or  firo, 

Half-crown'd,  had  sat  iu  idle  dream 

"  This  fine  Cantata  upon  Sleeves. 

Before  her  glass,  scarce  knowing  where 

"  The  very  notes  themselves  reveal 

Her  fingers  roved  through  that  bright  hair, 

"  The  cut  of  each  now  sleeve  so  well ; 

WTiile,  all  capriciously,  she  now 
Dislodged  some  curl  from  her  white  brow, 
And  now  again  replaced  it  there  ; — 

"  Afat  betrays  the  ImbiciUes,' 

"  Light  fugues  the  flying  l.ippets  tell ; 
"While  rich  cathedral  chords  aw.ake 

As  though  her  task  was  meant  to  be 

"  Our  hom.age  for  the  Manclies  iTEveque. 

One  endless  change  of  ministry — 
A  routing-up  of  Loves  and  Graces, 
But  to  plant  others  in  their  places. 

'Twas  the  first  op'ning  song — the  Lay 
Of  all  least  deep  in  toilet-lore. 

Meanwhile — what  strain  is  that  which  floats 

Tliat  the  young  nymph,  to  while  aw.ay 
The  tiring  liour,  thus  warbled  o'er: — 

Through  the  small  boudoir  near — like  notes 

Of  some  young  bird,  its  task  repeating 

For  the  next  linnet  music-meeting  ? 

A  voice  it  was,  whose  gentle  sounds 

SONG. 

Still  kept  a  modest  octave's  bounds. 

Nor  yet  had  ventured  to  exalt 

Array  thee,  love,  array  thee,  love, 

Its  rash  ambition  to  B  alt, 

In  .all  thy  best  array  thee  ; 

That  point  towards  which  when  ladies  rise, 

The  sun's  below — the  moon's  above — 

The  wise  man  takes  his  hat  and — flies. 

And  Night  .and  Bliss  obey  thoe. 

Tones  of  a  harp,  too,  gently  play'd, 

Came  with  this  youthful  voice  communing, 
Tones  true,  for  once,  without  the  aid 

Put  on  thee  all  th.at's  bright  and  rare, 

The  zone,  the  wreath,  the  gem, 
Not  so  much  gracing  charms  so  fair, 

Of  that  inflictive  process,  tuning — 

As  borrowing  grace  from  them. 

A  process  which  must  oft  have  given 
Poor  Milton's  ears  a  deadly  wound  ; 

Array  thee,  lovo,  array  thoe,  love, 
In  all  that's  bright  array  thee; 

So  pleased,  among  the  joys  of  Heav'n, 

The  sun's  below — the  moon's  .above — 

lie  specifies  "  harps  ever  tuned."* 
She  who  now  sung  this  gentle  strain 

Was  our  young  nymph's  still  younger  sister — 
Icarce  ready  yet  for  Fashion's  train 

In  their  light  legions  to  enlist  her, 

And  Night  and  Bliss  obey  thee. 

Put  on  the  plumes  thy  lover  gave. 

The  plumes,  th.at,  proudly  dancing. 
Proclaim  to  all,  where'er  they  w.ave, 

But  counted  on,  as  sure  to  bring 

Victorious  eyes  advancing. 

Her  force  into  the  field  next  spring. 

Bring  forth  the  robe,  whoso  hue  of  heaven 
From  thee  derives  such  light, 

The  song  she  thus,  like  Jubal's  shell, 
Gave  forth  "so  sweetly  and  so  well," 

That  Iris  would  give  all  her  seven 
To  boast  but  one  so  bright. 

Was  one  in  Morning  Post  inucli  famed. 

Array  thee,  love,  array  thee,  lovo,  &e.  &p 

From  a  divine  collection,  named. 

"  Songs  of  the  toilcl"^vcry  Lay 

Now  hie  thee,  love,  now  hie  thee,  love. 

Taking  for  subject  of  its  Muse, 

Through  Pleasure's  circles  hie  thoe. 

Some  branch  of  feminine  array, 
Some  item,  with  full  scope,  to  choose, 

And  hearts,  where'er  thy  footsteps  move, 
Will  beat,  when  they  come  nigh  thee. 

From  diamonds  down  to  dancing  shoes ; 

Thy  every  word  shall  be  a  spell. 

Frora^the  last  hat  that  Herbault's  hands 

Thy  every  look  n  ray. 

Bcqueatli'd  to  an  admiring  world, 

And  tracks  of  wond'ring  oycs  shall  tell 

Down  to  the  latest  floiinco  that  stands 

The  glory  of  thy  way  ! 

Like  Jacob's  I.adder — or  expands 

Now  hie  Ihec,  love,  now  hie  thee,  lovo, 

Far  forth,  tempestuously  unfuri'd. 

Through  Pleasure's  circles  hie  thee. 

Hpcnking  of  one  of  these  new  Ijiys, 
The  Morning  Post  thus  sweetly  says: — 

And  hearts,  where'er  thy  footsteps  move, 
Shall  beat  when  they  come  nigh  thoo. 

"  Not  all  that  breathes  from  liishop's  lyre, 

4.1     ^  111              A         T^                               A  A           1                                                                       ^~%                  1                                                          t 

"  I  hat  Bamett  dreams,  or  Cooke  conceives. 

THE  SUMMEE  FETE. 


187 


Now  in  liis  Paliice  of  the  West, 

Sinking  to  slumber,  tlio  bright  Day, 
Like  a  tired  monarch  fann'd  to  rest. 

Mid  tlie  cool  airs  of  Evening  lay; 
While  round  his  couch's  golden  rim 

The  gaudy  clouds,  like  courtiers,  crept — 
Struggling  each  other's  light  to  dim. 

And  catch  his  last  smile  ere  he  slept. 

How  gay,  as  o'er  the  gliding  Thames 

The  golden  eve  its  lustre  pour'd, 
Shone  out  the  high-born  knights  .and  dames 

Now  gTOup'd  around  that  festal  board ; 
A  living  mass  of  plumes  and  flowers, 
As  tliough  they'd  robb'd  both  birds  and  bowers- 
A  peopled  rainbow,  sw.irming  through 
With  h.ibitants  of  every  hue  ; 
While,  as  the  sparkling  juice  of  France 

High  in  the  crystal  brimmers  tlow'd. 
Each  sunset  ray  that  raix'd  by  chance 

With  the  wine's  sparkles,  show'd 
How  sunbeams  may  be  taught  to  dance. 

If  not  in  written  form  express'd, 
'Twas  known,  iit  least,  to  every  guest. 
That,  though  not  bidden  to  parade 
Their  scenic  powers  in  raasquer.ade, 
(A  pastime  little  found  to  thrive 

In  the  bleak  fog  of  England's  skies. 
Where  wit's  the  thing  we  best  contrive, 

As  masqueraders,  to  disguise,) 
It  yet  was  hoped — and  well  that  hope 

Was  answer'd  by  the  young  and  g.ay — 

That,  in  the  toilet's  task  to-day, 
F.'incy  should  take  her  wildest  scope ; — 
Tli.it  the  rapt  milliner  sliould  be 
Let  loose  througli  fields  of  poesy, 
The  tailor,  in  inventive  trance. 

Up  to  the  heights  of  Epic  clamber. 
And  all  the  regions  of  Romance 

Be  ransack'd  by  tiie  fem7ne  de  chamhre. 

Accordingly,  with  gay  Sultanas, 
Rebeccas,  Sapphos,  Roxahmas — 
Circassiiin  slaves  whom  Love  would  pay 

Half  his  maternal  realms  to  ransom  ; — 
Young  nuns,  whose  chief  religion  l.ay 

In  looking  most  profanely  handsome; — 
IWuses  in  muslin — pastoral  m.aids 
'vVith  hats  from  the  Arcade-ian  shades, 
And  fortune-tellers,  rich,  'twas  plain, 
As  (oiiune-hunlers  form'd  their  train. 

With  these,  and  more  such  female  groups. 
Were  mix'd  no  less  fantastic  troops 


Of  m.ale  exhibiters — all  willing 

To  look,  ev'n  more  than  usual,  killing; — 

Beau  tyrants,  smock-faced  braggadocios. 

And  brigands,  charmingly  ferocious; 

M.  I'.'s  furn'd  Turks,  good  Moslems  then. 

Who,  last  night,  voted  for  the  Greeks  ; 
And  Friars,  stanch  No-Popery  men, 

In  close  confab  with  Whig  Caciques. 

But  where  is  she — the  nymph,  whom  late 

We  left  before  her  glass  delaying, 
Like  Eve,  when  by  the  lake  she  sate, 

In  the  clear  wave  her  cliarnis  surveying. 
And  saw  in  that  first  glassy  mirror 
The  first  fair  face  that  lured  to  error. 
"  Where  is  she,"  ask'st  thou  ? — w.atch  all  looks 

As  cent'ring  to  one  point  they  bear, 
Like  sun-flowers  by  the  sides  of  brooks, 

Turn'd  to  the  sun — and  she  is  there 
Ev'n  in  disguise,  oh  never  doubt 
By  her  own  light  you'd  track  her  out: 
As  when  tiie  moon,  close  shawl'd  in  fog. 
Steals,  as  she  thinks,  through  heaven  incog.. 
Though  hid  herself,  some  sidelong  ray, 
At  every  step,  detects  her  way. 

But  not  in  dark  disguise  to-night 

Hath  our  young  heroine  veil'd  her  light ; — 

For  see,  she  walks  the  earth,  Love's  own. 

His  wedded  bride,  by  holiest  vow 
Pledged  in  Olympus,  and  made  known 
To  mortals  by  the  type  which  now 
Hangs  glitt'ring  on  her  snowy  brow, 
That  butterfly,  mysterious  trinket, 
Which  means  the  Soul,  (tho'  few  would  think 

it,) 
And  sparkling  thus  on  brow  so  white. 
Tells  us  we've  Psyche  here  to-night ! 

But  hark !  some  song  hath  caught  hor  ears— 

And,  lo,  how  ple.ased,  as  though  she'd  ne'er 
Heard  the  Grand  Opera  of  the  Spheres, 

Her  goddess-ship  .approves  the  air ; 
And  to  a  mere  terrestrial  strain. 
Inspired  by  naught  but  pink  champagne. 

Her  butterfly  as  gayly  nods 
As  though  she  sat  with  all  her  train 

At  some  great  Concert  of  the  Gods, 
With  Phoebus,  leader — Jove,  director. 
And  half  the  audience  drunk  with  nectar. 

From  a  male  group  the  carol  came — 

A  few  gay  youths,  whom  round  the  board 

The  last-tried  flask's  superior  fam<> 
Had  lured  to  taste  the  tide  it  pour'd  ; 


188 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


And  one,  who,  from  Iiis  youth  and  lyre, 
Scem'd  grandson  to  the  Tei:in  sire, 
Thus  gayly  sung,  while,  to  his  song. 
Replied  in  chorus  the  gay  tlirong: — 


SONG. 


Some  mortals  there  m.iy  be,  so  wise,  or  so  fine. 

As  in  evenings  like  this  no  enjoj'ment  to  see; 

But,  as  Fm  not  particular — wit,  love,  and  wine, 

Are  for  one  night's  amusement  sufficient  for  nie. 
Nay — humble    and    strange    as    my    tastes    may 
appear — 
If  driv'n  to  the  worst,  I  could  manage,  thank 
Heaven, 
To  put  up  with  eyes  such  as  beam  round  me  here, 
And  such  wine  as  we're  sipping,  six  days  out  of 
seven. 
So  pledge  me  a  bumper — your  sages  profound 
May  be  blest,  if  they  will,  on  their  own  patent 
plan : 
But   as   we   are   not   sages,   why — send   the   cup 
round — 
We  must  only  be  happy  the  best  way  we  can. 

A  reward  by  some  king  was  once  offer'd,  we're 
told, 
To  whoe'er  could  invent  a  new  bliss  for  man- 
kind; 
But  talk  of  new  pleasures ! — give  me  but  the  old. 
And  I'll  leave  your  inventors  all  new  ones  they 
fiud. 
Or  shoulil  I,  in  quest  of  fresh  realms  of  bliss, 
Set  sail  in  the  pinnace  of  Fancy  some  day, 
Let  the  rich  rosy  sea  I  embark  on  be  this. 

And  such  eyes  as  we've  here  be  the  stars  of  my 
way ! 
Ill   the   mean  time,  a  bumper — your  Angels,  on 

'''"'■' 
May  have  pletisurea  unknown  to  life's  llniittd 

span ; 

But,  as  we  are  nol  Angels,  why — let  the  flask  lly — 

We  must  only  bo  happy  all  ways  that  we  can. 


Now  ni'nrly  fled  was  sunset's  light, 
(.caving  but  so  much  of  its  beam 

Am  ijnvK  to  objicts,  laic  mi>  bri){lit, 
'I'lip  coloiliiir  of  a  shadowy  drenin; 

And  llicri!  was  hIiII  where  Day  had  sot 
A  lliiilj  that  8puko  him  lulh  to  diu — 


A  last  link  of  his  glory  yet. 

Binding  together  earth  and  sky. 
Say,  why  is  it  that  twiliglit  best 
Becomes  even  brows  the  loveliest? 
That  dimness,  with  its  soft'niiig  touch, 

Can  bring  out  grace,  unfelt  before. 
And  charms  we  ne'er  can  sec  too  much, 

When  seen  but  half  enchant  the  more  ? 
Alas,  it  is  that  every  joy 
In  fulness  finds  its  worst  alloy. 
And  half  a  bliss,  but  hoped  or  guess'd. 
Is  sweeter  than  the  whole  possess'd  ; — 
That  Beauty,  when  least  shone  upon, 

A  creature  most  ideal  grows; 
And  there's  no  light  from  moon  or  sun 

Like  tliat  Imagination  throws; — 
It  is,  alas,  that  Fancy  shrinks 

Ev'n  from  a  bright  reality. 
And  turning  inly,  feels  and  thinks 

Far  heav'nlier  things  than  e'er  will  bn. 

Such  was  th'  effect  of  twilight's  hour 

On  the  fair  groups  that,  round  and  round, 
From  glade  to  grot,  from  bank  to  bow'r, 

Now  wander'd  through  this  fairy  ground ; 
And  thus  did  Fancy — and  champagne — 

Work  on  the  sight  their  dazzling  spoils, 
Till  nymphs  that  lodk'd,  at  noonday,  plain, 

Now  brightcn'd,  in  the  gloom,  to  belles; 
And  the  brief  interval  of  time, 

'Twixt  after  dinner  and  before, 
To  dowagers  brought  back  their  prime, 

And  shed  a  halo  round  two-score. 

Meanwhile,  new  pastimes  for  the  eye, 

The  ear,  the  fmcy,  quick  succeed; 
And  now  along  the  waters  lly 

Light  gondoles,  of  Venetian  breed, 
Willi  knights  and  dames,  who,  calm  reclined. 

Lisp  out  love-sonnets  as  they  glide — 
Astonishing  old  Thames  to  find 

Such  doings  on  his  mortal  tide. 

So  bright  was  slill  that  tran()nil  river, 
Willi  the  last  shaft  from  Daylight's  quiver, 
'I'lial  many  a  group,  in  turn,  were  seen 
Knibarking  on  its  wave  serene  ; 
And,  'mong  the  rest,  in  chorus  gay, 
A  band  of  mariners,  from  th'  isles 
Of  snimy  (Ireece,  all  song  and  smiles, 
As  sniiiolh  they  floated,  to  the  play 
Of  their  oar's  cadence,  sung  this  lay  : — 


THE  SUMMER  FETE 


189 


TRIO. 

Our  Iiomo  w  on  the  soa,  boy, 
Our  home  is  on  the  sea; 

When  Nature  gave 

The  ocean- wave, 
She  mark'd  it  for  the  Free. 
Whatever  storms  befall,  bov. 
Whatever  storms  befall, 

The  island  bark 

Is  Freedom's  ark, 
And  floats  her  safe  through  all. 

Behold  yon  sea  of  isles,  boy, 
Behold  yon  sea  of  isles. 

Where  ev'ry  shore 

Is  sparkling  o'er 
With  Beauty's  richest  smiles. 
For  us  hath  Freedom  elaim'd,  boy, 
For  us  hath  Freedom  elaim'd 

Those  ocean-nests 

Where  Valor  rests 
His  eagle  wing  untamed. 

And  shall  the  Moslem  dare,  boy. 
And  shall  the  Moslem  dare, 

While  Grecian  hand 

Can  wield  a  brand. 
To  plant  his  Crescent  there  ? 
No — by  our  fathers,  no,  boy. 
No,  by  the  Cross  we  show — 

From  Maina's  rills 

To  Thracia's  hills 
All  Greece  re-echoes  "  No  !" 


Like  ple.asant  thoughts  that  o'er  the  mind 

A  minute  come,  and  go  again, 
Ev'n  so,  by  snatches,  in  the  wind. 

Was  caught  and  lost  that  choral  strain. 
Now  full,  now  faint  upon  the  ear. 
As  the  bark  floated  far  or  near. 
At  length  when,  lost,  the  closing  note 

Had  down  the  waters  died  along. 
Forth  from  another  fairy  boat. 

Freighted  with  music,  came  this  song : — 


SONG. 


Thus  our  Youth's  sweet  moments  glide, 
Fenced  with  flow'ry  shelter  round ; 

No  rude  tempest  wakes  the  tide, 
All  its  path  is  fairy  ground. 

But,  fair  river,  the  day  will  come. 

When,  woo'd  by  whisp'ring  groves  in  vain, 
Thou'lt  leave  those  banks,  Ihy  shaded  home, 

To  mingle  with  the  stormy  main. 
And  thou,  sweet  Youth,  too  .soon  wilt  p.ass 

Into  the  world's  unshelter'd  sea. 
Where,  once  thy  wave  hath  niix'd,  abas. 

All  hope  of  peace  is  lost  for  thee. 


Smoothly  flowing  flirougb  verdant  lales. 

Gentle  river,  thy  current  runs, 
Shelter'd  safe  from  winter  gales, 

Shaded  cool  from  summer  suns. 


Next  turn  we  to  the  gav  s;iloan 
Resplendent  as  a  summer  noon, 

Where,  'ne.ath  a  pendent  wreath  of  lights, 
A  Zodiac  of  flowers  and  tapers — 
(Such  as  in  Russian  ball-rooms  sheds 
Its  glory  o'er  young  dancers'  heads) — 

Quadrille  performs  her  mazy  rites 
And  reigns  supreme  o'er  slides  and  capers ; — 
Working  to  death  each  opera  strain, 

As,  with  a  foot  thtit  ne'er  reposes. 
She  jigs  through  sacred  and  pro  fane. 

From  "Maid  and  Magpie"  up  to  "  Moses;" — * 
Wearing  out  tunes  as  fast  as  shoes. 

Till  fagg'd  Rossini  scarce  respires; 
Till  Mayerbeer  for  mercy  sues. 

And  Weber  at  her  feet  expires. 

And  now  the  set  h.ath  ee.xsed — the  bows 
Of  fiddlers  taste  a  brief  repose. 
While  light  along  the  painted  floor. 

Arm  within  arm,  the  couples  stray. 
Talking  their  stock  of  nothings  o'er. 

Till — nothing's  left,  at  last,  to  say. 
When,  lo  ! — most  opportunely  sent — 

Two  Ex-quisites,  a  he  and  she. 
Just  brought  from  Dandyland,  and  meant 

For  Fashion's  grand  Menagerie, 
Enter'd  the  room — and  scarce  were  there 
When  all  floek'd  round  them,  glad  to  stare 
At  any   monsters,  any  where. 

Some  thought  them  perfect,  to  their  tastes-, 
While  others  hinted  that  the  waists 
(That  in  particular  of  the  he  thing) 
Left  far  too  ample  room  for  breathing: 
Whereas,  to  meet  these  critics'  wishes. 

The  isthmus  there  should  be  so  small 
That  Exquisites,  at  last,  like  fishes. 

Must  m.anage  not  to  bre.ithe  at  all 


190 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


The  female,  (these  same  critics  sjiid,) 

No  blither  nymph  tetotum'd  round 

Though  orthodox  from  toe  to  chin, 

To  CoUinet's  immortal  strain. 

Yet  lack'd  that  spacious  width  of  head 

Oh !  ah  !  ah  I  oh  ! 

To  hat  of  toadstool  much  akin — 

Those  happy  days  are  gone — heigho ; 

That  build  of  bonnet,  whose  extent 

Should,  like  a  doctrine  of  dissent. 

HE. 

Puzzle  church-doors  to  let  it  in. 

With  Lady  Jane  now  whirl'd  about, 

I  know  no  bounds  of  time  or  breath; 

However — sad  as  'twas,  no  doubt. 

And,  should  the  charmer's  head  hold  out, 

That  nymph  so  smart  should  go  about, 

My  heart  and  heels  are  hers  till  death. 

With  liead  unconscious  of  the  place 

Oh!  .nh!  .ih!  oh! 

It  nnght  to  till  in  Infinite  Space — 

Still  round  and  round  tlirougli  life  W'e'll  go. 

Yet  all  allow'd  that,  of  her  kind, 

A  prettier  show  'twas  hard  to  find ; 

SHE. 

While  of  that  doubtful  genus,  "  dressy  men," 

The  Lord  Fitznoodle's  eldest  son, 

The  male  was  thought  a  first-rate  specimen. 

A  youth  renown'd  for  waistcoats  smart. 

Such  Savans,  too,  as  wish'd  to  trace 

I  nov,-  have  given  (excuse  the  pun) 

The  manners,  habits,  of  this  r.ace — • 

A  vested  interest  in  my  heart. 

To  know  what  rank  (if  rank  at  all) 

Oh  !  ah  !  ah  !  oh  ! 

'Mong  reas'ning  things  to  them  should  fall — 

Still  round  and  round  with  him  IMl  go 

Whiit  sort  of  notions  heaven  imparts 

To  high-built  heads  and  tight-laced  hearts, 

HE 

And  how  far  Soul,  which,  Plato  says, 

What  if,  by  fond  remembrance  led 

Abhors  restraint,  can  act  in  st;iys — 

Again  to  wear  our  mutual  chain, 

Might  now,  if  gifled  with  discerning, 

For  me  thou  cutt'st  Fitznoodle  dead, 

Find  opportunities  of  learning: 

And  I  levant  from  Lady  Jane. 

As  these  two  creatures — from  their  pout 

Oh!  ah!  .ah!  oh! 

And  frown,  'twas  plain — had  just  fall'n  out: 

Still  round  and  round  again  we'H  go. 

And  all  their  little  thoughts,  ofcour.se. 

Were  stirring  in  full  fret  and  force; — 

SHE. 

Like  mites,  through  microscope  espied. 

Though  he  the  Noodle  honors  give, 

A  world  of  nothings  magnified. 

And  thine,  dear  youth,  are  not  so  high. 

With  thee  in  endless  waltz  I'd  live. 

But  mild  the  vent  such  beings  seek, 

With  thee,  to  Weber's  Stop-Waltz,  die  ! 

The  tempest  of  their  souls  to  speak: 

Oh!  ah!  ah!  oh! 

As  Opera  swains  to  fiddles  sigh, 

Thus  round  and  round  through  life  we'll  ga 

To  fiddles  fight,  to  fiddles  die, 

[Exeunt  waltzing. 

Even  so  this  lender  couple  set 

Their  well-bred  woes  to  a  Duet. 

While  thus,  like  motes  that  dance  aw.-iy 

r-xistence  ni  a  summer  ray, 

These  gay  things,  born  but  to  quailrille. 

WALTZ  DUET.' 

The  circle  of  their  doom  fulfil — 

(That  dancing  doom,  whose  law  decrees 

HE. 

That  they  should  live,  on  the  alert  toe, 

Ii0!«a  ns  I  waltz'd  with  only  thee, 

A  life  of  ups-and-downs,  like  keys 

Each  blissful  Wednesday  that  went  by 

Of  Broadwood's  in  a  long  concerto  :)  — 

Nur  stylish  Stultz,  nor  neat  Nngco 

While  iJius  the  fiddle's  spell,  wilhin, 

Adiirn'd  a  youth  bo  blest  as  I. 

Calls  up  its  realm  of  restless  sprites. 

Oh!  all!  nh!  oh  I 

Wilhovl,  as  if  some  Mandarin 

ThoM!  Iinppy  dnys  are  gone — heigho 

Were  holding  Ihere  his  Feast  of  Lights, 

Lamps  of  all  hues,  from  walks  and  bowers, 

SHE. 

Broke  on  the  eye,  like  kindling  flowers, 

I/)n(r  nn  with  thee  I  skimm'd  the  (jround 

'I'ill,  budding  into  light,  e.acli  tree 

Nor  yet  wiw  ecornM  for  I.iidy  Jam; 

Bore  its  full  fruit  of  brllliuncy. 

THE  SUMMER  FETE. 


191 


Here  Bhone  a  garden — lamps  all  o'er, 

As  tliouifli  the  Spirits  of  the  Air 
Had  tak'ii  it  in  their  heads  to  pour 

A  shower  of  summer  meteors  there; — 
While  here  a  lighted  shrubb'ry  led 

To  a  small  lake  that  sleeping  lay, 
Cradled  in  foliage,  but,  o'erhead. 

Open  to  heaven's  sweet  breath  and  ray ; 
While  round  its  rim  there  burning  stood 

Lamps,  with  young  Howers  beside  them  bed- 
ded. 
That  shrunk  from  such  warm  neighborhood ; 
And,  looking  bashful  in  the  flood, 

Blush'd  to  behold  themselves  so  wedded. 

Hither,  to  this  embower'd  retreat. 
Fit  but  for  nights  so  still  and  sweet; 
Nights,  such  as  Eden's  calm  recall 
In  its  first  lonely  hour,  when  all 

So  silent  is',  below,  on  high. 

That  if  a  star  falls  down  the  sky, 
You  almost  think  you  hear  it  fall — 
Hither,  to  this  recess,  a  few. 

To  shun  the  dancers'  wild'ring  noise. 
And  give  an  hour,  ere  night-time  flew, 

To  Music's  more  ethereal  joys, 
Came  with  their  voices — ready  all 
As  Echo,  waiting  for  a  call — 
(n  hymn  or  ballad,  dirge  or  glee. 
To  weave  their  mingling  minstrelsy. 

And,  first,  a  dark-eyed  nymph,  array'd^ 
Like  her,  whom  Art  hath  deathless  made, 
Bright  Mona  Lisa' — with  that  braid 
Of  hair  across  the  brow,  and  one 
Small  gem  th.at  in  the  centre  shone — 
With  face,  too,  in  its  form  resembling 

Da  Vinci's  Beauties — the  dark  eyes. 
Now  lucid,  as  through  crystal  trembling. 

Now  soft,  as  if  suffiised  with  sighs — 
Her  lute,  that  hung  beside  her,  took. 
And,  bending  o'er  it  with  shy  look, 
More  beautiful,  in  sliadow  thus. 
Than  when  with  life  most  luminous, 
Pass'd  her  light  finger  o'er  the  chords. 
And  sung  to  them  these  mournful  words : — 


SONG. 


Bring  hitber,  bring  thy  lute,  while  day  is  dying — 
Here  will  I  lay  me,  and  list  to  thy  song; 

Should  tones  of  other  days  mix  with  its  sighing. 
Tones  of  a  light  heart,  now  banish'd  so  long, 


Chase  them  away — they  bring  but  pain. 
And  let  thy  theme  bo  woe  again. 

Sing  on,  thou  mournful  lute — day  is  fast  going, 
Soon  will  its  light  from  chords  die  away  ; 

One  little  gleam  in  the  west  is  still  glowing. 
When  that  hath  vanisli'd,  farewell  to  thy  lay. 

Mark,  how  it  fades ! — see,  it  is  fled! 

Now,  sweet  lute,  be  thou,  too,  dead. 


The  group,  that  late,  in  garb  of  Greeks, 

Sung  their  light  chorus  o'er  the  tide — 
Forms,  such  as  up  the  wooded  creeks 

Of  Helle's  shore  at  noonday  glide, 
Or^  nightly,  on  her  glist'ning  sea. 
Woo  the  bright  waves  with  melody — 
Now  link'd  their  triple  le.igue  again 
Of  voices  sweet,  and  sung  a  strain, 
Such  as,  had  Sappho's  tuneful  ear 

But  caught  it,  on  the  fatal  steep. 
She  would  have  paused,  entranced,  to  hear. 

And,  for  that  day,  deferr'd  her  leap. 


SONG  AND  TRIO. 

On  one  of  those  sweet  nights  that  oft 
Their  lustre  o'er  th'  .iEgean  fling. 

Beneath  my  casement,  low  and  soft, 
I  heard  a  Lesbian  lover  sing ; 

And,  list'ning  both  with  ear  .and  thought 

These  sounds  upon  the  night-breeze  caught - 
"  Oh,  happv  as  the  gods  is  he, 
"  Who  gazes  .it  this  hour  on  thee!" 

The  song  was  one  by  Sappho  sung. 
In  the  first  love-dreams  of  her  lyre. 

When  words  ot  passion  from  her  tongue 
Fell  like  a  snower  of  living  fire. 

And  still,  at  close  of  ev'ry  striiin, 

I  heard  these  burning  words  again — 
"  Oh,  happy  as  the  gods  is  he, 
"  Who  listens  at  this  hour  to  thee !" 


Once  more  to  Mona  Lisa  turn'd 

Each  asking  eye — nor  turn'd  in  vain; 

Though  the  quick,  transient  blush  that  burn'd 
Bright  o'er  her  cheek,  and  died  again, 

Sliow'd  with  what  inly  shame  and  fear 

Was  utter'd  what  all  loved  to  hear. 


192 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


Yet  not  to  sorrow's  languid  lay 
Did  she  her  lute-song  now  devote; 

But  thus,  with  voice  that,  like  a  ray 
Of  southern  sunshine,  seem'd  to  float- 
So  rich  with  climate  was  each  note — 

Caird  up  in  every  heart  a  dream 

Of  Italy,  with  this  soft  theme: — 


SONG. 


Oh,  where  art  thou  dreaming'. 

On  land,  or  on  sea  1 
In  my  lattice  is  gleaming 

The  watch-light  for  thee ; 
And  this  fond  heart  is  glowing 

To  welcome  thee  home, 
And  the  night  is  fast  going, 

But  thou  art  not  come  : 

No,  thou  com'st  not ! 

'Tis  the  time  when  night-flowers 

Should  wake  from  their  rest; 
'Tis  the  hour  of  all  hours. 

When  the  lute  singeth  best. 
But  the  (lowers  are  half  sleeping 

'J'ill  thy  glance  they  see 
And  the  hush'd  lute  is  keeping 

Its  music  for  thee. 

Yet,  thou  com'st  not ! 


Scarce  had  the  last  word  left  lier  lip. 
When  a  light,  boyish  form,  with  trip 
Fantastic,  up  the  green  walk  came 
I'rank'd  in  gay  vest,  lo  which  the  flame 
f)f  every  lamp  he  pass'd,  or  blue, 
Or  green,  or  crimson,  lent  its  hue  ; 
As  though  a  live  chameleon's  skin 
lie  had  despoil'd  to  robe  him  in. 
A  zone  he  wore  of  clatt'ring  shells, 

And  from  liis  lofty  cap,  where  shono 
A  pe.icoek'H  plume,  there  dangled  bells 

That  rung  as  he  came  dancing  on. 
Close  after  him,  a  page — in  dress 
And  shape,  his  miniature  express — 
An  ample  basket,  fill'd  with  store 
Of  toys  and  Irinkuls,  laughing  bore  ; 
Till,  having  reach'd  this  verdant  sent, 
]U:  lai<l  it  at  liis  nia>tter's  feet. 
Who,  half  ill  speech  and  half  in  song, 
Chanted  thin  invoice  to  the  throng : — 


SOXG. 

Who'll  buy? — 'tis  Folly's  shop,  who'll  buy  '— - 

We've  toys  to  suit  all  ranks  and  ages; 
Besides  our  usual  fools'  supply. 

We've  lots  of  pl.aythings,  too,  for  sages. 
For  reasoners,  here's  .1  juggler's  cup, 

That  fullest  seems  wlien  nothing's  in  it; 
And  nine-pins  set,  like  systems,  up, 

To  be  knock'd  down  the  following  minute. 
Who'll  buy  ?— 'tis  Folly's  shop,  who'll  buy  ? 

Gay  caps  we  here  of  foolscap  make. 

For  bards  to  wear  in  dog-day  we.ither ; 
Or  bards  the  bells  alone  may  take, 

And  leave  to  wits  the  cap  and  fe;ither. 
Tetotums  we'\'e  for  patriots  got. 

Who  court  the  mob  with  antics  ImmblB 
Like  theirs  the  patriot's  dizzy  lot, 

A  glorious  spin,  and  then — a  tumble. 

Who'll  buy,  &c.,  &.c. 

Here,  wealthy  misers  to  inter. 

We've  shrouds  of  neat  post-obit  paper; 
While,  for  their  heirs,  we've  (;uicAsilver, 

That,  fast  as  they  cm  wish,  will  caper. 
For  aldermen  we've  dials  true, 

Tliat  tell  no  hour  but  that  of  dinner; 
For  courtly  parsons  sermons  new. 

That  suit  alike  both  saint  and  sinner. 

Who'll  buy,  &c.,  &c. 

No  lime  we've  now  to  name  our  terms, 

But,  whatsoe'er  the  whims  that  seize  you 
This  oldest  of  all  mortal  firms. 

Folly  and  Co.,  will  try  to  please  you. 
Or,  should  you  wish  a  darker  hue 

Of  goods  than  we  c.in  recommend  you, 
Why  then  (as  we  with  lawyers  do) 

To  Knavery's  shop  next  door  we'll  send  you. 
Who'll  buy,  &.C.,  &,<• 


While  thus  the  blissful  moinenls  roU'd, 

Moments  of  rare  and  fleeting  light. 
That  show  themselves,  like  grains  of  gold 

In  the  mine's  refuse,  few  and  bright ; 
Behold  where,  opening  fir  away, 

'I'lie  long  Conscrvalory'H  range, 
Slripp'd  of  tlio  flowers  it  wore  nil  day, 

But  gaining  lovelier  in  exchange, 
Presents,  on  Dresdon's  costliest  ware, 
A  supper,  Huch  as  Gods  might  share. 


THE  SUMMER  FETE. 


193 


All  much-loved  Supper! — blithe  repast 

or  other  times,  now  dwintlliiig  fast, 

Since  Dinner  far  into  the  night 

Advanced  the  march  of  appetite  ; 

Deploy'd  his  never-ending'  forces 

Of  various  vintage  and  three  courses, 

And,  like  those  Goths  who  phiy'd  the  dickens 

With  Rome  and  all  her  sacred  chickens, 

Put  Supper  and  her  fowls  so  white. 

Legs,  wings,  and  drumsticks,  all  to  flight. 

Now  waked  once  more  by  wine — whose  tide 

Is  the  true  Hippocrene,  where  glide 

The  Muse's  swans  with  happiest  wing, 

Dipping  their  bills,  before  they  sing — 

The  minstrels  of  the  table  greet 

The  list'niiig  ear  with  descant  sweet : — - 


SONG  AND  TRIO. 

THE    LEVEE    AND    COL'OHKE. 

Call  the  Loves  around, 

Let  the  whisp'ring  sound 
Of  their  wings  be  heard  alone. 

Till  soft  to  rest 

My  Lady  blest 
At  this  bright  hour  hath  gone. 

Let  Fancy's  beams 

Play  o'er  her  dreams. 
Till,  touch'd  with  light  all  through, 

Her  spirit  be 

Like  a  summer  sen, 
Shining  and  slumb'ring  too. 
And,  while  thus  hush'd  she  lies, 
Let  the  whisper'd  chorus  rise — • 
"  Good  evening,  good  evening,  to  our  Lady's  bright 
eyes." 

But  the  day-beam  breaks, 

See,  our  Lady  wakes ! 
Call  the  Loves  around  once  more. 

Like  stiirs  that  wait 

At  Morning's  gate. 
Her  first  steps  to  adore. 

Let  the  veil  of  night 

From  her  dawning  sight 
All  gently  pass  away, 

Like  mists  that  flee 

From  a  summer  sea. 
Leaving  it  full  of  day. 
And,  while  her  last  dream  flies. 
Let  the  whisper'd  cliorus  rise — 
"  Good  morning,  good  morning,  to  our  Lady's  bright 
eyes." 

VOL.  II. — 25 


SONG. 

If  to  .ice  thee  be  to  love  thee. 

If  to  love  thee  be  to  prize 
Naught  of  earth  or  heav'n  above  thee. 

Nor  lO  live  but  for  those  eyes: 
If  such  love  to  mortal  given. 
Be  wrong  to  earth,  be  wrong  to  heav'n, 
'Tis  not  for  thee  the  fault  to  blame. 
For  from  those  eyes  the  madness  came. 
Forgive  but  thou  the;  crime  of  loving. 

In  this  heart  more  pride  'twill  raise 
To  be  thus  wrong,  with  thee  approving, 

Than  right,  with  all  a  world  to  praise  ! 


But  say,  while  light  these  songs  resound, 

What  means  that  buz  of  whisp'ring  round. 

From  lip  to  lip — as  if  the  Power 

Of  Mystery,  in  this  gay  hour. 

Had  thrown  some  secret  (as  we  fling 

Nuts  among  children)  to  that  ring 

Of  rosy,  restless  lips,  to  be 

Thus  scrambled  for  so  wantonly? 

And,  mark  ye,  still  as  e.ich  reveals 

The  mystic  news,  her  hearer  steals 

A  look  tow'rds  yon  enchanted  chair, 

Where,  like  the  Lady  of  the  Mask, 
A  nymph,  as  exquisitely  fair 

A  Love  himself  for  bride  could  ask. 
Sits  blushing  deep,  as  if  aware 
Of  the  W'ing'd  secret  circling  there. 
Who  is  this  nymph?  and  wh.at,  oh  Muse, 

What,  in  the  name  of  all  odd  things 
That  woman's  restless  brain  pursues. 

What  mean  these  mystic  whisperings  ? 

Thus  runs  the  tale  : — yon  blushing  maid, 
Who  sits  in  beauty's  light  array'd. 
While  o'er  her  leans  a  tall  young  DerWse, 
(Who  from  her  eyes,  as  all  observe,  is 
Learning  by  heart  the  Marriage  Service,) 
Is  the  bright  heroine  of  our  song, — 
The  Love-wed  Psyche,  whom  so  long 
We've  miss'd  among  this  mortal  train. 
We  thought  her  wing'd  to  heaven  again. 

But  no — earth  still  demands  her  smile ; 
Her  friends,  the  Gods,  must  wait  awhile. 
And  if,  for  maid  of  he.avenly  birth, 

A  young  Duke's  profler'd  heart  and  hand 
Be  things  worth  waiting  for  on  e.arth. 

Both  are,  this  hour,  at  her  command. 


194 


MOOKE'S  WORKS. 


To-night,  in  yonder  half-lit  shade, 

For  love  concerns  expressly  meant, 
The  fond  proposal  first  was  made, 

And  love  and  silence  blush'd  consent. 
Parents  and  friends  (all  here,  as  Jews, 
Enchanters,  housemaids,  Turks,  Hindoos) 
Have  heard,  approved,  and  bless'd  the  tie ; 
And  now,  hadst  thou  a  poet's  eye. 
Thou  might'st  behold,  in  th'  air,  above 
That  brilliant  brow,  triumphant  Love, 
Holding,  as  if  to  drop  it  down 
Gently  upon  her  curls,  a  crown 
Of  Ducal  shape — but,  oh,  such  gems! 
Pilfcr'd  from  Peri  diadems, 
And  set  in  gold  like  that  which  shines 
To  deck  the  Fairy  of  the  Mines: 
In  short,  a  crown  all  glorious — such  as 
Love  orders  when  he  makes  a  Duchess. 

But  see.  'tis  morn  in  heaven;  the  Sun 
Up  the  bright  orient  hath  begun 
To  canter  his  immort^il  team  ; 

And,  though  not  yet  arrived  in  sight, 


His  leader's  nostrils  send  a  steam 
Of  radiance  forth,  so  rosy  bright 
As  makes  their  onward  path  all  light, 

What's  to  be  done  ?  if  Sol  will  be 

So  deuced  early,  so  must  we ; 

And  when  the  day  thus  shines  outright. 

Ev'n  dearest  friends  must  bid  good  night. 

So  farewell,  scene  of  mirth  and  masking. 
Now  almost  a  by-gone  tale  ; 

Beauties,  late  in  lamp-light  basking, 
Now,  by  daylight,  dim  and  pale; 

Harpers,  yawning  o'er  your  liarps, 

Scarcely  knowing  flats  from  sharps; 

Mothers  who,  while  bored  you  keep 

Time  by  nodding,  nod  to  sleep ; 

Heads  of  air,  th.it  stood  last  night 

Cripe,  crispy,  and  upright. 

But  have  now,  alas!  one  sees,  a 

Leaning  like  the  tower  of  Pisa; 

Fare  ye  well — thus  sinks  away 
All  th.at's  mighty,  all  that's  bright; 

Tyre  and  Sidon  had  their  day. 

And  ev'n  a  Ball — has  but  its  night  1 


NOTES. 


(1)  Lurd  Francis  Egerton. 
<^  Archimedes. 

(3)  I  am  not  certnin  whether  the  DowfUj^era  of  this  Sq\iflro 
novo  yet  yielded  to  the  limuvatlons  of  Gas  and  Pulice,  but 
St  the  time  when  the  above  lineB  were  written,  Ihcy  still  ubsti- 
Qntuly  pcrmivpred  tn  their  uld  r/f^imn ,-  and  woiiUI  not  sutTur 
tliemsvlves  to  be  either  well  guurdud  ur  well  lighted. 

(4)        "their  Kolden  harps  they  look- 
Harps  orer  tuned."  Paradise  Lo^Vt  book  hi. 

(5)  T)iu  name  given  to  those  large  sleovos  that  hang  looselj. 


(G)  In  England  the  partition  of  this  opera  of  TtosBinl  Whs 
transfwrred  to  tlio  story  of  Peter  the  lU-rmit;  by  which  means 
tho  indecorum  of  giving  tmch  nmnos  na  "  Moisc,"  "  Phiiraou,'* 
&.c.f  to  the  diincus  sulectud  from  it  1,113  wiia  duiiu  in  P^iris)  has 
been  avoided. 

(7)  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  remind  the  reader  that  thU  Duet 
is  a  parody  itf  thu  oflen-t  runs  luted  and  parodied  ode  of  Horace, 
**  Donee  gralus  erain  libi,"  &.C. 

(8)  Tho  celebrated  portrait  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  which  ho 
Is  iaid  to  have  occupied  four  years  in  paintlug.— fafrari, 
voL  vU. 


SOTOS  mow  THE  GEEEK  AITHOLO&Y. 


HERE  AT  THY  TOMB. 

BY    MELEAQBK. 

Here,  at  thy  tomb,  these  tears  I  shed, 
Tears,  which  though  vainly  now  they  roll. 

Are  all  love  hath  to  give  the  dead, 

And  wept  o'er  thee  with  all  love's  soul ; — 

Wept  in  remembrance  of  that  light. 

Which  naught  on  earth,  without  thee,  gives, 

Hope  of  my  heart !  now  quench'd  in  night, 
But  dearer,  dead,  than  aught  that  lives. 

Where  is  she?  where  the  blooming  bough 
That  once  my  life's  sole  lustre  m.ade? 

Torn  off  by  death,  'tis  with'ring  now, 
And  all  its  flow'rs  in  dust  are  laid. 

Oh  earth  1  that  to  thy  matron  breast 
Hast  taken  all  those  angel  charms, 

Gently,  I  pray  thee,  let  her  rest, — 
Gently,  as  in  a  mother's  arms. 


SALE  OF  CUPID. 


BY   MELEAOES. 


Who'll  buy  a  little  boy  ?     Look  yonder  is  he. 

Fast  asleep,  sly  rogue,  on  his  mother's  knee ; 

So  bold  a  young  imp  'tisn't  safe  to  keep. 

So  I'll  part  with  him  now,  while  he's  sound  asleep. 

See  his  arch  little  nose,  how  sharp  'tis  curl'd. 

His  wings,  too,  ev'n  in  sleep  unfurl'd ; 

And  those  fingers,  which  still  ever  ready  are  found 

For  mirth  or  for  mischief,  to  tickle,  or  wound. 

He'll  try  with  his  tears  your  heart  to  beguile, 
But  never  you  mind — he's  laughing  all  the  while ; 


For  little  he  cares,  so  he  has  his  own  virhim, 
And  weeping  or  laughing  are  all  one  to  him. 
His  eye  is  as  keen  as  the  lightning's  flash. 
His  tongue  like  the  red  bolt  quick  and  rash  ; 
And  so  savage  is  he,  th.it  his  own  dear  mother 
Is  scarce  more  safe  in  his  hands  than  another. 

In  short,  to  sum  up  this  d.arling's  praise. 
He's  a  downright  pest  in  all  sorts  of  w.ays  ; 
And  if  any  one  wants  such  an  imp  to  emp'oy, 
He  shall  have  a  dead  bargain  of  this  little  'roy. 
But  see,  the  boy  wakes — his  bright  tears  flow^ 
His  eyes  seem  to  ask  could  I  sell  hira?  oh  no. 
Sweet  child,  no,  no — though  so  naughty  you  be, 
You  shall  live  evermore  with  my  Lesbia  ana  me. 


TO  WEAVE  A  GARLAND  FOR  THE  ftOSE. 

BY    PAUL,    THE    SILENTIAKY. 

To  weave  a  garland  for  the  rose. 

And  think  thus  crown'd  'twould  lovelier  be, 
Were  far  less  vain  than  to  suppose 

That  silks  and  gems  add  grace  to  thee. 
Where  is  the  pearl  whose  orient  lustre 

Would  not,  beside  thee  look  less  bright? 
What  gold  could  match  the  glossy  cluster 

Of  those  young  ringlets  full  of  light? 

Bring  from  the  land,  where  fresh  it  gleams. 

The  bright  blue  gem  of  India's  mine, 
And  see  how  soon,  though  bright  its  beams, 

'Twill  pale  before  one  glance  of  thine  : 
Those  lips,  too,  when  their  sounds  have  bUes'd 
us 

With  some  divine,  mellifluous  air. 
Who  would  not  say  th.at  Beauty's  cestus 

Had  let  loose  al  its  witch'ries  there  ? 


196 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Here,  to  this  conqu'ring  host  of  charms 

I  now  give  up  my  spell-bound  heart, 
Nor  blush  to  yield  ev'n  Reason's  arms, 

\Vhen  thou  her  bright-eyed  conqu'ror  art. 
Thus  to  the  wind  all  fears  are  ^ven ; 

Henceforth  those  eyes  alone  I  see. 
Where  Hope,  as  in  her  own  blue  heaven. 

Sits  beck'ning  me  to  bliss  and  thee ! 


WHY  DOES  SHE  SO  LONG  DELAY  I 

BY   PAUL,   THE  SILENTIAKY. 

Wht  does  she  so  long  delay  ? 

Night  is  waning  fast  away ; 
Thrice  have  I  my  lamp  renew'd, 
Watching  here  in  solitude. 
Where  c.in  she  so  long  delay  ? 
Where,  so  long  delay  1 

Vainly  now  have  two  lamps  shone ; 
See,  the  third  is  nearly  gone  : 
Oh  that  Love  would,  like  the  ray 
Of  that  weary  lamp,  decay ! 
But  no,  alas,  it  burns  still  on, 
Still,  still,  burns  on. 

Gods,  how  oft  the  traitress  dear 
Swore,  by  Venus,  she'd  be  hero ! 
But  to  one  so  false  as  she 
What  is  man  or  deity  ? 
Neither  doth  this  proud  one  fe.ar, — 
No,  neither  doth  she  fear. 


TWIN'ST  THOU  WITH  LOFTY  WREATH  THY 
BROW  ? 

nY    PAUL,    TUK   SII-ENTURT. 

Twin'st  thou  with  lofty  wrenlli  thy  brow? 

Such  glory  then  thy  beauty  sheds, 
I  almost  think,  while  awed  I  bow, 

'Tis  Rhea's  self  before  me  treads. 
Be  what  thou  will, — this  heart 
Adores  wliate'er  tho\i  art! 

Dust  thou  thy  looscn'd  ringlets  leave, 
Like  Hunny  waves  to  wander  free? 

Then,  such  n  chain  of  charms  thoy  weave, 
As  draws  my  inmost  soul  from  mo. 

Do  what  thou  wilt, — I  must 

Bo  chorni'd  by  all  thou  dost  I 


Ev'n  when,  enwrapp'd  in  silvVy  veils, 
Those  sunny  locks  elude  the  siglit. 

Oh,  not  ev'n  then  their  glory  fails 
To  haunt  me  with  its  unseen  light. 

Change  as  thy  beauty  may. 

It  charms  in  every  way. 

For,  thee  the  Graces  still  attend, 
Presiding  o'er  each  new  attire. 

And  lending  ev'ry  dart  they  send 
Some  new,  peculiar  touch  of  fire. 

Be  what  thou  wilt, — this  heart 

Adores  whate'er  thou  art ! 


WHEN   THE    SAD   WORD. 

BY  PAUL,  THE  SILE.NTIAET. 

When  the  sad  word,  "Adieu,"  from  my  lip  is  nigh 
falling. 

And  with  it,  Hope  passes  away. 
Ere  the  tongue  hath  half  breathed  it,  my  fond  he.irt 
recalling 

That  fatal  farewell,  bids  me  stay. 
For  oh  !  'tis  a  penance  so  weary 

One  hour  from  thy  presence  to  be, 
That  death  to  this  soul  were  less  dreary, 

Less  dark  than  long  absence  from  thee. 

Thy  beauty,  like  Day,  o'er  the  dull  world  breaking. 

Brings  life  to  the  heart  it  shines  o'er. 
And,  in  mine,  a  new  feeling  of  happiness  waking 

Made  light  what  was  darkness  before. 
But  mute  is  the  Day's  sunny  glory. 

While  thine  hath  a  voice,  on  whose  breath, 
More  sweet  than  the  Syren's  sweet  story. 

My  hopes  hang,  through  life  and  through  death ! 


MY  MOPSA  IS  LITTLR 

BY    PUILODKMUS. 

My  Mopsa  is  little,  my  Mop.sa  is  brown. 

But  her  cheek  is  as  smooth  as  the  peach's  soft  down, 

And,  for  blushing,  no  rose  can  come  near  her; 
In  short,  .she  has  woven  such  nets  round  my  heart. 
That  I  ne'er  from  my  dear  little  Miqisa  can  part, — 

Unless  I  can  find  one  th.-it's  dearer. 

Her  voice  hath  a  music  that  dwells  on  tlio  ear, 
And  her  oyo  from  its  orb  gives  n  daylight  so  clear, 
That  I'm  dazzled  whenever  I  meet  her; 


SONGS  FROM  THE  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY. 


197 


Her  ringlets,  so  curly,  are  Cupid's  own  net, 

Didst  thou  not  hear  yon  scaring  swallow  sing? 

And  iier  lips,  oli  Mieir  sweetness  I  ne'er  sliiill  for- 

Chirp, chirp, — in  every  note  he  seem'd  tc  say 

get— 

'Ti«  Spring,  'tis  Spring. 

Till  I  light  upon  lips  that  are  sweeter. 

Up,  boy,  away,— 

Who'd  stay  on  land  to-day  ? 

But  'tis  not  her  beauty  that  charms  me  alone, 

The  very  flowers 

Tis  her  mind,  'tis  that  language  whose  eloquent 

Would  from  their  bowers 

tone 

Delight  to  wing  away! 

From  the  depths  of  the  grave  could  revive  one  : 

In  short,  here  I  swear,  that  if  death  were  her  doom, 

Leave  languid  youths  to  pine 

1  would  instantly  join  my  dead  love  in  tlic  tomb — 

On  silken  pillows. 

Unless  I  could  meet  with  a  live  one. 

But  be  the  billows 

Of  the  great  deep  thine. 

Hark,  to  the  sail,  the  breeze  sings,  "  Let  us  flj  ;" 

While  soft  the  sail,  replying  to  tlie  1  reeze, 

Says,  with  a  yielding  sigh, 

STILL,  LIKE  DEW  IN  SILENCE  FALLING. 

"Yes,  where  you  please.' 

Up,  boy  !  the  wind,  the  ray. 

BY    UELEAGEB. 

The  blue  sky  o'er  thee. 

Still,  like  dew  in  silence  falling, 

The  deed  before  thee. 

Drops  for  thee  the  nightly  tear ; 

All  cry  aloud,  "  Away !" 

Still  that  voice  the  past  recalling, 

Dwells,  like  echo,  on  my  ear, 
Still,  still ! 

Day  and  night  the  spell  hangs  o'er  me, 

IN,  MYRTLE  WREATHS. 

Here  for  ever  tix'd  thou  art ; 

BY    ALC.KU3. 

As  thy  form  first  shone  before  me, 

So  'tis  graven  on  this  heart. 

In  myrtle  wreaths  my  votive  sword  I'll  cover, 

Deep,  deep ! 

Like  them  of  old  whose  one  immort.al  blow 

Struck  off"  the  galling  fetters  that  hung  over 

Love,  oh  Love,  whose  bitter  sweetness 

Their  own  bright  land,  and  laid  her  tyrant  low. 

Dooms  me  to  this  lasting  pain. 

Yes,  loved  Harmodius,  thou'rt  undying; 

Thou  who  cam'st  with  so  much  fleetness. 

Still  midst  the  brave  and  free. 

VVliy  so  slow  to  go  ag.-iin? 

In  isles,  o'er  ocean  lying, 

Why?  why? 

Thy  home  shall  ever  be. 

In  myrtle  leaves  my  sword  shall  hide  its  lightning, 

Like  his,  the  youth,  whose  ever-glorious  blade 

Leap'd   forth   like   flame,   the    midnight    baiquet 

UP,  SAILOR  BOY,  'TIS  DAY. 

bright'ning. 

i.\nd  in  the  dust  a  despot  victim  laid. 

Up,  sailor  boy,  'tis  day  ! 

Blest  youths,  how  bright  in  Freedom's  story 

The  west  wind  blowing, 

Your  wedded  names  shall  be ; 

The  spring  tide  flowing, 

A  tyrant's  death  your  glory. 

Summon  thee  hence  away. 

Your  meed,  a  nation  free ! 

UIPUBLISHED  SOIGS,  ETC. 


ASK  NOT  IF  STILL  I  LOVE. 

Ask  not  if  still  I  love. 

Too  plain  these  eyes  have  told  thee ; 
Too  well  their  tears  must  prove 

How  near  and  dear  I  hold  thee. 
If,  where  the  brightest  shine, 

To  see  no  form  but  thine. 

To  feel  that  earth  can  show- 
No  bliss  above  thee, — 

If  tliis  be  love,  then  know 

That  thus,  that  thus,  I  love  thee. 

'Tis  not  in  pleasure's  idle  hour 

That  thou  canst  know  affection's  pow'r: 

No,  try  its  strength  in  grief  or  pain ; 

Attempt,  as  now,  its  bonds  to  sever, 
Thou'lt  find  true  love's  a  chain 

That  binds  for  ever ! 


DEAR?    YES. 

Dear  ?  yes,  though  mine  no  more, 
Ev'n  this  but  makes  thee  dearer ; 

And  love,  since  hope  is  o'er, 
But  draws  thee  nearer. 

Change  as  thou  wilt  to  me. 
The  same  thy  charm  must  be  ; 
New  loves  may  come  to  weave 

Their  wileli'ry  o'er  thee, 
Yet  Hi  III,  though  false,  believe 

That  I  adore  thee,  yes,  still  adore  theo. 

Think'st  thou  that  aught  but  death  could  end 
K  tie  not  falsehood's  self  can  rend  ? 


No,  when  alone,  far  off  I  die. 

No  more  to  see,  no  more  caress  thee, 

Ev'n  then,  my  life's  last  sigh 

Shall  be  to  bless  thee,  yes,  still  to  blesa  tl.ee. 


UNBIND  THEE,  LOVR 

Unbind  thee,  love,  unbind  thee,  love, 

From  those  dark  ties  unbind  thee ; 
Though  fairest  hand  the  chain  hath  wove. 

Too  long  its  links  have  twined  thee. 
Away  from  earth ! — thy  wings  were  made 

In  yon  mid-sky  to  hover. 
With  earth  beneath  their  dove-like  shade, 

And  heav'n  all  radiant  over. 

Awake  thee,  boy,  awake  thee,  boy. 

Too  long  thy  soul  is  sleeping ; 
And  thou  may'st  from  this  minute's  joy 

Wake  to  eternal  weeping. 
Oh,  think,  this  world  is  not  for  theo; 

Though  hard  its  links  to  sever ; 
Though  sweet  and  bright  and  dear  they  be. 

Break,  or  thou'rt  lost  for  ever. 


THERE'S  SOMETHING  STRANGE. 

(A    BOFRO    SONO.) 

There's  something  strange,  I  know  not  what. 

Come  o'er  mc, 
Somo  phantom  I've  for  ever  got 

Before  mc. 
I  look  on  high,  and  in  the  sky 

'Tis  shining ; 
On  earth,  its  light  wi(h  all  things  bright 

Seems  twining. 


UNPUBLISHED  SONGS,  ETC. 


199 


In  vain  I  try  this  goblin's  spells 

To  sever; 
Go  wliere  I  will,  it  round  me  dwells 

For  ever 

And  then  what  tricks  by  day  and  night 

It  plays  me ; 
In  ev'ry  shape  the  wicked  sprite 

Waylays  me. 
Sometimes  like  two  bright  eyes  of  blue 

'Tia  glancing ; 
Sometimes  like  feet,  in  slippers  neat. 

Comes  dancing. 
By  whispers  round  of  every  sort 

I'm  taunted. 
Never  was  mortal  man,  in  short, 

So  haunted. 


NOT  FROM  THEE. 

Not  from  thea  the  wound  should  come, 

No,  not  from  thee. 
I  care  not  what,  or  whence,  my  doom, 

So  not  from  thee! 
Cold  triumph !  first  to  make 

This  heart  thy  own  ; 
And  then  the  mirror  break 

Where  fix'd  thou  shin'st  alone. 
Not  from  thee  the  wound  should  come, 

Oh,  not  from  thee. 
I  care  not  what,  or  whence,  my  doom, 

So  not  from  thee. 

Yet  no — my  lips  that  wish  recall ; 

From  thee,  from  thee — 
If  ruin  o'er  this  head  must  fall, 

'Twill  welcome  be. 
Here  to  the  blade  I  bare 

This  faithful  heart ; 
Wound  deep — thou'lt  find  that  there. 

In  every  pulse  thou  art. 
Yes,  from  thee  I'll  bear  it  all : 

If  ruin  be 
The  doom  that  o'er  this  heart  must  fall, 

'Twere  sweet  from  thee. 


GUESS,  GUESS. 

I  LOVE  a  maid,  a  mystic  maid. 

Whose  form  no  eyes  but  mine  can  see  ; 
She  comes  in  light,  she  comes  in  shade, 

And  beautiful  in  both  is  she. 


Her  shape  in  dreams  I  oft  behold. 
And  oft  she  whispers  in  my  ear 

Such  words  as  when  to  others  told, 
Awake  the  sigh,  or  wring  the  tear; — 

Then  guess,  guess,  who  she, 

Tlie  lady  of  my  love,  may  be. 

I  find  the  lustre  of  her  brow. 

Come  o'er  me  in  my  darkest  ways ; 
And  feel  as  if  her  voice,  ev'n  now, 

Were  echoing  far  off  my  lays. 
There  is  no  scene  of  jny  or  woe 

But  she  doth  gild  with  influence  bright; 
And  shed  o'er  all  so  rich  a  glow, 

As  makes  ev'n  tears  seem  full  of  light : 
Then  guess,  guess,  who  she, 
The  lady  of  my  love,  may  be. 


WHEN  LOVE,  WHO  RULED. 

When  Love,  who  ruled  as  Admiral  o'er 
His  rosy  mother's  isles  of  light, 

Was  cruising  off  the  Paphian  shore, 
A  sail  at  sunset  hove  in  sight. 

"  A  chase,  a  chase !  my  Cupids  all," 

Said  Love,  tlie  little  Admiral. 

Aloft  the  winged  sailors  sprung, 
And,  swarming  up  the  mast  like  bees. 

The  snow-white  sails  expanding  flung, 
Like  broad  magnolias  to  the  breeze. 

"  Yo  ho,  yo  ho,  my  Cupids  all !" 

Said  Love,  the  little  Admiral. 

The  chase  was  o'er — the  bark  was  caught, 
The  winged  crew  her  freight  explored; 

And  found  'twas  just  as  Love  had  thought 
For  all  was  contraband  aboard. 

"  A  prize,  a  prize,  my  Cupids  all !" 

Said  Love,  the  little  Admiral. 

Safe  stow'd  in  many  a  package  there, 
And  labell'd  slyly  o'er,  as  '•  Glass," 

Were  lots  of  all  th'  illegal  ware. 
Love's  Custom-House  forbids  to  pass. 

"O'erhaul,  o'erhaul,  my  Cupids  all," 

Said  Love,  the  little  Admiral. 

False  curls  they  found,  of  every  hue, 
With  rosy  blushes  ready  made ; 

And  teeth  of  ivory,  good  as  new. 
For  veterans  in  the  smiling  trade. 

"  Ho  ho,  ho  ho,  my  Cupids  all," 

Said  Love,  the  little  Admiral. 


200 


MOORE'S  "WOEKS. 


Jloek  sighs,  too, — kept  in  bags  for  use, 
Like  breezes  bought  of  Lapland  seers, 

THEN  FIRST  FROSI  LOV  R. 

Lay  ready  here  to  be  lot  loose. 

Then  first  from  Love,  in  Nature's  low'rs. 

When  wanted,  in  young  spinsters'  ears. 

Did  Painting  learn  her  fairy  skill, 

"  Ha  ha,  ha  h:i,  my  Cupids  all," 

And  L'uU  tlie  hue-s  of  loveliest  flow'rs, 

Said  Love,  the  little  Admiral. 

To  pirlure  wom:in  lovelier  still. 

For  vain  was  every  radiant  hue. 

False  papers  next  on  board  were  found, 

Till  Passion  lent  a  soul  to  art, 

Shnm  invoices  of  flames  and  darts. 

And  taught  the  painter,  ere  he  drew, 

Professedly  for  Paphos  bound, 

To  fix  the  model  in  his  ln>art. 

But  meant  for  Hymen's  golden  marts. 

"  For  shame,  for  shame,  my  Cupids  all !" 

Thus  smooth  his  toil  awliile  went  on, 

Said  Love,  the  little  Admiral. 

Till,  lo,  one  touch  his  .art  defies ; 

Nay,  still  to  every  fraud  awake. 

The  brow,  the  lip,  the  blushes  sh'^ne, 
But  who  could  dare  to  paint  those  eyes? 

Those  pirates  all  Love's  signals  knew, 
And  hoisted  oft  his  flag,  to  make 
Rich  wards  and  heiresses  bring-to. 

'Twas  all  in  v.ain  the  painter  strove ; 

So  turning  to  that  boy  divine, 
"  Here  take,"  he  said,  "  the  pencil,  Love, 

"  A  foe,  a  foe,  my  Cupids  all !" 
Said  Love,  the  little  Admiral. 

"  No  hand  should  paint  such  eyes,  but  thUe.* 

"  This  must  not  be,"  the  boy  exclaims, 

"  Fn  vain  I  rule  the  Paphian  seas, 

"  If  Love's  and  Beauty's  sovereign  names 

HUSH,  SWEET  LUTE. 

"Are  lent  to  cover  frauds  like  these. 

"  Prei)are,  prepare,  my  Cupids  all !" 

Hush,  sweet  Lute,  thy  songs  remind  me 

Said  Love,  the  little  Admiral. 

Of  past  joys,  now  turn'd  to  pain; 

Of  ties  that  long  have  ceased  to  bind  me. 

Each  Cupid  stood  with  lighted  match — 

But  whoso  burning  marks  remain. 

A  broadside  struck  the  smuggling  foe, 

In  each  tone,  some  echo  falleth 

And  .swept  the  whole  unliallnw'd  batch 

On  my  ear  of  joys  gone  by; 

Of  f dsehood  to  the  depllis  below. 

Ev'ry  note  some  dream  rccalleth 

"  Hu/.za,  liuzza!  my  Cupids  all !" 

Of  bright  hopes  but  born  to  die. 

Said  Love,  tl<fe  little  Admiral. 

Yet,  sweet  Lute,  though  pain  it  bring  me, 

Once  more  let  thy  numbers  thrill ; 
Though  death  were  in  the  strain  they  sing  me, 

STILL  THOU  FLIEST. 

1  must  woo  its  anguish  still. 
Since  no  time  can  e'er  recover 

Still  thou  fliest,  and  still  I  woo  thee. 

Love's  sweet  light  when  once  'tis  set, — 

Lovely  phantom, — all  in  vain  ; 

Better  to  w-eep  such  pleasures  over. 

Rcstlesij  ever,  my  thoughts  jiursue  thee, 

Than  smile  o'er  any  left  us  yet. 

Fleeting  ever,  thou  niock'st  their  pain. 

Sucli  doom,  of  old,  that  youth  belided, 

Who  woo'd,  he  lliought,  some  angel's  charms, 

But  Cound  a  cloud  that  from  him  glided, — 

BRIGHT  MOON. 

As  thou  dost  from  these  outstrcleh'd  arms. 

Brioiit  moon,  that  high  in  hcav'n  art  shining, 

Scarce  I've  said,  "  How  fair  thou  .thincsl," 

All  smiles,  as  if  within  thy  bower  to-night 

Krc  lliy  light  halli  vaiii>h'd  by; 

Thy  own  Endymion  lay  reclining, 

.And  'tis  when  thou  look'st  divinest 

And  thou  wouldst  wake   him   with  a   kiss  o 

Thou  art  slill  more  sure  to  fly. 

light  :— 

Ev'n  as  the  lightning,  that,  dividing 

By  nil  the  bliss  thy  beam  discovers, 

The  clouds  of  night,  snilh,  "  Look  on  me," 

By  all  those  visions  far  too  brignt  for  day, 

Then  flits  nguin,  its  Hplendor  hiding, — 

Which  dreaming  Imrds  and  waking  lovers 

Ev'n  Buuli  the  (;limpse  I  catch  if  tlicc. 

Behold,  thi»  night,  benc.'ith  thy  ling'ring  ray,— 

UNPUBLISHED  SONGS,  ETC. 


201 


I  pray  thee,  queen  oi'tliat  briiiht  lieavcn, 

QiuMicli  noL  lo-nijjht  tliy  love-lamp  in  Ilia  sea, 
Till  Anllie,  in  tliis  bow'i',  lialli  given 

lieiieatli  thy  beam,  lier  Ion<j-vow'd  kisa  to  me. 
Guide  liitlier,  guide  her  steps  benighted, 

Ere  tliou,  sweet  moon,  thy  bashful  crescent  hide ; 
Let  Love  but  in  this  bow'r  be  lighted, 

Then  shroud  in  darkness  all  the  world  beside. 


LONG  YEARS  HAVE  PASS'D. 

Long  years  have  pass'd,  old  fi-iend,  since  wo 

First  met  in  life's  young  day  ; 
And  friends  long  loved  by  thee  and  me, 

Since  then  have  dropp'd  away  ; — 
But  enough  remain  to  cheer  us  on, 

And  sweeten,  when  thus  we're  met, 
The  glass  we  fill  to  the  many  gone, 

And  the  few  who'ro  left  us  yet. 

Our  locks,  old  friend,  now  thinly  grow. 

And  some  hang  white  and  chill; 
While  some,  like  flow'rs  'mid  Autumn's  snow, 

Retain  youth's  color  still. 
And  so,  in  our  hearts,  though  one  by  one, 

Youth's  sunny  hopes  have  set. 
Thank  heav'n,  not  all  their  light  is  gone, — 

We've  some  to  cheer  us  yet. 

Then  here's  to  thee,  old  friend,  and  long 

May  thou  and  I  thus  meet. 
To  brighten  still  with  wine  and  song 

This  short  life,  ere  it  fleet. 
And  still  as  death  comes  stealing  on, 

Let's  never,  old  friend,  forget, 
Ev'n  while  we  sigh  o'er  blessings  gone, 

How  many  are  left  us  yet. 


DREAMING  FOR  EVER. 

Dreaming  for  ever,  vainly  dreaming, 

Life  to  the  last  pursues  its  flight; 
Day  hath  its  visions  fairly  beaming, 

But  false  as  those  of  night. 
The  one  illusion,  the  other  real. 

But  both  the  same  brief  dreams  at  last; 
And  when  we  grasp  the  bliss  ideal, 

Soon  as  it  shines,  'tis  past. 

Here,  then,  by  this  dim  lake  reposing. 
Calmly  I'll  watch,  while  light  and  gloon: 

Flit  o'er  its  face  till  night  is  ciosing — 
Emblem  of  life's  short  doom  ! 
VOL.  II. — Q6 


But  though,  by  turns,  thus  dark  and  shining, 
'Tis  still  unlike  man's  changeful  day. 

Whose  light  returns  not,  once  declining. 
Whose  cloud,  once  come,  will  stay. 


THOUGH  LIGHTLY  SOUNDS  THE  SONG 
I  SING. 

Though  lightly  sounds  the  song  I  sing  to  thee, 
Though  like  the  lark's  its  soaring  music  be 
Thou'lt  find  ev'n  here  some  mournful  note  that  tells 
How  near  such  April  joy  to  weeping  dwells. 
'Tis  'raong  the  gayest  scenes  that  ofl'nest  steal 
Those  sadd'ning  thoughts  we  fear,  yet  love  to  feel ; 
And  music  never  half  so  sweet  appears. 
As  when  her  mirth  forgets  itself  in  tears. 

Then  say  not  thou  this  Alpine  song  is  g.ay — 
It  comes  from  hearts  that,  like  their  mountain-Liy, 
Mix  joy  with  pain,  and  oft  when  pleasure's  breath 
Most  warms  the  surface,  feel  most  sad  beneath. 
The  very  beam  in  which  the  snow-wreath  weara 
Its  gayest  smile  is  that  which  wins  its  tears, — 
And  passion's  pow'r  can  never  lend  the  glow 
Wliich  wakens  bliss  without  some  toucii  of  woe. 


THE  RUSSIAN  LOVER. 

Fleetly  o'er  the  moonlight  snows 

Speed  we  to  my  lady's  bow'r; 
Swift  our  sledge  as  lightning  goes. 

Nor  sh.all  stop  till  morning's  hour. 
Bright,  my  steed,  the  northern  star 

Lights  us  from  yon  jewell'd  skies ; 
But,  to  greet  us,  brighter  far, 

Morn  shall  bring  my  lady's  eyes. 

Lovers,  luU'd  in  sunny  bow'rs. 

Sleeping  out  their  dream  of  time, 
Know  not  half  the  bliss  that's  ours, 

In  this  snowy,  icy  clime. 
Like  yon  star  that  livelier  gleams 

From  the  frosty  heavens  around, 
Love  himself  the  keener  beams 

When  with  snows  of  coyness  crown'd. 

Fleet  then  on,  my  merry  steed. 

Bound,  my  sledge,  o'er  hill  and  dale  ;— 
Vv'hat  can  match  a  lover's  speed  ? 

See,  'tis  daylight,  breaking  pale ! 
Brightly  hath  the  northern  star 

Lit  us  from  yon  radiant  skies ; 
But,  behold,  how  brighter  far 

Yonder  shine  mv  ladv's  eyes ! 


EHYMES  ON  THE  EOAD. 


KXTEAOTED  FBOM  THE  JOCBNAL  OF  A  TBAVELLINQ  HEMBEB  OF 


THE  POCO-CURANTE  SOCIETY,  1819. 


The  greater  part  of  the  following  Rhymes  were 
written  or  composed  in  an  old  caliche,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  beguiling  the  ennui  of  solitary  travelling  ; 
and  as  verses,  made  by  a  gentlemen  in  his  sleep, 


have  been  lately  called  "  a  psychological  curiosity," 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  verses,  composed  by  a  gentle- 
man to  keep  himself  awake,  may  be  honored  with 
some  appellation  equally  Greek. 


RHYMES    ON    THE    ROAD. 


INTRODUCTORY  RHYMES. 

Differtni  Jittitudea  in  which  Jluthora  compose. — Bayesy  Henry 
Stephens,  Herodotus,  i-c. —  tVriting  in  Bed — in  the  Fields, — 
Plato  and  Sir  Richard  Blaekmore. — Fiddliiiff  with  Qloves  and 
Twigs. — Madame  de  Stael. — Rhyming  on  the  Road,  in  an  old 
Caliche. 

What  various  attitudes,  and  ways, 

And  tricks,  we  authors  have  in  writing ! 
While  some  write  sitting,  some,  like  Bayes, 

Usually  atiind,  while  they're  inditing. 
Poets  there  are,  who  wear  the  floor  out, 

Measuring  a  line  at  every  stride; 
While  some,  like  Henry  Stephens,  pour  out 

Rhymes  by  the  dozen,  while  they  ride." 
Herodotus  wrote  most  in  bed  ; 

And  RicHERAND,  n  French  physician. 
Declares  the  clock-word  of  the  head 

Goes  best  in  that  reclined  position. 
If  you  consult  MoNTAtcsE'  and  I'liny  on 
The  subject,  'tis  their  joint  opinion 
Thill-  Tliouglit  its  richest  harvest  yields 
Abroad,  Bmong  the  wood*  nnd  nc'ds; 


That  bards,  who  deal  in  small  retail, 

At  home  may,  at  their  counters  slop; 
But  that  the  grove,  the  hill,  the  vale, 

Are  Poesy's  true  wholcs.ale  shop. 
And,  verily,  I  tliink  tlieyVc  right — 

For,  many  a  time,  on  summer  eves, 
Just  at  that  closing  hour  of  light. 

When,  like  an  Eastern  Prince,  who  leaves 
For  distant  war  his  Haram  bow'rs, 
Tlie  Sun  bids  farewell  to  the  flow'rs. 
Whose  heads  are  sunk,  whose  tears  are  flowing 
Mid  all  the  glory  of  his  going ! — 
Even  /  have  felt,  beneath  those  beams. 

When  wand'ring  tlirough  the  fields  alone, 
Thoughts,  fancies,  intellectual  gleams, 

Which,  far  too  bright  to  be  my  own, 
Sccni'd  lent  me  by  the  Sunny  Power, 
That  was  abroad  at  that  still  hour. 

If  thus  I've  felt,  how  must  Ihnj  feel. 

The  few,  whom  genuine  Genius  warms ; 

Upon  whose  souls  he  stamps  his  seal, 
Grnvon  willi  Ucauty'scoiintlosn  fo-ms: — 


RHYMES  ON  THE  EOAD. 


208 


The  few  upon  this  earth,  wlio  seem 
Born  to  give  truth  to  Plato's  dream, 
Sinee  in  tlieir  thouj^hts,  as  in  a  glass, 

Shadows  of  heavenly  things  appear, 
Refleetions  of  bright  shapes  that  pass 

Through  other  worlds,  above  our  spliere! 

But  this  reminds  me  I  digress ; — 

For  I'lato,  too,  produced,  'tis  said, 
(A's  one,  indeed,  might  almost  guess,) 

His  glorious  visions  all  in  bed.' 
'Twas  in  his  carriage  the  sublime 
Sir  RroHARD  Blaokmore  used  to  rhyme; 

And  (if  the  wits  don't  do  him  wrong) 
'Twixt  death'  and  epics  pass'd  his  time. 

Scribbling  and  killing  all  day  long 
Like  Phffibus  in  his  car,  at  ease. 

Now  warbling  forth  a  lofty  song, 
Now  murd'ring  the  young  Niobea. 

There  was  a  hero  'mong  the  Danes, 
Who  wrote,  we're  told,  'mid  all  the  pains 

And  horrors  of  exenteration, 
Nine  charming  odes,  which,  if  you'll  look, 

You'll  find  preserved,  with  a  translation, 
By  Baktholinus  in  his  book.* 
In  short,  'twere  endless  to  recite 
The  various  modes  in  which  men  write. 
Some  wits  are  only  in  the  mind, 

When  beaux  and  belles  are  round  them  prating ; 
Some,  when  they  dress  for  dinner,  find 

Their  muse  and  valet  both  in  waiting; 
And  manage,  at  the  self-same  time, 
T'  adjust  a  neckcloth  .and  a  rhyme. 

Some  bards  there  are  who  cannot  scribble 
Without  a  glove,  to  te.ar  or  nibble; 
Or  a  small  twig  to  whisk  about — 

As  if  the  hidden  founts  of  Fancy, 
Like  wells  of  old,  were  thus  found  out 

By  mystic  tricks  of  rhabdomancy. 
Such  was  the  little  feathery  wand,° 
That,  held  for  ever  in  the  hand 
Of  her,''  who  won  and  wore  the  crown 

Of  female  genius  in  this  .age, 
Seem'd  the  conductor  that  drew  down 

Those  words  of  lightning  to  her  page 
As  for  myself — to  come,  at  last, 

To  the  odd  way  in  which  /  write — 
Having  employ'd  these  few  months  p.as* 

Chietly  in  travelling,  day  and  night, 
I've  got  into  the  easy  mode. 
Of  rhyming  thus  along  the  road — 
Making  a  way-bill  of  my  pages. 
Counting  my  stanzas  by  ray  stages — 


'Twixt  lays  and  re-lays  no  time  lost — 
In  short,  in  two  words,  wrilinff  vast 


EXTRACT  I. 

Geneva. 
View  of  the  Lake  of  Oenenn  from  Ike  Jura."— Anxious  to  reach  it 
before  the  Sun    went    ihwn.—Ohliffcd    to  proceed   on  Foot. — 
Mps.—Mont  Blanc.— Effect  of  the  Scene. 

'TwAs  late — the  sun  had  almost  shone 
His  last  and  best,  when  I  ran  on. 
Anxious  to  reach  that  splendid  view. 
Before  the  day-beams  quite  withdrew; 
And  feeling  as  all  feel,  on  first 

Approaching  scenes,  where,  they  are  told 
Such  glories  on  their  eyes  will  bui'st, 

As  youthful  bards  in  dreams  behold. 

'Twas  distant  yet,  and,  as  I  ran. 

Full  often  was  my  wistful  gaze 
Turn'd  to  the  sun,  who  now  began 

To  call  in  all  his  outpost  rays. 
And  form  a  denser  march  of  light. 
Such  .as  beseems  a  hero's  flight. 
Oh,  how  I  wish'd  for  Joshua's  pow'r. 
To  stay  the  brightness  of  that  hour! 
But  no — the  sun  still  less  became, 

Diminish'd  to  a  speck,  as  splendid 
And  sm.all  as  were  those  tongues  of  fl.ame, 

That  on  th'  Apostles'  heads  descended  ! 

'Twas  at  this  instant — while  there  glow'd 

This  last,  inlensest  gleam  of  light — 
Suddenly,  through  the  opening  ro.ad. 

The  valley  burst  upon  my  sight ! 
That  glorious  valley,  with  its  Lake, 

And  Alps  on  Alps  in  clusters  swelling. 
Mighty,  and  pure,  and  fit  to  make 

The  ramparts  of  a  Godhead's  dwelling. 

I  stood  entranced — as  Rabbins  say 
This  whole  assembled,  gazing  world 

Will  stand,  upon  that  awful  dav. 

When  the  Ark's  Light,  aloft  unfurl'd. 

Among  the  opening  clouds  shall  shine, 

Divinity's  own  radiant  sign! 

Mighty  Mont  Blanc,  thou  wert  to  me. 

That  minute,  with  thy  brow  in  heaven, 
As  sure  a  sign  of  Deity 

As  e'er  to  mortal  gaze  was  given. 
Nor  ever,  where  I  destined  yet 

To  live  my  life  twice  o'er  again. 
Can  I  tne  deep-felt  awe  forget. 

The  dream,  the  trance  that  rapt  me  then  I 


204 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


'Twas  all  that  consciousness  of  pow"r 

And  life,  beyond  this  mortal  hour; — 

Those  mountings  of  the  soul  within 

At  thoughts  of  Heav'n — as  birds  begin 

By  instinct  in  the  cage  to  rise, 

When  near  their  time  for  change  of  slues  ;- 

That  proud  assurance  of  our  claim 

To  rank  among  the  Sons  of  light, 
Mingled  with  shame — oh  bitter  shame ! — 

At  having  risk'd  that  splendid  right, 
For  aught  that  earth  through  all  its  range 
Of  glories,  offers  in  exchange ! 
'Twas  all  this,  at  that  instant  brought. 
Like  breaking  sunshine,  o'er  my  thought — 
'Twas  all  this,  kindled  to  a  glow 

Of  sacred  zeal,  which,  could  it  shine 
Thus  purely  ever,  man  might  grow, 

Ev'n  upon  earth  a  thing  divine. 
And  be,  once  more,  the  creature  made 
To  walk  unstain'd  th'  Elysian  shade! 

No,  never  shall  I  lose  the  trace 

Of  what  I've  felt  in  this  bright  place. 

And,  should  ray  spirit's  hope  grow  weak. 

Should  I,  oh  God,  e'er  doubt  thy  pow'r, 
This  mighty  scene  again  I'll  seek. 

At  the  same  calm  and  glowing  hour, 
And  here,  at  the  sublimest  shrine 

That  Nature  over  rear'd  to  Thee, 
Rekindle  all  that  hope  divine, 

Ani.  feel  my  immortality  ! 


EXTEACT  II. 

Geneva. 
FATE  OF  GENEVA  IN  THE  YEAR  1782. 

A    FBAQUENT. 

Yes — if  there  yet  live  some  of  those. 
Who,  when  this  small  Republic  rose, 
Quick  as  a  startled  hive  of  bees, 
Against  her  leaguering  enemies — ° 
When,  as  the  Royal  Satrap  shook 

His  well-known  fetters  .at  her  gates, 
Kv'n  wives  and  mothers  arm'd,  and  took 

Their  stations  by  their  sons  and  mates; 
And  on  these  walls  there  stood — yet,  no. 

Shame  to  the  traitors — would  have  stood 
As  firm  n  band  as  e'er  let  flow 

At  Freedom's  base  their  sacred  blood ; 
ir  those  yet  live,  who,  on  that  night. 
When  nil  were  watching,  girt  for  tight. 
Stole,  like  the  I'ri'cpiiig  of  a  ])est, 
From  rank  to  rank,  from  breast  to  brc.ist, 


Filling  the  weak,  the  old  with  fears. 
Turning  the  heroine's  zeal  to  tem-s, — 
Betraying  Honor  to  that  brink. 
Where,  one  step  more,  and  he  must  sink — 
And  quenching  hopes,  which,  though  the  last 
Like  meteors  on  a  drowning  mast. 
Would  yet  have  led  to  death  more  bright, 
Thiin  life  e'er  look'd,  in  all  its  light ! 
Till  soon,  too  soon,  distrust,  alarms 

Throughout  th'  embattled  thousands  ran, 
And  the  high  spirit,  late  in  arms, 
The  zeal,  that  might  have  work'd  such  charms, 

Fell,  like  a  broken  t.alisman — 
Their  gates,  th,at  they  had  sworn  should  be 

The  gates  of  Death,  that  very  dawn. 
Gave  passage  widely,  bloodlessly, 

To  the  proud  foe — nor  sword  was  drawn, 
Nor  ev'n  one  martyr'd  body  cast 
To  stain  their  footsteps,  .as  they  pass'd  ; 
But,  of  the  many  sworn  at  night 
To  do  or  die,  some  fled  the  sight, 
Some  stood  to  look,  with  sullen  frown. 

While  some,  in  impotent  despair, 
Broke  their  bright  armor  and  lay  down, 

Weeping,  upon  tlie  fragments  there! 
If  those,  I  say,  who  brought  that  shame, 
That  bl.ast  upon  Geneva's  name, 
Be  living  still — though  crime  so  dark 

Shall  hang  up,  fix'd  .and  unforgiv'n, 
In  History's  page,  th'  eternal  mark 

For  Scorn  to  pierce — so  help  me,  Heav'n, 
I  wish  the  tniitorous  slaves  no  worse, 

No  deeper,  deadlier  disaster. 
From  all  earth's  ills  no  foulers  curse 

Than  to  have  *********  their  master  I 


EXTRACT  in. 

Goneva. 

Fancy  and  Truth, —  llippomcnps  and  Jltalanta. — Monl  Blane* 
—Clouds. 

Even  here,  in  this  region  of  woiulors,  I  fuul 
That  light-footed  Fancy  leaves  Truth  far  behind; 
Or,  at  least,  like  Hipponienes,  turns  her  astray 
By  the  golden  illusions  he  flings  in  her  way." 

What  a  glory  it  sccm'd  the  first  cv'ning  I  gazed 
Mont  Blanc,  like  a  vision,  then  suddenly  raised 
On  the  wreck  of  the  sunset — .and  all  his  array 

Of  high-towerliig  Alps,  toncliM  slill  with  a  light 
Far  holier,  purer  than  that  of  the  Day, 

As  if  nearness  to   Heaven  had  made   them   so 
bright! 


RHYMES  ON  THE  llOAD. 


205 


Then  the  dying,  at  last,  of  these  splendors  away 
From  ppak  after  peak,  till  they  left  but  a  ray, 
One  roseate  ray,  tlia^,  ton  preeioin  to  lly. 

O'er  the  Mighty  of  Mountains  still  glowingly 

l.nng. 
Like  the  last  sunny  steps  of  Astu-ea,  when  high 
From   the   summit   of   earth    to    Elysium    she 

sprung  I 
And  those  infinite  Alps,  stretching  out  from  the 

sight 
Till  they  mingled  with  Heaven,  now  shorn  of  tluMr 

light. 
Stood  lofty,  and  lifeless,  and  pale  in  the  sky. 
Like  the  ghosts  of  a  Giant  Creation  gone  by! 

That  seene — I  have  view'd  it  this  evening  agnin. 
By   the   same   brilliant    light    that   hung   over   it 

then— 
The  valley,  the  lake  in  their  tendcrest  charms — 
Mont  Blanc   in   his   awfullest  pomp — and  the 

whole 
A  bright  picture  of  Beauty,  reclined  in  the  arms 

Of  Sublimity,  bridegroom  elect  of  her  soul ! 
But  where  are  the  mountains,  that  round  me  at 

first 
One  dazzling  horizon  of  miracles,  burst? 
Those  Alps  beyond  Alps,  without  end  swelling  on 
Like  the  waves  of  eternity — were  are  they  gone  1 
Clouds— clouds — they  were  nothing  but  clouds,  af- 
ter all  I" 
That  chain  9f  Mont  Blancs,  which  my  fancy 

flew  o'er. 
With  a  wonder  that  naught  on  this  earth  can  recall. 
Were  but  clouds  of  the  evening,  and  now  are  no 

more. 
What  a  picture  of  Life's  young  illusions!    Oh, 

Night, 
Drop  thy  curtain,  at  once,  and  hide  all  from  my 

sio-ht. 


EXTRACT-  IV. 

Milan. 
The  Picture   OaUery.—Alhm.o's    Rape   of  Proserpine.— Rrjlcc- 
lions.— Universal  Salcatim. — nbraham  sending  away  .Igar, 
by  Quercino. — Genius. 

Went  to  the  Brera — saw  a  Dance  of  Loves 
By  smooth  Albano  ;''  him,  whose  pencil  teems 

With  Cupids,  numerous  as  in  summer  groves 
The  leaflets  are,  or  motes  in  summer  beams. 

'Tis  for  the  theft  of  Enna's  flow'r'=  from  earth. 
These  urchins  celebrate  their  dance  of  mirth 


Round  the  green  tree,  like  fays  upon  a  heath — 

Those,  that  are  nearest,  link'd  in  (U'der  bright, 
Cheek  after  cheek,  like  rose-buds  in  a  wreath  ; 
.And  those,  more  distant,  showing  from  beneath 

The  others'  wings  their  liitle  eyes  of  light. 
While  see,  among  the  clouds,  their  eldest  brother, 

But  just  down  up,  tells  with  a  smile  of  bliss 
This  prank  of  Pluto  to  his  charmed  mother. 

Who  turns  to  gfreet  the  tidings  with  a  kiss! 

Well  might  the  Loves  rejoice— and  well  did  they. 

Who  wove  these  fables,  picture,  in  their  weaving 
That  blessed  truth,  (which,  in  a  darker  day, 

Origen  lost  his  saintship  for  believing.) '* 

That  Love,  eternal  Love,  whose  fadeless  ray 

Nor  time,  nor  death,  nor  sin  can  overcast, 
Ev'n  to  the  deptlu  of  hell  will  find  his  way. 

And  soothe,  and  heal,  and  triumph  there  at  last. 

GuERciNo's  Agar — where  the  bondmaid  hears 

From  Abram's  lips  that  he  and  she  must  part ; 
And  looks  at  him  with  eyes  all  full  of  tears, 

That  seem  the  very  last  drops  from  her  heart. 
Exquisite  [licture  1 — let  me  not  bo  told 
Of  minor  faults,  of  coloring  tnme  and  cold 
If  thus  to  conjure  up  a  face  so  fair," 
So  full  of  sorrow;  with  the  story  there 
Of  all  that  woman  suffers,  when  the  stay 

Her  trusting  lieart  hath  lean'd  on  falls  away 

If  thus  to  touch  the  bosom's  tend'rest  spring, 
By  calling  into  life  such  eyes,  as  bring 
Back  to  our  sad  remembrance  some  of  those 
We've  smiled  and  wept  with,  in  their  joys  and  woes. 
Thus   filling  them   with   tears,   like   tears    we've 
known. 

Till  all  the  pictured  grief  becomes  our  own 

If  this  be  deem'd  the  victory  of  Art 

If  thus,  by  pen  or  pencil,  to  lay  bare 
The  deep,  fresh,  living  fountains  of  the  heart 
Before  al!  eyes,  be  Genius — it  is  there! 


ESTRACT  V. 

Padua. 

Fancy  and  Reaiity.— Rain-drops  and  Lakes.— Plan  of  a  Story. 

—  IVhere  to  place  the  Scene  of  it. — fn  some  unknoicn  Region. 

Psatmanazar^s  Imposture  with  respect  to  the  Island  of  Formosa. 

The  more  I've  view'd  this  world, -'the  more  I've 
found, 

That,  fiird  as  'tis  vinlh  scenes  and  creatures  rare, 
Fancy  commands,  within  her  own  bright  round, 

A  world  of  scenes  and  creatures  far  more  fair. 


206 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Nor  is  it  tliat  her  power  can  call  up  there 

A  single  charm,  that's  not  from  Nature  won, 
No  more  than  rainbows,  in  their  pride,  can  wear 

A  sin^He  hue  unborrow'd  from  the  nun — 
But  'tis  the  mental  medium  it  shines  through. 
That  lends  to  Beauty  all  its  charm  and  hue  ; 
As  the  s;ime  light,  that  o'er  the  level  lake 

One  dull  monotony  of  lustre  flings, 
Will,  entering  in  the  rounded  rain-drop,  make 

Colors  as  gay  as  those  on  Peris'  wings ! 

And  such,  I  deem,  the  dilf 'rence  between  real, 
Exisling  Beauty  and  that  furm  ideal. 
Which  she  assumes,  when  seen  by  poets'  eyes, 
Like  sunshine  in  the  drop — with  all  those  dyes. 
Which  Fancy's  variegaiijig  prism  supplies. 

I  have  a  story  of  two  lovers,  fill'd 

With  all  the  pure  romance,  the  blissful  sadness. 
And  the  sad,  doubtful  bliss,  that  ever  thrill'd 

Two  young  and  longing  hearts  in   that  sweet 
madness. 
But  where  to  choose  the  region  of  my  vision 

In  this  wide,  vulgar  world — what  real  spot 
Can  be  found  out  sufliciently  Elysian 

For  two  such  perfect  lovers,  I  know  not. 
Oh  for  snme  fair  Formosa,  such  as  he, 
The  young  Jew  fabled  of,  in  th'  Indian  Se.o, 
By  nothing,  but  its  name  of  Beauty,  known. 
And  which  Queen  Fancy  might  make  all  her  own. 
Her  fairy  kingdom — take  its  people,  lands, 
And  tenements  into  her  own  bright  hands, 
And  make,  at  least,  one  earthly  corner  fit 
For  Love  to  live  in,  pure  and  exquisite ! 


EXTRACT  VI. 

Venice. 

The  Fall  of  Venice  not  to  be  lamented. — Former  Olorij. — Ki- 

peitition  ajraintit  Conittantinopte, — Oiusiinianh. — Itefinbtie. 

— C/uiraeteristtct  of  the  old  Qooernmcnt. — Qnlilcn  Hook. — 

Brazen  Mouth». — Spies. — Dungeons, — Present  Desolation. 

Mourn  not  for  Venice — let  iter  rest 
In  ruin,  'mong  those  Stales  unblo.ss'd, 
Beneath  whose  gilded  hoofs  of  pride, 
Where'er  they  trampled,  Freedom  died. 
No — lot  us  keep  our  tears  for  them, 

Where'er  they  pine,  whose  fall  hath  been 
Not  from  n  blood-stain'd  diadem. 

Like  thai  which  deck'd  this  ocenn-quecn 
But  from  liiL'h  d.iring  in  the  cause 

Of  huin.in  Rights — the  only  good 
And  blcHMod  Hirife,  ifi  which    man  draws 

Ills  mi)(li(y  HWfiril  (in  l.'ind  or  Hood. 


Mourn  not  for  Venice  ;  though  her  fall 

Be  awful,  as  if  Ocean's  wave 
Swept  o'er  her,  she  deserves  it  all. 

And  Justice  triumphs  o'er  her  grave. 
Thus  perish  ev'ry  King  and  State, 

That  run  the  guilty  race  she  ran, 
Strong  but  in  ill,  and  only  great 

By  outrage  against  God  and  man! 

True,  her  high  spirit  is  at  rest. 

And  all  those  days  of  glory  gone, 
When  the  world's  waters,  east  and  west. 

Beneath  her  white-wing'd  commerce  shone; 
When,  with  her  countless  barks  she  went 

To  meet  the  Orient  Empire's  might," 
And  her  Giustinianis  sent 

Their  hundred  heroes  to  that  fight," 

Vanish'd  are  all  her  pomps,  'tis  true. 
But  mourn  them  not — for  vanisii'd,  too, 
(Thanks  to  that  Pow'r,  who,  soon  or  late, 
Hurls  to  the  dust  the  guilty  Great,) 
Are  all  the  outrage,  falsehood,  fraud, 

The  chains,  the  rapine,  and  the  blood, 
That  fiU'd  each  spot,  at  home,  abroad. 

Where  the  Republic's  standard  stood. 
Desolate  Venice  !  when  I  track 
Thy  haughty  course  through  cent'rios  back  ; 
Thy  ruthless  pow'r,  obey'd  but  cursed — 

The  stern  machinery  of  thy  Stjite, 
Which  hatred  would,  like  steam,  liavo  burst, 

Had  stronger  fear  not  chill'd  even  hate  ;— 
Thy  perfidy,  still  worse  than  aught 
Thy  own  unblushing  Sakpi'"  taught  j 
Thy  friendship,  which,  o'er  all  beneath 
Its  shadow,  rain'd  down  dews  of  death  ;" 
Thy  Oligarchy's  Book  of  Gold, 

Closed  against  humble  Virtue's  name," 
But  opcn'd  wide  for  slaves  who  sold 

Their  native  land  to  thee  and  shame; — ' 
Thy  all-pervading  host  of  spies. 

Watching  o'er  ev'ry  glance  and  breath, 
Till  men  look'd  in  each  others'  eyes, 

To  re.ad  their  chance  of  life  or  de.ith  ; — 
Thy  lav/s,  that  made  a  mart  of  blood. 

And  legalized  th'  assassin's  knife; — " 
Thy  sunless  cells  beneath  the  tlood, 

And  racks,  and  Leads,"  th.it  biu'nt  out  life  ;- 

When  I  review  all  this,  .and  see 

The  doom  that  now  hath  fall'n  on  thee  ; 

Thy  nobles,  tow'ring  once  so  proud. 

Themselves  beneath  the  yoke  now  bow'd,— 

A  yoke,  by  no  one  grace  redeem'd. 

Such  OS,  of  old,  around  thee  buam'd, 


RHYMES  ON  THE  ROAD. 


207 


But  moan  and  bnsu  as  e'er  yet  gall'd 
Earth'H  tyrants,  when,  liieinselves,  enthrall'd,- 
I  feel  lliii  moral  vengeance  sweet. 
And,  smiling  o'er  tlie  wrecit,  repeat, 
"Thus  perish  ev'ry  King  and  State, 

"  That  tread  the  steps  which  Venice  trod, 
"  Strong  but  in  ill,  and  only  great, 

"  By  outrage  against  man  and  God !" 


EXTRACT  VII. 

Venice. 
hord  Byron's  Jilemoirs,  written  by  himself, — Rejicctions^  when 
about  to  read  them. 

Let  me,  a  moment, — ere  with  fear  and  hope 
Of  gloomy,  glorious  things,  these  leaves  I  ope — 
As  one,  in  fairy  tale,  to  whom  the  key 

Of  some  enchanter's  secret  halls  is  giv'n. 
Doubts,  while  he  enters,  slowly,  tremblingly, 

If  he  shall  meet  with  shapes  from  hell  or  heav'n — 
Let  me,  a  moment,  think  what  thousands  live 
O'er  the  wide  earth  this  instant,  who  would  give, 
Gladly,  whole  sleepless  nights  to  bend  the  brow 
Over  these  precious  leaves,  as  I  do  now. 
How  all  who  know — and  where  is  he  unknown  ? 
To  what  far  region  have  his  songs  not  flown, 
Like  Psaphon's  birds,"'  speakingtheir  master's  name, 
In  ev'ry  language,  syllabled  by  Fame  ? — 
How  all,  who've  felt  the  various  spells  combined 
Within  the  circle  of  that  master-mind, — 
Like  spells,  derived  from  many  a  star,  and  met 
Together  in  some  wondrous  amulet, — 
Would  burn  to  know  when  first  the  Light  awoke 
In  his  young  soul, — and  if  the  gleams  that  broke 
From  that  Aurora  of  his  genius,  raised 
Most  pain  or  bliss  in  those  on  whom  they  blazed ; 
Would  love  iu  trace  th' unfolding  of  that  pow'r. 
Which  hath  grown  ampler,  grander,  ev'ry  hour ; 
And  feel,  in  watching  o'er  his  first  advance. 

As  did  th'  Egyptian  traveller,"'  when  he  stood 
By  the  young  Nile,  and  fathoni'd  with  his  lance 

The  fast  small  fountains  of  that  mighty  fiood. 

They,  too,  who,  mid  the  scornful  thoughts  that 
dwell 

In  his  rich  fancy,  tinging  all  its  streams, — 
As  if  the  Star  of  Bitterness,  which  fell 

On  earth   of  old,-°  liad  touch'd   them  with  its 
beams, — 
Can  track  a  spirit,  which,  though  driven  to  hate, 
From  Nature's  hands  came  kind,  aftectionafe  ; 
And  which,  ev'n  now,  struck  as  it  is  with  blight. 
Comes  out,  at  times,  in  love's  own  native  light ; — 


How  gladly  all,  who've  watch'd  these  struggling 

rays 
Of  a  bright,  ruin'd  spirit  through  his  lays. 
Would  here  inquire,  as  from  his  own  frank  lips. 

What  desolating  grief,  what  wrongs  had  drivel 
That  noble  nature  into  cold  eclipse; 

Like  some  fair  orb  that,  once  a  sun  in  heaven, 
And  born,  not  only  to  surprise,  but  cheer 
With  warmth  and  lustre  all  within  its  sphere. 
Is  now  so  quench'd,  that  of  its  grandeur  lasts 
Naught,  but  the  wide,  cold  shadow  which  it  casts 

Eventful  volume !  whatsoe'er  the  change 

Of  scene    and    clime — th'   adventures,  bold    and 

strange — 
The  griefs — the  frailties,  but  too  frankly  told — 
The  loves,  the  feuds  thy  pages  may  unfold. 
If  Truth  with  half  so  prompt  a  hand  unlocks 

His  virtues  as  his  failings,  we  shall  find 
The  record  there  of  friendships,  held  like  rocks, 

And  enmities,  like  sun-touch'd  snow,  resign'd; 
Of  fealty,  cherish'd  without  change  or  chill. 
In  those  who  served  him,  young, and  serve  him  still; 
Of  gen'rous  aid,  giv'n  with  that  noiseless  art 
Which  wakes  not  pride,  to  many  a  wounded  heart ; 
Of  acts — but,  no — not  from  himself  must  aught 
Of  the  bright  features  of  his  life  be  sought. 
While  they,  who  court  the  world,  like  Milton's 

cloud,°' 
"  Turn  forth  their  silver  lining"  on  the  crowd, 
This  gifted  Being  wraps  himself  in  night; 

And,  keeping  all  that  softens,  and  adorns, 
And  gilds  his  social  nature  hid  from  sight, 

Turns  but  its  darkness  on  a  world  he  scorns. 


EXTRACT  VIII. 

Venice, 
Female  Beauty  at  Venice, — JVo  longer  what  it  was  in  the  Time  oj 
Titian. — His  Mistress. — Various  forms  in  which  he  has  paint- 
ed her. —  Venus, — Divine  and  profane  l^oce, —  ha  FragilHh 
d^Amore. — Paul  Veronese. — His  IVomcn. — Marriage  of  Cana, — 
Character  of  Italian  Beauty, — Raphael  Fornarina.-^Jilodesty, 

Thy  brave,  thy  learn'd,  have  pass'd  away ; 
Thy  beautiful ! — ah,  where  are  they  ? 
The  forms,  the  faces,  that  once  shone, 

Models  of  grace,  in  Titian's  eye. 
Where  are  they  now?  while  flowers  live  on 

In  ruin'd  places,  why,  oh  why 

Must  Beauty  thus  with  Glory  die? 
That  maid,  whose  lips  would  still  have  moved. 

Could  art  have  breathed  a  spirit  through  them  ; 
Whose  varying  charms  her  artist  loved 

More  fondly  ev'ry  time  he  drew  them. 


208 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


(So  oft  beneatli  his  touch  they  pass'd, 
Each  semblance  fairer  than  the  last ;) 
Wearing  each  shape  that  Fancy's  range 

Offers  to  Love — yet  still  the  one 
Fair  idol,  seen  through  every  change, 

Like  f.;oets  of  some  orient  stone, — 

In  each  the  same  bright  image  shown. 
Sometimes  a  Venus,  unarray'd 

But  in  her  beauty"' — sometimes  deck'd 
In  costly  raiment,  as  a  maid 

That  kings  might  for  a  throne  select."' 
Now  high  and  proud,  like  one  who  thought 
The  world  should  at  her  feet  be  brought ; 
Now,  with  a  look  reproachful,  sad, — " 
Unwonted  look  from  brow  so  glad; — 
And  telling  of  a  pain  too  deep 
For  tongue  to  speak  or  eyes  to  weep. 
Sometimes,  through  allegory's  veil, 

In  double  semblance  seen  to  shine, 
Telling  a  strange  and  mystic  tale 

Of  Love  Profane  and  Love  Divine — " 
Akin  in  features,  but  in  heart 
As  far  as  earth  .and  heav'n  apart. 
Or  else  (by  quaint  device  to  prove 
The  frailty  of  all  worldly  love) 
Holding  a  globe  of  glass,  as  thin 

As  air-blown  bubbles,  in  her  hand, 
Willi  a  young  Love  confined  therein. 

Whose  wings  seem  waiting  to  expand — 
And  telling,  by  her  anxious  eyes. 
That,  if  that  frail  orb  breaks,  he  flies !" 

Thou,  too,  with  touch  magnificent, 

Paul  of  Verona! — where  are  they. 
The  oriental  forms,"  that  lent 

Thy  canvass  such  a  bright  array? 
Noble  and  gorgeous  dames,  whose  dress 
Seems  part  of  their  own  loveliness  ; 
Like  the  sun's  drapery,  which,  at  eve. 
The  floating  clouds  around  him  weave 
Of  liglit  they  from  himself  receive; 
Where  is  there  now  the  living  face 

Like  those  that,  in  thy  nuptial  throng," 
By  their  superb,  voUiptunus  gr.ice 
Make  us  forget  the  lime,  the  place. 

The  holy  guests  they  smile  among, — 
Till,  in  that  feast  of  heaven-sent  wine, 
We  saw  no  miracles  but  thine. 

If  e'er,  except  in  Painling's  dream, 

Tlicri!  blooin'd  such  beauty  here,  'tis  gone,- 

Gonc,  like  Ihc  f  ice  lint  in  the  stream 
Of  Ocean  for  an  instant  shone, 

When  Venus  nt  that  mirror  gave 

A  lust  look,  ere  she  left  the  wave. 


And  though,  among  the  crowded  ways, 
We  oft  are  startled  by  the  blaze  ^ 

Of  eyes  that  pass,  wi;h  fitful  light. 
Like  fire-flies  on  the  wing  at  night," 
'Tis  not  that  nobler  beauty,  giv'n 
To  show  how  angels  look  in  heav'n. 
Ev'n  in  its  shape  most  pure  and  fair, 

'Tis  Beauty,  with  but  half  her  zone, — 
AH  that  can  warm  the  Sense  is  there. 

But  the  Soul's  deeper  charm  is  flown: — • 
'Tis  Raphael's  Fornarina, — warm, 

Luxuriant,  arch,  but  unrefined ; 
A  flower,  round  which  the  noontide  swarni 

Of  young  Desires  may  buzz  and  wind, 
But  where  true  Love  no  treasure  meets. 
Worth  hoarding  in  his  hive  of  sweets. 

Ah,  no, — for  this,  and  for  the  hue 

Upon  the  rounded  cheek,  which  tells 
How  fresh,  within  the  heart,  this  dew 

Of  Love's  unrifled  sweetness  dwells, 
We  must  go  back  to  our  own  Isles, 

Wliere  Modesty,  whicli  here  but  gives 
A  rare  and  transient  grace  to  smiles, 

In  the  heart's  holy  centre  lives ; 
And  thence,  as  from  her  throne  diffuses 

O'er  thoughts  and  looks  so  bland  a  reign, 
That  not  a  thought  or  feeling  loses 

Its  freshness  in  that  gentle  chain. 


EXTRACT  IX. 


Venice. 


TTie  Knfflisk  to  be  met  teith  evfrijiehere. — Jilps  and  TUread- 
needle  Strret.—  nc  Simplon  and  Ihe  Sloc/m.—Rage  for  trav- 
dting.—Blue  Stockings  among  the  l\'ah(ibers,— Parasols  and 
Pyramids. — '^Irs.  Hop/.ins  and  Ike  IVall  of  CJiina. 

And  is  there  then  no  earthly  place, 

Where  we  can  rest,  in  dream  Ely.sian, 
Without  some  cursed,  round  English  face. 

Popping  up  near,  to  break  the  vision? 
'Jlid  norlhcrn  lakes,  'mid  sonlhern  vines, 

Unholy  cits  we're  doom'd  to  meet ; 
Nor  highest  Alps  nor  .Apennines 

Arc  «.acred  from  Threadneedlo  Street! 

If  up  Ihe  Simplou's  path  wo  wind. 
Fancying  we  leave  this  world  behind, 
Such  pleasant  sounds  salute  one's  ear 
As—"  Baildish  news  from  'Change,  my  dear — 
"The  Fundi — (phew,  rurso  this  ugly  hill) — 
'•  An-  Inw'ring  fast, — (wnl,  higher  still?) — 


KHYMES  ON  THE  EOAD. 


209 


"And — (zooks,   we're    mounting  up  to    heav- 
en !)— 
"  Will  sbon  be  down  to  sixty-seven." 

Go  where  we  may — rest  where  we  will. 

Eternal  London  haunts  us  still. 

The  (rash  of  Almack's  or  Fleet  Ditch— 

And  scarce  a  pin's  head  difference  which — 

Mixes,  though  ev'n  to  Greece  we  run, 

Witli  every  rill  from  Helicon !  , 

And,  if  this  rage  for  travelling  lasts, 

If  Cockneys,  of  all  sects  and  castes. 

Old  maidens,  aldermen,  and  squires. 

Will  leave  their  puddings  and  coal  ^res, 

To  gape  at  things  in  foreign  lands. 

No  soul  among  them  imderstanda ; 

If  Blues  desert  the  coteries. 

To  show  off'mong  the  Wahabees; 

If  neither  sex  nor  age  controls, 

Nor  fear  of  Mamelukes  forbids 
Young  ladies,  with  pink  parasols. 

To  glide  among  the  Pyramids — " 
Why,  then,  farewell  all  hope  to  find 
A  spot,  that's  free  from  London-kind  ! 
Who  knows,  if  to  the  West  we  roam. 
But  we  may  find  some  Blue  "  at  home" 

Among  the  Blacks  of  Carolina — 
Or,  flying  to  the  Eastward,  see 
Some  Mrs.  Hopkins,  taking  tea 

And  toast  upon  the  Wall  of  China! 


EXTRACT  X. 

Mauti 
I'erscs  fif  Itipp<iltjta  to  her  husband. 

TirET  tell  me  thou'rt  the  favor'd  guest" 

Of  every  fair  and  brilliant  throng ; 
No  wit,  like  thine,  to  wake  the  jest. 

No  voice  like  thine,  to  breathe  tlie  song. 
And  none  could  guess,  so  gay  thou  art, 
That  thou  and  I  are  far  apart. 
Alas,  alas,  how  diff'rent  flows. 

With  thee  and  me  the  time  away. 
Not  that  I  wish  thee  sad,  heaven  knows — 

Still,  if  thou  canst,  be  light  and  gay ; 
1  only  know  that  without  thee 
The  sun  himself  is  dark  for  me. 

Do  I  put  on  the  jewels  rare 
Thou'st  always  loved  to  see  me  wear  ? 
Do  I  perfume  the  locks  that  thou 
So  oft  hast  braided  o'er  my  brow. 
Thus  deck'd,  througli  festive  crowds  to  run, 
And  all  th'  assembled  world  to  see, — 
VOL.  n. — 27 


All  but  the  one,  the  abser.t  one, 

Worth  more  than  present  worlds  to  me? 
Ni/,  nothing  cheers  this  widow'd  heart — 
My  only  joy,  from  thee  apart. 
From  thee  thyself,  is  sitting  hours 

And  days,  before  thy  pictured  form — 
That  dream  of  thee,  which  Raphael's  pow'rs 

Have  made  with  all  but  life-breath  warm ! 
And  as  I  smile  to  it,  and  say 
The  words  I  speak  to  thee  in  play, 
I  fancy  from  their  silent  frame, 
Those  eyes  and  lips  give  back  the  same; 
And  still  I  gaze,  and  still  they  keep 
Smiling  thus  on  me — till  I  weep! 
Our  little  boy,  too,  knows  it  well, 

For  there  I  lead  him  every  d.ay. 
And  teach  his  lisping  lips  to  tell 

The  name  of  one  that's  far  aw.-vy. 
Forgive  me,  love,  but  thus  alone 
My  time  is  checr'd,  while  thou  art  gjne. 


EXTRACT  XI. 

riorence. 
No — 'tis  not  the  region  where  Love's  to  be  found — 
They  have  bosoms  th.at  sigh,  they  have  glances 
that  rove. 
They  have  language  a  Sappho's  own  lip  might  re- 
sound, 
When  she  warbled  her  best — but  they've  nothing 
like  Love. 

Nor  is't  that  pure  scniimerU  only  they  want, 

Which  Heav'n  for  the  mild  and  the  tranquil  hath 
made — 
Calm,  wedded  affection,  that  home-rooted  plant. 
Which  sweetens  seclusion,  and   smiles   in   the 
shade ; 

That  feeling,  which,  after  long  years  have  gone  by, 
Remains,  like  a  portrait  we've  sat  for  in  youth. 

Where,  ev'n  though  the  flush  of  the  colors  may  fly, 
The  features  still  live,  in  their  first  smiling  truth  ; 

That  union,  where  .all  that  in  Woman  is  kind, 
With  all  that  in  Man,  most  ennoblingly  tow'rs. 

Grow  wreathed  into  one — like  the  column,  combined 
Of  the  strength  of  the  shaft  and  the  capital's 
Jloic'rs. 

Of  this — bear  ye  witness,  ye  wives,  ev'rywhere. 
By  the  Ar.no,  the  Po,  by  all  Italy's  streams — 

Of  this  he.irt-wedded  love,  so  delicious  to  share. 
Not  a  husband   hath  even   one  glimpse  in  his 
dreams. 


210 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


But  it  is  not  this,  only  ;— born  full  of  the  light 
Of  a  sun,  from  whose  fount  the  luxuriant  fes- 
toons 
Of  these  beautiful  valleys  drink  lustre  so  bright, 
That,  beside  him,  our  suns  of  the  north  are  but 
moons, — 

We  might  fancy,  at  least,  like  their  climate  they 
burn'd  : 
And  that  Love,  tliough  unused,  in  this  region  of 
spring, 
To  be  tlius  to  a  tame  Household  Deity  turn'd, 
Would  yet  be  all  soul,  when  abroad  on  the  wing. 

And  there  may  be,  there  are,  those  explosions  of 
heart. 
Which  burst,  when  the  senses  have  first  caught 
the  flame; 
Sucli  fits  of  the  blood  as  those  climates  impart, 
Where  Love  is  a  sun-stroke,  that  maddens  the 
frame. 

But  that  Passion,  which  springs  in  tlie  depth  of  the 
soul ; 

Whose  beginnings  .are  virginly  pure  as  the  source 
Of  some  small  mountain  rivulet,  destined  to  roll 

As  a  torrent,  ere  long,  losing  peace  in  its  course — 

A  course,  to  which  Modesty's  struggle  but  lends 
A  more   he.idlong  descent,  without   chance   of 
rec.nli ; 

But  which  Jlodesty  ev'n  to  the  last  edge  attends, 
.^nd,  then,  throws  a  halo  of  tears  round  its  fall ! 

This  exquisite  Passion — .ay,  exquisite,  even 
Mid  the  ruin  its  madness  too  often  hath  made. 

As  it  keeps,  even  then,  a  briglit  trace  of  the  heaven, 
That  heaven  of  Virtue  from  which  it  h.as  stray'd 

This  entireness  of  love,  which  can  only  be  found. 
Where   Woman,   like    something    th!it'.s    holy, 
watch'd  over, 
And  fenced,  from  her  childhood,  with  purity  round. 
Comes,  body   and    soul,  fresh   as  Spring,  (o   a 
lover  I 

Where  not  an  eye  answers,  where  not  a  h;uid 
presses, 

Till  Hpiril  with  s])irit  in  symp.ithy  move; 
And  the  Senses,  asleep  in  their  sacred  recesses, 

Can  only  bo  rt-ach'd  through  the  temple  of  Love! 

This  perfection  of  Passion — how  can  it  be  found. 
Where  th«  mystery  nature  Imth  hung  round  the 
tie 


By  which  souls  are  together  attracted  and  bound, 
Is  laid  open,  for  ever,  to  heart,  ear,  and  eye ; — 

Where  naught  of  that  innocent  doubt  can  exist. 

That  ignorance,  even  than  knowledge  more  bright, 
Which  cireles  the  young,  like  the  morn's  sunny 
mist, 
And  curtains   them  round  in   their  own   native 
light;— 

Where  Experience  leaves  nothing  for  Lo\e  to  reveal, 
Or  for  Fancy,  in  visions,  to  gleam  o'er  the  thought ; 

But  the  truths  which,  alone,  we  would  die  to  conceal 
From  the  maiden's  young  heart,  are  the  onhj  onea 
taught. 

No,  no,  'tis  not  here,  howsoever  we  sigh, 

Wlicther  purely  to  Hymen's  oik  planet  we  pr.ay, 

Or  adore,  like  Sabseans,  e.ach  light  of  Love's  sky. 
Here  is  not  the  region,  to  fix  or  to  stray. 

For  faithless  in  wedlock,  in  g.all.antry  gross. 
Without  honor  to  guard,  or  reserve  to  restrain, 

What  have  they,  a  husb.and  can  mourn  as  a  loss  ' 
What  liave  they,  a  lover  can  prize  as  a  gain? 


EXTRACT  XU. 


Florence. 


Music  in  Italy. — Disappointed  by  it. — RecoUcetions  of  athifl 
Times  and  Friends. — Dalton. — Sir  John  Stevenson. — ifht 
Daughter. — Musical  Eccninga  together. 

*  *  *  *  >li  _ 

If  it  hi:  true  that  Music  reigns. 

Supreme,  in  It.m.y's  soft  sliades, 
'Tis  like  that  Harmony,  so  famous, 
.Among  the  spheres,  which,  lie  of  Samos 
Declared,  had  such  transcendent  merit 
That  not  a  soul  on  earth  could  hear  it ; 
For,  far  as  I  have  come — from  Lakes, 
Whose  sloop  llio  Tramontana  breaks, 
Thronj;h  .Mii..\x,  and  (hat  land,  which  gave 

'J'he  Hero  of  the  rainbow  vest — "' 
By  MiNcio's  banks,  and  by  that  wave,'" 

Which  m.ade  Vkhona's  bard  so  ble.ss'd — 
Places,  that  (like  the  Attic  .shore, 

Which  rung  back  music,  when  the  sea 
Struck  on  its  marge)  should  ho,  .all  o'er, 

Thrilling  alive  with  melody — 
I've  heard  no  music — iu)t  a  note 
Of  such  Hwcct  native  .airs  as  float. 
In  my  own  land,  among  the  throng. 
And  speak  our  nation's  soul  for  Bong. 


RHYMES  ON  THE  ROAD. 


211 


Nny,  ev'n  in  higher  walks,  where  Art 
Performs,  as  'twere,  the  gardener's  part, 
And  richer,  if  not  sweeter,  maltes 
The  flow'rs  slio  from  tlie  wild-licdge  taltes — 
Ev'n  there,  no  voiee  liatli  elianu'd  my  ear, 

No  taste  hath  won  my  perfect  praise, 
Like  thine,  dear  friend" — long,  truly  dear — 

Thine,  and  tliy  loved  Olivia's  lays. 
She,  always  beautiful,  and  growing 

Still  more  so  ev'ry  note  she  sings — 
Like  an  inspired  young  Sibyl,"  glowing 

Witli  her  own  briglit  imaginings! 
And  thou,  most  wortliy  to  be  tied 

In  music  to  her,  as  in  love, 
Breathing  that  language  by  her  side, 

All  other  language  far  above, 
Eloquent  Song — whose  tones  and  woixis 
In  every  heart  find  answering  chords  ! 

How  happy  once  the  hours  we  pass'd. 

Singing  or  list'ning  all  day  long, 
Till  Time  itself  seem'd  changed,  at  last. 

To  music,  and  we  lived  in  song! 
Turning  the  leaves  of  Haydn  o'er. 

As  quick,  beneath  her  master  hand. 
They  open'd  all  their  brilliant  store. 

Like  chambers,  touch'd  by  fairy  wand ; 
Or  o'er  the  page  of  Mozart  bending. 

Now  by  his  airy  warblings  eheer'd, 
Now  in  his  mournful  Requiem  blending 

Voices,  through  which  the  heart  was  heard. 

And  still,  td  lead  our  ev'ning  choir. 
Was  He  invoked,  thy  loved-one's  Sire — " 
He,  who,  if  aught  of  grace  there  be 

In  the  wild  notes  I  write  or  sing, 
First  smooth'd  their  links  of  harmony. 

And  lent  them  charms  they  did  not  bring;— 
He,  of  the  gentlest,  simplest  heart. 
With  whom,  cmploy'd  in  his  sweet  art, 
(That  art,  which  gives  this  world  of  ours 

A  notion  how  they  speak  in  heav'n,) 
I've  pass'd  more  bright  and  charmed  hours 

Than  all  earth's  wisdom  could  have  giv'n. 
Oh  happy  days,  oh  early  friends, 

How  Life,  since  then,  hath  lost  its  flow'rs ! 
But  yet — though  Time  some  foliage  rends, 

The  stem,  the  Friendship,  still  is  ours; 
And  long  may  it  endure,  as  green. 
And  fresh  as  it  hath  always  been  I 

How  I  have  wander'd  from  my  theme ! 

But  where  is  he,  that  could  return 
To  such  col  d  subjects  from  a  dream, 

Through  vhich  these  best  of  feelings  burn  ? 


Not  all  the  works  of  Science,  Art, 
Or  Genius  in  this  world  are  worth 

One  genuine  sigh,  that  from  the  heart 
Friendship  or  Love  draws  freshlv  forth. 


EXTHAOT  XIII. 

Hijme, 

Reflections  on  reading  Du  Ccrceau's  Jlccount  iif  the  Contjiireutj 
of  Ricnzi,  in  1317."— T/ic  Meeting  of  tlie  Conspiratori  ok  the 
aright  of  the  19lt  of  May.— Their  Procession  in  the  .Morning  to 
the  Capitol. — Hienzi^s  Speech. 

'TwAS  a  proud  moment— ev'n  to  hear  the  words 

Of   Truth   and   Freedom    'mid    these    temples 
breathed. 
And  see,  once  more,  the  Forum  shijie  with  swords 

In  the  Republic's  sacred  name  unsheath'd — 
That  glimpse,  that  vision  of  a  brigliter  day. 

For  his  dear  Rome,  must  to  a  Roman  be. 
Short  as  it  was,  worth  ages  pass'd  away 

In  the  dull  lapse  of  hopeless  slavery. 

'Twas  on  a  night  of  May,  beneath'that  moon, 
Which  had,  through  many  an  age,  seen  Time  untune 
The  strings  of  this  Gre.at  Empire,  till  it  fell 
From  his  rude  hands,  a  broken,  silent  shell — 
The  sound  of  the  church  clock,"  near  Adrian's 

Tomb, 
Summon'd  the  warriors,  who  had  risen  for  Rome, 
To  meet  unarra'd, — with  none  to  watch  them  there, 
But  God's  own  eye, — and  pass  the  night  in  prayer. 
Holy  beginning  of  a  holy  cause. 
When  heroes,  girt  for  Freedom's  combat,  pause 
Before  high  Heav'n,  and,  humble  in  their  might, 
Call  down  its  blessing  on  that  coming  fight. 
At  dawn,  in  arms,  went  forth  the  patriot  band  ; 
And,  as  the  breeze,  fresh  from  the  Tiber,  fann'd 
Their  gilded  gonfalons,  all  eyes  could  see 

The   palm-tree   there,  the   sword,   the    keys  of 
Heav'n^" 
Types  of  the  justice,  peace,  and  liberty, 

That  were  to  bless  them,  when  their  chains  were 
riv'n. 
On  to  the  Capitol  the  pageant  moved. 

While  many  a  Shade  of  other  times,  that  still 
Around  that  grave  of  grandeur  sighing  roved, 

Hung  o'er  their  footsteps  up  the  Sacred  Hill, 
And  heard  its  mournful  echoes,  as  the  last 
High-minded  heirs  of  iiie  Republic  pass'd. 
'Twas   then   that   thou,  their   Tribune,*"   (name, 

which  brought 
Dreams  of  lost  glory  to  each  patriot's  thought,) 
Didst,  with  a  spirit  Rome  in  vain  shall  seek 
To  wake  up  in  her  sons  again,  thus  speak: — 


212 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


"  Romans,  look  round  you — on  this  sacred  place 

"  There  once  stood  shrines,  and  gods,  and  godlike 
men. 
"  What  see  y  ju  now  ?  what  solitary  trace 

"  Is  left  of  all,  that  made  Rome's  glory  then  ? 
"  The  shrines  .ire  sunk,  the  Sacred  Mount  bereft 

'■Ev'n  of  its  name — and  nothing  now  remains 
"  But  the  deep  mem'ry  of  that  glory,  left 

"To  whet  our  pangs  and  aggravate  our  cluiinsl 
'•  But  shall  tliis  be? — our  sun  and  sky  the  same, — 

'•Treading  the  very  soil  our  fathers  trod, — 
"Wh,it   with'ring   curse  hath   fall'n  on   soul  and 
frame, 

"  What  visitation  hath  there  come  from  God, 
•  To  blast  our  strength,  and  rot  us  into  slaves, 
'^ Here,  on  our  great  forefathers'  glorious  graves? 
'  It  cannot  be — rise  up,  ye  Mighty  Dead, — 

"  If  we,  the  living,  are  too  weak  to  crush 
"  These  tyrant  priests,  that  o'er  your  empire  tread, 

'■  Till  all  but  Romans  at  Rome's  Lameness  blush  ! 

"  H.appy,  Palmyra,  in  thy  desert  domes, 

"  Where  only  date-trees  sigh  and  serpents  hiss  ; 
"  And  thou,  whose  pillars  are  but  silent  homes 

"For  the  stork's  brood,  superb  Persdpolis! 
"  Thrice  happy  both,  tluat  your  extinguish'd  race 
"Il.avc  left  no  embers — no  h.alf-living  trace — 
"  No  slaves,  to  crawl  .around  the  once  proud  spot, 
"  Till  piwt  renown  in  present  shame's  forgot. 
"  While   Rome,   the    Queen   of   all,   whose    very 
wrecks, 

"If  lone  and  lifeless  through  a  desert  hurl'd, 
"Would  we.ar  more  true  magnificence  than  decks 

"Th'    assembled    thrones    of   all    th'    existing 
world — 
'•  Rome,    Rome    alone,    is    haunted,   staiu'd,    and 
cursed, 

"Through  ev'ry  spot  her  princely  Tiber  laves, 
"  By  living  liuman  things — the  deadliest,  worst, 

"  This    earth    engenders  —  tyrants     and     their 
slaves ! 
"  And   we — oh    shame  ! — we,  who    have    pondcr'd 
o'er 

"  The  patriot's  lesson  and  the  poet's  lay ;" 
"  Have  mounted  up  the  streams  of  ancient  lore, 

"  Tracking  our  country's  glories  all  the  way — 
"Ev'n  we  have  tamely,  basely  kiss'd  the  ground 

"  Before  that  I'apnl  Power, — that  Ghost  of  Her, 
"The  World's  Imperial  mi.Htress — sitting,  crown'd 

"  And  ghastly,  on  her  niould'riiig  .sepulchre  !  " 

"  Bui  this  is  past: — too  long  have  lordly  priests 
"  And  priestly  lords  led  ns,  with  nil  our  pride 

"  Wilirring  about  us — like  devoted  l)east><, 
"Dragg'd  to  the  shrine,  with  faded  garlands  tifd. 


"  'Tis  o'er, — the  dawn  of  our  deliv'rance  breaks '. 

"  Up  from  his  sleep  of  centuries  .awakes 

"The  Genius  of  the  Old  Republic,  free 

"  As  first  he  stood,  in  chainless  m.ijesty, 

"  And  sends  his  voice  through  Jiges  yet  to  come, 

"  Proclaiming  Rome,  Rome,  Rome,  Etern.al  Rome  !" 


EXTR.A.CT  XIV. 

Romf. 
Fragment  of  a  Dream. —  The  great  Painters  supposed  to  be 
jVagicians, —  The  Beginnings  of  the  Art, — Gildings  on  the 
Olories  and  Draperies, — Improvements  under  Oiotto,  ^W-.—  The 
first  Datcn  of  the  true  Style  in  Masaccio, — Studied  by  all  the 
great  Artists  who  followed  him, — Leonardo  da  f'inci^  mith 
whom  commenced  the  Ooldcn  ,ige  of  Pointing, — ///*  Knoicl- 
edge  of  Mathematics  and  of  JUtisic, —  His  female  Heads  all 
like  each  other, —  Triangular  Faces, — Portraits  of  Mona 
Z,isa,  &c. —  Picture  of  Vanity  and  Modesty. — His  chef-d*auor*^ 
the  Last  Supper. — Faded  and  almost  effaced. 

Fill'd  with  the  wonders  I  had  seen. 

In  Rome's  stupendous  shrines  and  h.ills, 
I  felt  the  veil  of  sleep,  serene. 
Come  o'er  the  mem'ry  of  each  scene. 

As  twilight  o'er  the  landscape  falls. 
Nor  w.as  it  slumber,  sound  and  deep, 

But  such  as  suits  a  poet's  rest — 
Tli.at  sort  of  thin,  transparent  sleep, 

Through  which  his  day-dreams  shine  the  best 
Jlethought  upon  a  plain  I  stood, 

Where  certain  wondrous  men,  'twas  .said. 
With  strange,  mirac'lous  pow'r  cudifed. 

Were  coming,  each  in  turn,  to  shed 
His  arts'  illusions  o'er  the  sight, 
And  call  up  miracles  of  light. 
The  sky  above  this  lonely  place, 

W.as  of  th.at  cold,  uncertain  hue, 
The  canvass  wears,  ere,  warm'd  ap.ice, 

Its  bright  crcali(Mi  dawns  to  view. 

But  soon  a  glimmer  from  the  oast 

Proclaim'd  the  first  enchantments  nigh  ;" 
And  as  the  feeble  light  increased. 

Strange  figures  moved  across  the  sky, 
With  golden  glories  deok'd,  and  streaks 

Of  gold  among  their  garmcnls'  dyes;" 
.\iid  life's  resemblance  tinged  their  cheeks, 

But  naught  of  life  was  in  their  eyes  ; — 
Like  the  frcsli-paintcd  Dead  one  meets. 
Borne  slow  along  Rome's  monrnful  streets. 
But  soon  these  figures  pass'd  aw.ay ; 

.\iul  forms  succeeded  to  their  place, 
Willi  less  of  gold  in  llicir  array. 

But  shining  with  more  natural  grace 


RHYMES  ON  THE  ROAD. 


213 


And  all  could  ace  the  cliarraiiig  wands 
Had  pass'd  into  more  ffiftod  liands."' 

Among  these  visions  there  was  one," 
Surpassing  fair,  on  wliich  the  sun, 
That  instant  ris'n,  a  beam  let  fall, 

Which  through  the  dusky  twiliglit  trembled, 
And  reach'd  at  length  the  spot  where  all 

Those  great  ningicians  stood  assembled. 
And  as  they  turn'd  their  licads,  to  view 

.The  shining  lustre,  I  could  trace 
The  bright  varieties  it  threw 

On  each  uplifted  studying  face ;" 
While  many  a  voice  with  loud  acclaim, 
Caird  forth,  "  Masaccio"  as  the  name 
Of  him,  til'  Enchanter,  who  had  raised 
This  miracle,  on  which  all  gazed. 

'Twas  daylight  now — the  sun  liad  ris'n, 

From  out  the  dungeon  of  old  Night, — 
Like  the  Apostle,  from  his  prison 

Led  by  the  Angel's  hand  of  light ; 
And — as  the  fetters,  when  that  ray 
Of  glory  reach'd  them,  dropp'd  away," 
So  fled  the  clouds  at  touch  of  day  ! 
Just  then,  a  bearded  sage"  came  forth. 

Who  oft  in  thoughtful  dream  would  stand. 
To  trace  upon  the  dusky  earth 

Strange  learned  figures  with  liis  wand ;  " 
And  oft  he  took  the  silver  lute" 

His  little  page  behind  him  bore. 
And  waked  such  music  as,  when  raute. 

Left  in  the  soul  a  thirst  for  more ! 

Meanwhile,  his  potent  spells  went  on. 

And  forms  and  faces,  that  from  out 
A  depth  of  shadow  mildly  shone. 

Were  in  the  soft  air  seen  about. 
Though  thick  as  midnight  stars  they  beam'd, 
Yet  all  like  living  sisters  seem'd, 
So  close,  in  every  point,  resembling 

Each  other's  beauties — from  the  eyes 
Lucid  as  if  through  crystal  trembling. 

Yet  soft  as  if  suffused  with  sighs. 
To  the  long,  fawn-like  mouth,  and  chin. 

Lovely  tapering,  less  and  less. 

Till,  by  this  very  charm's  excess, 
Like  virtue  on  the  verge  of  sin. 

It  touch'd  the  bounds  of  ugliness. 
Here  look'd  as  when  they  lived  the  sViades 
Of  some  of  Arno's  dark-eyed  maids — 
Such  maids  as  should  alone  live  on. 
In  dreams  thus,  when  their  charms  are  gone  : 
Some  Mona  Lisa,  on  whose  eyes 

A  painter  for  whole  years  might  gaze,'"* 


Nor  find  in  all  his  palette's  dyes. 

One  that  could  even  approach  tlieir  blaze' 

Here  float  two  Bi)irit  shapes,"  the  one, 
With  her  white  fingers  to  tJie  sun 
Outspread,  as  if  to  ask  his  ray 
Whether  it  e'er  had  chanced  to  play 
On  lilies  half  so  fair  as  they! 

This  self-pleased  nymph,  was  Vanity — 
And  by  her  side  another  smiled. 

In  form  as  beautiful  as  she. 
But  with  that  air,  subdued  and  mild, 

That  still  reseiTC  of  purity, 
Which  is  to  beauty  like  the  haze 

Of  ev'ning  to  some  sunny  view, 
Soft'ning  such  charms  as  it  displays, 

And  veiling  others  in  that  hue, 

Whicli  fancy  only  can  see  through  I 
This  phantom  nymph,  who  could  she  be, 
But  the  bright  Spirit,  Modesty  t 

Long  did  the  Icarn'd  enclianter  stay 

To  weave  his  spells,  and  still  there  pass'd, 
As  in  the  lantern's  shifting  play, 
Group  after  group  in  close  array. 

Each  fairer,  grander,  than  the  last. 
But  the  great  triumph  of  his  pow'r 

Was  yet  to  come; — gradual  and  slow, 
(As  all  that  is  ordain'd  to  tow'r 

Among  the  works  of  man  must  grow,) 
The  sacred  vision  stole  to  view. 

In  that  half  light,  half  shadow  shown. 
Which  gives  to  ev'n  the  gayest  hue, 

A  sober'd,  melancholy  tone. 

It  was  a  vision  of  that  last,"" 
Sorrowful  night  which  Jesus  pass'd 
With  his  disciples,  when  he  said 

Mournfully  to  them — "I  shall  be 
'•Betray'd  by  one,  who  here  hath  fed 

"  This  night  at  the  same  board  with  me." 
And  though  the  Saviour,  in  the  dream 
Spoke  not  these  words,  we  saw  them  beam 
Legibly  in  his  eyes,  (so  well 
The  great  magician  work'd  his  spell,) 
And  read  in  every  thoughtful  line 
Imprinted  on  that  brow  divine. 
The  meek,  the  tender  nature,  grieved. 
Not  anger'd,  to  be  thus  deceived — 
Celestial  love  requited  ill 
For  all  its  care,  yet  loving  still — 
Deep,  deep  regret  that  there  should  fall 

From  man's  deceit  so  foul  a  blight 
Upon  that  parting  hour — and  all 
His  Spirit  must  have  felt  that  night, 


2U 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


■\Mio,  soon  to  die  for  human-kind, 
Thought  only,  'mid  his  mortal  pain, 

How  many  a  soul  was  left  behind 
For  whom  he  died  that  death  in  vain ! 

Such  was  the  heavenly  scene — alas, 
That  scene  so  bright  so  soon  should  pass 
But  pictured  on  the  humid  air, 
Its  tints,  ere  long,  grew  languid  there;''' 
And  storms  came  on,  that,  cold  and  rough, 

Scatter'd  its  gentlest  glories  all — 
As  when  the  baffling  winds  blow  off 

The  hues  tliat  bang  o'er  Terni's  fall, — 
Till,  one  by  one,  the  vision's  beams 

Faded  away,  and  soon  it  fled, 
To  join  those  other  vanish'd  dreams 

That  now  flit  palely  'mong  the  dead, — 
The  shadows  of  those  shades,  that  go. 
Around  Oblivion's  lake,  below  I 


EXTRACT  XV. 

Rome. 
tfalnf  Magdalen. — Ilcr   Story. — Xumcrous  Pictures   of   her. — 
Corregffio. — Outdo. — Raphael,    <S-c. — Canova^s    tieo    czquisite 
Statues. —  The  Somariva  Magdalen. — Chantrei/s  .admiration 
of  Canova^s  fVorlis. 

No  wonder.  Mart,  that  thy  story 
Touches  all  hearts — for  there  we  see 

The  soul's  corruption,  and  its  glory, 
Its  death  and  life  combined  in  thee. 

From  the  first  moment,  when  wc  find 

Thy  spirit  haunted  by  a  swarm 
Of  d.ark  desires, — like  demons  shrined 

Unholily  in  that  fair  form, — 
Till  when,  by  touch  of  Ileav'n  set  free. 

Thou  cam'st,  with  those  bright  locks  of  gold, 
(So  oft  the  gaze  of  Bethani',) 

And,  cov'ring  in  their  precious  fold 
Thy  Saviour's  feet,  didst  shed  such  tears 
As  paid,  each  drop,  the  sins  of  years  ! 
Thence  on,  Ihroiigh  all  thy  course  of  love 

To  Him,  thy  lle.avcnly  Master, — Him, 
Whose  bitter  dcalh-ciip  from  above 

Had  yet  this  cordial  round  the  brim. 
That  woman's  faith  and  love  stood  fast 
And  fearless  by  Ilim  to  the  l.a.st: — 
Till,  oh,  blcss'd  boon  for  truth  like  thine! 

Thou  wort,  of  all,  the  chosen  one, 
Bcfiirc,  whose  eyes  that  Face  Divine, 

When  risen  from  the  dead,  first  shone; 
That  thou  njighl'sl  see  how,  like  n  cloud, 
Hud  panVd  awny  its  mortal  shroud. 


And  make  that  bright  revealment  known 
To  hearts,  less  trubting  than  thy  own. 
All  is  affecting,  nliperinsr.  grand; 

The  kindliest  record  ever  giv'n, 
Ev'n  under  God's  own  kindly  hand. 

Of  what  Repentance  wins  from  Heav'n  ! 

No  wonder,  Mart,  th.at  thy  face, 

In  all  its  touching  light  of  tears. 
Should  meet  us  in  each  holy  place. 

Where  Man  before  his  God  appears. 
Hopeless — were  he  not  taught  to  see 
All  hope  in  Him,  who  pardon'd  thee  I 
No  wonder  that  the  painter's  skill 

Should  oft  have  triumph'd  in  the  pow'i 
Of  keeping  thee  .all  lovely  still 

Ev'n  in  thy  sorrow's  bitt'rest  hour; 
That  soft  CoKKEGGio  should  difluse 

His  melting  shadows  round  thy  form  ; 
That  Gnroo's  pale,  unearthly  hues 

Should,  in  portraying  thee,  grow  "'ari/l. 
That  all — from  the  ide.al,  grand. 
Inimitable  Roman  h.ind, 
Down  to  the  small,  enamelling  touch 

Of  smooth  Carlino — should  delight 
In  pict'ring  her,  who  "  loved  so  much," 

And  was,  in  spite  of  sin,  so  bright ! 

But,  Mary,  'mong  these  bold  essays 

Of  Genius  and  of  Art  to  raise 

A  semblance  of  those  weeping  eyes — 

A  vision,  worthy  of  the  sphere 
Thy  faith  has  carn'd  thee  in  tlie  skies. 

And  in  the  hearts  of  all  men  here, — 
None  e'er  hath  match'd,  in  gVief  or  grace, 
Canova's  day-dream  of  thy  face. 
In  those  bright  sculptured  forms,  more  I  right 
With  true  expression's  breathing  light. 
Than  ever  yet,  beneath  the  stroke 
Of  chisel,  into  life  awoke. 

The  one,"  portraying  what  thou  wert 

In  thy  first  grief, — while  yet  the  flow'r 
Of  those  young  beauties  was  unhurt 

By  sorrow's  slow,  consuming  pow'r; 
And  mingling  earth's  seductive  grace 

Willi  hcav'n's  subliining  thoughts  so  well, 
We  doubt,  while  gazing,  in  which  place 

Such  beauty  w.as  most  forin'd  to  dwell! 
The  other,  as  thou  look'dst,  when  years 
Of  fasting,  penilcncp,  ami  tears 
Had  worn  Ihy  frame; — and  ne'er  did  .\rl 

With  half  such  speaking  pow'r  e.xpross 
The  ruin  which  a  breaking  heart 

Spreaiis,  by  dogrccH,  o'er  loveliness. 


EHYMES  ON  THE  EOAD. 


215 


Tlioso  wasting'  arms,  tliat  keep  the  trace, 
Ev'n  still,  of'all  their  youthful  ni-M:e, 
That  loosen'd  hair,  of  vvhieh  thy  brow 
Was  once  so  proud, — neglected  now! — 
Those  features,  ev'n  in  fading  wortli 

Tlie  freshest  bloom  to  others  giv'n, 
And  those  sunk  eyes,  now  lost  to  earth. 

But,  to  the  last,  still  full  of  hcav'n  ! 

Wonderful  artist !  praise,  like  mine — 

Though  springing  from  a  soul,  that  feels 
Deep  worship  of  those  works  divine, 

Where  Genius  all  his  light  reveals — 
How  weak  'tis  to  the  words  that  came 
From  him,  thy  peer  in  art  and  fame," 
Whom  I  have  known,  by  day,  by  night, 
Hang  o'er  thy  marble  with  delight ; 
And,  while  his  ling'ring  hand  would  steal 

O'er  every  grace  the  taper's  rays," 
Give  thee,  with  all  the  gen'rous  zeal 
Such  master-spirits  only  feel. 

That  best  of  fame,  a  rival's  praise  ! 


EXTRACT  XVI. 

Le3  Charmettes. 
a  yisit  to  Ike  House  ichere  Rous:cau  Hoed  with  Madame  de 
Warrens. —  Their  MHoge. — Its  Orossness. — Claude  Jlnet. — 
Reverence  with  whidi  the  Spot  is  now  visited. — Ahsurditij  of 
this  blind  Devotion  to  Fame. — Feelings  excited  by  the  Beauty 
and  Seclusion  of  the  Scene.—Disturbcd  by  its  .Associations 
with  Rousseau's  History. — Impostures  of  Men  of  Genius. — 
Their  power  of  mimicking  alt  the  best  feelings,  Love,  Inde- 
pendence, ij-c. 

Strange  power  of  Genius,  that  can  throw 

Round  all  that's  vicious,  weak,  and  low, 

Such  magic  lights,  such  rainbow  dyes 

As  dazzle  ev'n  the  steadiest  eyes  ! 

****** 

****** 

'Tis  worse  than  weak — 'tis  wrong,  'tis  shame, 

This  mean  prostration  before  Fame ; 

This  casting  down,  beneath  the  car 

Of  Idols,  whatsoe'er  they  are, 

Life's  purest,  holiest  decencies. 

To  be  career'd  o'er,  as  they  please. 

No — give  triumphant  Genius  all 

For  which  his  loftiest  wish  can  call : 

If  he  bo  worshipp'd,  let  it  be 

For  attributes,  his  noblest,  first ; 
Not  wi'.h  that  base  idolatry, 

Whi(  h  sanctifies  his  last  and  worst. 

I  may  be  cold  ; — may  want  that  glow 

Of  high  romance,  which  bards  should  know ; 


Tliat  holy  homage,  which  is  felt 

In  treading  where  the  great  have  dwelt 

This  rev'rence,  whatsoe'er  it  be, 

I  fear,  I  feel,  I  have  it  not : — 
For  here,  at  this  still  hour,  to  me 

The  charms  of  this  delightful  spot; 
Its  calm  seclusion  from  the  throng. 

From  all  the  heart  would  fain  forget; 
This  narrow  valley,  and  the  song 

Of  its  small  murm'ring  rivulet; 
The  flitting,  to  and  fro,  of  birds, 

Tranquil  and  tame  as  they  were  once 
In  Eden,  ere  the  startling  words 

Of  man  disturb'd  their  orisons; 
Those  little,  shadowy  paths,  that  wind 
Up  the  hill-side,  with  fruit-trees  lined. 
And  lighted  only  by  the  breaks 
The  gay  wind  in  the  foliage  makes, 
Or  vistas,  here  and  there,  that  ope 

Through  weeping  willows,  like  the  snatches 
Of  far-off  scenes  of  light,  which  Hope 

Ev'n  through  the  shade  of  sadness  catches  !— 

All  this,  which — could  I  once  but  lose 

The  memory  of  those  vulgar  ties. 
Whose  grossness  all  the  heavenliest  hues 

Of  Genius  can  no  more  disguise. 
Than  the  sun's  beams  can  do  away 
The  filth  of  fens  o'er  which  they  play — 
This  scene,  which  would  have  fiU'd  my  heai 

With  thoughts  of  all  that  happiest  is  ; — 
Of  Love,  where  self  hath  only  part, 

As  echoing  back  another's  bliss  ; 
Of  solitude,  secure  and  sweet. 
Beneath  whose  shade  the  Virtues  meet ; 
Which,  while  it  shelters,  never  chills 

Our  symp.athies  with  human  woe, 
But  keeps  them,  like  sequester'd  rills. 

Purer  and  fresher  in  their  flow ; 
Of  happy  days,  that  share  their  beams 

'Twi.\t  quiet  mirth  and  wise  employ ; 
Of  tranquil  nights,  that  give,  in  dreams. 

The  moonlight  of  the  morning's  joy  ! — 
All  this  my  heart  could  dwell  on  here. 
But  for  those  gross  mementoes  near ; 
Those  sullying  truths,  that  cross  the  track 
Of  each  sweet  thought,  and  drive  them  back 
Full  into  all  the  mire,  and  strife, 
And  vanities  of  that  man's  life, 
Who,  more  than  all  that  e'er  have  glow'd 

With  F.ancy's  flame,  (and  it  was  his. 
In  fullest  warmth  and  radiance,)  show'd 

What  an  impostor  Genius  is; 
How,  with  that  strong,  mimetic  art. 

Which  forms  its  life  and  soul,  it  takes 


216 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


All  shapes  of  thought,  all  hues  of  heart, 

How  all,  in  short,  that  maki.s  the  boast 

Nor  feels,  itself,  one  throb  it  wakes ; 

Of  tlieir  false  tongues,  they  want  the  most , 

How  like  a  gem  its  light  may  smile 

And,  while  with  freedom  on  their  lips. 

O'er  the  dark  path,  by  mortals  trod. 

Sounding  their  timbrels,  to  set  free 

Itself  as  mean  a  worm,  the  while. 

This  bright  world,  laboring  in  th'  eclipse 

As  crawls  at  midnight  o'er  the  sod  ; 

Of  priestcraft,  and  of  slavery, — 

What  gentle  words  and  thoughts  may  fall 

They  may,  themselves,  be  slaves  as  low 

From  its  false  lip,  what  zeal  to  bless, 

As  ever  Lord  or  Patron  made 

Wliile  home,  friends,  kindred,  country,  all, 

To  blossom  in  his  smile,  or  grow. 

Lie  waste  beneath  its  selfishness ; 

Like  stunted  brushwood,  in  his  shade 

How,  with  the  pencil  hardly  dry 

Out  on  the  craft ! — I'd  rather  be 

From  coloring  up  such  scenes  of  love 

One  of  those  hinds,  that  round  nie  tread. 

And  beauty,  as  make  young  hearts  sigh. 

With  just  enough  of  sense  to  see 

And  dream,  and  think  through  heav'n  tliey  rove. 

The  noonday  sun  that's  o'er  his  head, 

They,  who  can  thus  describe  and  move. 

Than  tlius,  with  high-built  genius  cursed 

The  very  workers  of  these  charms. 

That  hath  no  heart  for  its  foundation. 

Nor  seek,  nor  know  a  joy,  above 

Be  all,  at  once,  that's  briglitest,  worst, 

Some  Sfaman's  or  Theresa's  arms 

Sublimest,  meanest  in  creation  I 

RHYMES  ON  THE  ROAD. 


217 


NOTES. 


(1)  Pleraquc  sua  carmiiia  cqiiitans  coinposiiit.—PARAViciN. 
Singular. 

(2)  "  Mes  penstes  dorment,  ai  je  Ics  asais." — Montaionk. 
Animus  eonun  qui  in  apcrto  acre  ambulant,  allollitur. 

Punt. 

(3)  The  only  aulliorily  I  know  for  irapuling  this  practice  to 
Plato  anil  Ilei'odotus,  is  a  Lafin  Poem  by  M.  do  Valois  on  his 
Bed,  in  which  he  says: — 

Lucifer  Herodotum  vidit  Vesperque  cubantem, 
Desedit  totos  heic  Plato  s^pe  dies. 

{4)  Sir  Richard  Blackinore  was  a  physician,  as  well  as  a  bad 
poet. 

(5)  E3dem  cura  nccminores  inter  cruciatus  aniinam  iuftlicem 
Bgenti  fuit  Asbiorno  Pruda?  Danico  heroi,  cum  Pruso  ipaum 
intestina  extrahens,  immaniter  torqueret,  tunc  onim  novera 
carmina  ceciuit,  &.c.^13artuolin.  de  Causis  Contempt.  Mort. 

(6)  Made  of  paper,  twisted  up  like  a  fan  or  feather. 

(7)  Madame  de  Slael. 

(8)  Beir"*^!!  ^"attay  and  Gex. 

(9)  Id  the  vear  1762.  wh€Q  the  forces  of  Berne,  Sardinia,  and 
France  laid  siege  to  Geneva^  and  when,  after  a  demonstration 
of  heroisrii  and  self-devotion,  which  promised  to  rival  the  feata 
of  their  ancestors  in  1C02,  against  Savoy,  the  Genevans,  either 
panic-struck  or  betrayed,  to  the  surprise  of  all  Europe,  opened 
their  gates  to  the  besiegers,  and  submitted  without  a  struggle 
to  the  extinction  of  their  liberties. — See  an  account  of  this 
Revolution  in  Coxe's  Switzerland. 


(in; 


nitidiqne  ciipidino  poini 

Declinat  cui-sus,  aurumque  volubile  tollit. 


Ovid. 


(11)  It  is  often  very  difficult  to  distinguish  between  clouds  and 
Alps;  and  on  the  evening  when  I  lirst  saw  this  magniflcent 
scene,  the  clouds  were  so  disposed  along  the  whole  horizon  as 
to  deceive  me  into  an  idea  of  the  stupendous  extent  of  these 
mountains,  which  my  subsequent  observation  was  very  far,  of 
course,  from  confirming, 

(12)  Tliis  picture,  the  Agar  of  Guercino,  and  the  Apostles  of 
Guido,  (the  two  latter  of  which  are  now  the  chief  ornaments 
of  the  Brera,)  were  formerly  in  the  Palazzo  Zampieri,  at 
Bologna. 

(13)  that  fair  field 

Of  Enna,  where  Proserpine,  gathering  flowers, 
Herself  a  fairer  flower,  by  gloomy  Dia  was  gather'd. 


(14)  The  extension  of  the  Divine  1 
regions  of  the  damned. 


jve  ultimntely  even  to  the 


(15)  It  is  probable  that  this  floe  head  is  a  portrait,  as  we  find 
It  repeated  io  a  picture  by  Guercino,  which  is  in  Ihe  posaea- 
VOL.  u. — 28 


sion  of  Sijiuor  Caniuccini,  the  brother  of  the  celebrated  palr.tor 
at  Home. 

(IG;  Under  tlie  Doge  Michiieli,  in  1171. 

( 17)  *"  La  famille  entiere  des  Jualinlnni,  Tune  dea  plua  illuatres 
de  Venise,  voulut  marcher  toute  cnticre  dana  cetto  expedition ; 
elle  fournit  cent  combattans ;  c'6tait  renouveler  Pexcmple  d'une 
illustre  famille  de  Rome;  le  meme  mnlheur  lea  attendaiU*' 
—  Ilistoirc  dc  fcjiise,  par  Dari:. 

(18)  The  celebrated  Era  Paolo.  The  collection  of  Maxims 
which  this  bold  monk  drew  up  at  the  request  of  iiie  Venetiaa 
Government,  for  the  guidance  of  the  Secret  Inquisition  of 
State,  are  so  atrocious  as  to  seem  rather  an  over-charged  satire 
upon  despotism,  than  a  system  of  policy,  seriously  inculcated, 
and  but  too  readily  and  constantly  pursued. 

The  spirit,  in  which  these  maxima  of  Father  Paul  are  cod- 
ceived,  maybe  judged  from  the  instructions  which  he  gives  for 
the  management  of  the  Venetian  colonies  and  provinces.  Of 
the  former  he  says: — "  II  faut  les  traiter  comme  dea  aniraaiut 
f6roces,  les  roguer  lea  dents,  et  les  griffea,  les  hurailier  eou- 
vent,  surtout  leur  titer  les  occasions  de  s'aguerrir.  Du  pain  et  le 
baton,  voila  ce  qu'il  leur  faut;  gardons  I'humanit^  pour  uuo 
raeilleure  occasion." 
For  the  treatment  of  the  provinces  he  advises  thua: — 
"  Tendre  a  d(';pouiller  les  viiles  de  leurs  privileges,  faire  que 
les  habitans  a'appauvrissent,  et  que  leurs  biens  aoient  achet^s 
par  les  V^nitiens.  Ceux  qui,  dans  les  conaeils  municipaux, 
Be  montreront  ou  plus  audacieux  ou  plus  d6vou6s  aux  int6r6tB 
de  la  population,  il  faut  lea  perdre  ou  les  gagner  a  quelque  prix 
que  ce  soit ;  cnjin^  s''il  se  trouve  dans  les  provinces  quelques 
chefs  de  parti.,  ii  faut  Us  ezterminer  sous  un  pretexte  quelconque^ 
mais  en  evitant  de  recourir  a  la  justice  ordinaire.  Que  le  poison 
fasse  roffi.ce  de  bourrcau^  ccla  est  mains  odieux  et  beaucovp  plus 
proftablc.'^ 

(19)  Conduct  of  Venice  towards  her  nlliea  and  dependencies, 
particularly  to  unfortunate  Padua.^Fate  of  Francesco  Carrara, 
for  which  see  Daru^  vol.  ii.  p.  141, 

(20)  "  A  Texception  dea  trente  citadins  adrais  au  grand  conseil 
pendant  la  guerre  di  Chiozzi,  il  n'est  pas  arriv6  una  seule  foia 
que  les  talens  ou  les  services  nient  paru  a  celte  noblesse  or- 
gueiUeuse  des  titres  suffisans  pour  s'asseoir  avec  eile.''— Darc. 

(21)  Among  those  admitted  to  the  honor  of  being  inscribed 
iu  the  I.ibro  d''oro  were  some  families  of  Brescia,  Treviso,  and 
other  places,  whose  only  claim  to  that  distinction  was  the  zeal 
with  which  they  prostrated  themselves  and  their  country  at 
the  feet  of  the  republic. 

(22)  By  the  infamous  statutes  of  the  State  iDquisitionf  not 
only  was  assassination  recognised  as  a  regular  mode  of  pun- 
ishment, but  this  secret  power  over  life  was  delegated  to  their 
minions  at  a  distance,  with  nearly  as  much  facility  as  a  license 
is  given  under  the  game  laws  of  England.  The  only  restriction 
seems  to  have  been  the  neceaaity  of  applying  for  a  new  cer- 
tificate, after  every  individual  exercise  of  the  power. 

M,  Daru  has  given  on  abstract  of  the  abo-s-e  Statutes,  fro3}  i 


218 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


raanuscript  in  the  Bibliothfiqae  du  Roi,  and  it  is  hardly  credible 
that  such  a  system  of  treachery  and  cruelty  should  ever  have 
been  established  by  any  government,  or  submitted  to,  for  an 
instaot,  by  any  people.  Among  various  precautions  against 
the  intrigues  of  their  own  Nobles,  we  find  the  following: — 
"  Pour  persuader  aux  strangers  qu'il  Hait  difficile  et  dangereux 
d*entretenir  quelque  intrigue  secrete  avec  les  nobles  V^nitieus, 
on  iraagina  de  faire  avertir  mysti^rieusement  le  Nonce  du  Pape 
(afiii  que  les  autres  ministres  en  fussent  informfs)  que  I'lnqui- 
aiiion  avait  autoria  39  patriciens  a  poignarder  quicouque 
essaierait  de  tenter  2urfid61it6.  Mais  craignant  que  les  am- 
bassadeurs  ne  pretassent  foi  difficilement  a  une  dt^Iibt^ration, 
qui  en  effet  n'existait  pas,  I'lnquisition  voulait  prouver  qu'elle 
en  etait  capable.  Elle  ordonna  dcs  rccherches  pour  dtcouvrir 
8'il  n'y  avait  pas  dans  Venise  quelque  exil6  au-dessus  du 
cominun,  qui  eut  rompu  son  ban ;  ensuite  nudes  patriciens 
qui  ttaient  aux  gages  du  tribunal,  recut  la  mission  d'assassiner 
ce  malheureux,  et  I'ordre  de  s'en  venter,  en  disant  qu'il  s't-tait 
port6  a  cet  acte,  parce  que  cc  banni  ttait  I'agent  d'un  rainistre 
etranger,  et  avait  cherch6  a  le  corrompre." — "  Remarquons," 
adds  .M.  Daru,  "que  ceci  n'est  pas  une  simple  anecdote  ;  c'cst 
une  mission  projetee,  delib6r<ie.  6crite  d'avance  ;  une  regie  de 
conduite  Irac^e  par  des  hommes  graves  a  leurs  8uccesseurs>  et 
consignee  dans  des  statuts." 

The  caseSfin  which  assassination  is  ordered  by  these  Stat- 
utes, are  as  follow:— 

"  L*n  ouvrier  de  Tarsenal,  un  chef  do  ce  qu'on  appclle  parmi 
Ics  marins  le  menstrance,  passait-il  an  service  d'une  puissance 
6trangere:  il  fallait  le  faire  assassiner,  surtout  si  c'6tait  un 
hummc  reputfi  brave  et  habile  dans  aa  profession."  {Art.  3,  des 
Statuts.) 

"  Avait-il  commis  quelque  action  qu'on  nu  jugeait  pas  a  pro- 
po8  de  puulr  Juridiquemcnt,  on  devait  lo  fairo  empoisonner." 
{Art.  14.) 

"Un  artisan  passait-il  a  I'fitranger  en  y  exportant  quelque 
proc4^d6  de  1  Industrie  nattonale:  cVlait  encore  un  crime  ca- 
pital, que  la  loi  fnconuue  ordonnait  de  punir  par  un  assas- 
Blnal."  {Art.  2ti.) 

The  facility  with  which  they  got  rid  of  their  Duke  of  Bedfords, 
I-rfjrd  Fitzwilliaras,  tc,  was  adtnirablo  :  it  was  thus  : — 

"  Lo  palricieo  qui  se  permettait  lo  moiudro  propos  contro 
lo  gouvernemcnU  6tait  admonCtti  deux  fois,  cl  a  la  troisi6me 
noye  eomme  incorrigible.'^  {Art.  39.) 

OKI)  "  Los  prisons  des  plombs;  c'est-a-dirocos  fournaises  ar- 
dontcs  qu'un  avail  dislribui-es  en  petites  cellules  sous  les  lor- 
rosscs  qui  couvrent  le  palais.'* 

(24)  Paaphon,  in  order  to  nttroct  Iho  altentlon  of  the  world, 
(aught  rauUiltides  of  birds  to  speak  his  name,  and  then  let  them 
fly  away  in  various  directions;  whence  the  proverb,  "  Psaphunis 
avts." 

(25)  Bruce. 

(36)  ^  And  tho  namo  of  the  Blar  is  called  wormwood,  and  the 
third  part  of  tho  waters  became  wormwood."— /Icr.  vHI 

rS7)  "  Did  a  sable  cloud 

Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  un  tho  night?" 

Comuf. 

(%)  In  tho  Tribune  at  Florence. 

(^)  In  Uio  Palazzo  Pitll. 

CXi)  Allndes  particularly  to  the  portrait  of  her  In  the  Pclarrn 
collection  at  Iliime,  whiiro  tho  look  of  mournful  reproach  In 
thofln  full,  ihndowy  ryen,  on  If  ahn  hail  been  nnjuitly  accunod 
of  ■umrthhiK  wrung,  li  oxquliUo. 

i'JI)  TIm  fln»  pIctMH)  lo  thcpulazio  Unrtih"."'", rolh-'t  atlin-d 


easy  to  say  why)  « Sacred  and  Profane  Love,"  in  which  the 
two  figures,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  fountain,  are  evidently 
portraits  of  the  same  person. 

(32)  This  fanciful  allegory  is  the  subject  of  a  picture  by  Ti- 
tian, in  the  possession  of  the  Marquis  Cambian  atTurin,  whose 
collection,  though  small,  contains  some  beautiful  specimens  of 
all  the  great  masters. 

(33)  As  Paul  Veronese  gave  but  little  into  the  beau  ideals  his 
women  may  be  regarded  as  pretty  close  imilations  of  the  living 
models  which  Venice  afi'orded  in  his  lime. 

(34)  Tho  .Marriage  of  Cana. 

(35)  "  Certain  it  is  (as  Arthur  Voung  truly  and  feelingly  says) 
one  now  aud  then  meets  with  terrible  eyes  in  Italy." 

(36)  It  was  pink  spencers^  I  believe,  that  the  imagination  ol 
the  French  traveller  conjured  up. 

(37)  L^tqne  ferunt  lietus  convivia  l^ta 

Et  celebras  lenlis  utia  mistajocis; 
Aut  citliara  ;estivum  altenuas  cautuquo  calorem. 

Hei  mihi,  qviam  dispar  nunc  mea  vita  tuiu  ! 
Xec  mihi  displiceant  quic  sunt  tibi  grata;  sed  ipsa  esti 

Te  sine,  lux  oculis  peno  inimica  meis. 
Non  auro  aut  geram;i  caput  exornarc  nitcnti 

Me  jiivat,  aut  Arabo  spargero  odore  comas: 
Non  celebres  ludos  fastis  speclarc  diebus. 

Sola  tuos  vultus  referens  Raphaclis  imago 

Picta  raanu,  curas  allevat  usque  meas. 
Iluic  ego  delicias  facio,  arridooquo  jocorquo, 

AUfiquor  et  tanquara  reddere  verba  queal. 
Assensu  nutuque  mihi  s:rpe  ilia  videtur 

Dicere  vollo  aliquid  et  tua  verba  loqui. 
Agnoycit  balboque  patrem  puer  ore  salutnt 

Hoc  aolor  longas  decipioque  dies. 

(,38)  llergamo- the  birthplace,  il  is  said,  of  Harlequin. 

(39)  The  Lago  di  Garda. 

(40)  Edward  Tuite  Dalton,  the  firot  husband  of  Sir  John 
Stevenson's  daughter,  the  late  Marcliioncss  of  lleadforl. 

(41)  Such  as  those  of  Domenicliino  in  the  Palazzo  Borghosoi 
:tl  the  Capitol,  &.C. 

(42)  Sir  John  Stevenson. 

(4:i)  The  '■•Conjuration  do  NicolnsOabrtnl,  dtt  do  Rienzl,"  oy 
tho  Jesuit  Du  Cercenu,  is  chiefly  taken  from  tho  much  more 
authentic  work  of  Fortlllocca  on  the  same  subjool.  Rlonzl 
was  tho  son  of  a  laundress. 

(44)  It  Is  not  easy  to  discover  what  church  is  meant  by  Du 
Corccau  hero:- "Il  lit  crlor  dans  les  rues  du  Rome,  li  sou  de 
trumpe,  que  chacun  cut  A  bo  Irouver,  sans  armos,  la  null  du 
lendomnin,  ilix-nouvieme,  dans  IVglUe  du  ch:'iteau  de  Saint- 
Ange,  nu  sun  do  lu  cloche,  atiri  do  pourvuir  au  Bon  Flat." 

(4.1)  "  Los  gimtilflhomines  conjures  portidenl  devanl  lui  (nils 
6tcn<larts.  Nicoliu)  (^uullato,  surnoinme  /r  bon  ilismr,  purlalt 
lo  premier,  qui  iMalt  do  cuulcur  rouge,  ol  plus  grand  (^uu  lea 
aulres.  <»n  y  voyall  dcs  CHrncteros  d'or  avec  un«  femnui  asnlso 
sur  deux  lions,  tennul  d'une  main  le  Klobe  du  moitde.  ct  de 
Tnutro  unr  Palme  pour  repr^sonler  la  ville  tie  Hume.  C'ctalt  le 
(Hinfnlon  de  la  Liberty.  Le  second,  a  fondH  bhnic,  avoc  un  8t. 
Paul  lonant  de  la  drulto  iirif)  F.p^e  nuu  ul  du  la  gauche  .4.  cnn- 
ronno  do  Justirr^  Hn\l  port*  par  Ktlcnnv  Magnacuccla,  notairo 
apfwtollquo.     Ujuh  I"  Iroljl^mn,  ft.  Pl'-rn*  nvuU  on  malu /nj 


EHYMES  ON  THE  ROAD. 


219 


c/r/ff  do  la  Concorde  et  do  la  Paix.  Tout  cela  inainuait  lo  dussoin 
de  Rienzi,  qui  6tn)t  do  r^tablir  la  liberie,  la  Juslice,  et  la 
paix."— Du  Ckrceau,  liv.  ij. 

(4G)  Rienzi. 

<47)  The  lino  Canzone  of  Petrarch,  be;>rinnin?  "  Ppirto  genlil," 
is  supposed,  by  Voltuiro  and  others,  to  have  been  addressed 
to  Uleuzi ;  but  there  is  much  more  evidence  of  its  having  been 
written,  as  GingucnO  asserts,  to  the  yountj  Stephen  Colouna,  on 
his  being:  created  a  Senator  of  Korne.  That  Petrarch,  however, 
was  filleil  with  high  and  patriotic  hopes  by  the  Iiryt  measures 
of  this  extraordinary  man,  appears  from  ono  of  his  letters, 
quote<l  by  Du  Cerceau,  where  he  says. — "  Pour  tout  dire,  en  un 
mot,  j'atteste,  non  conimo  lecteur,  mais  commo  t6moin  ocu- 
laire,  qu'il  nous  a  raraen6  la  justice,  la  paix,  la  bonne  foi,Ia 
B(icurit6,  et  tons  Ics  autres  vestiges  do  I'age  d'or." 

(48)  The  image  is  borrowed  from  Ilobbcs,  whose  words  arc, 
as  near  as  I  can  recollect : — '^  For  what  is  the  Papacy,  but  the 
Ghost  of  the  old  Roman  Empire,  sitting;  crowned  on  the  grave 
thereof  ?" 

(49)  The  paintings  of  those  artists  who  were  introduced  into 
Venice  and  Florence  from  Greece. 

(50)  Margaritone  of  Orezzo,  who  was  a  pupil  and  imitator  of 
the  (Greeks,  is  said  to  have  invented  this  art  of  gilding  the 
ornaments  of  pictures,  a  practice  which,  though  it  gave  way 
to  a  purer  taste  at  the  beginning  of  the  16lh  century,  was 
Btill  occasionally  used  by  many  of  the  great  masters;  as  by 
Raphael  in  the  ornaments  of  the  Fornarina,  and  by  Rubens  not 
unfrequently  in  glories  and  flames. 

(51)  Cimabue,  Giotto,  &c. 

(52)  The  works  of  Masaccio.— For  the  character  of  this 
powerful  and  original  genius,  see  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  twelfth 
discourse.  His  celebrated  frescoes  are  in  the  church  of  St. 
Pietro  del  Cai'mine,  at  Florence. 

(53)  All  the  great  artists  studied,  and  many  of  them  borrowed 
from  Masaccio.  Several  figures  in  the  Cartoons  of  Raphael 
are  taken,  with  but  little  alteration,  from  his  frescoes. 


(54)  ^'  And  a  light  shioed  in  the  prison  . 
fell  off  from  his  hands."— ^et*. 


.  and  Ins  chains 


(55)  Leonardo  da  Vine!. 

(.'iC)  His  treatise  on  Mechanics,  Opti:3,  &c.,  prusi :r\ed  in  '.ho 
Ambrosian  library  at  Milan. 

(.57)  On  dit  quo  Leonard  parut  pour  hi  premiere  fois  a  la 
cour  do  Milan,  dans  uu  espijce  do  conconrs  ouvert  entie  lea 
meilleurs  jouuurs  de  lyre  d'llalie.  II  se  prt-scnta  avoc  une  lyre 
do  sa  faron,  construit  en  argent.— //jj^/oiVc  de  la  Peinture  en 
Italic. 

(.'jS)  He  is  said  to  havo  been  four  years  employed  upon  tho 
portrait  of  this  fair  Florentine,  without  being  able,  after  all,  to 
como  up  to  his  idea  of  her  beauty. 

(59)  Vanity  and  Modesty  in  the  collection  of  Cardinal  Fesch, 
at  Rome.  Tho  composition  of  the  four  hands  here  is  rather 
awkward,  but  the  picture,  altogether,  is  very  delightful.  There 
is  a  repetition  of  tho  subject  in  the  possession  of  Lucien 
Bonaparte. 

(60)  The  Last  Supper  of  Leonardo  da  V^nci,  which  is  in  the 
Refectory  of  the  Convent  dello  Grazie  at  Milan,  .^ec  L'His- 
toire  de  la  Peinture  on  Italie,  liv.  iii.  chap,  4j.  The  writer  of 
that  interesting  work  (to  whom  I  take  this  oppi.rtunity  of 
offering  ray  acknowledgments,  for  the  copy  he  sent  me  a  year 
since  from  Rome)  will  see  I  have  profited  by  some  of  his  ob- 
servations ou  this  celebrated  picture. 

(61)  Leonardo  appears  to  have  used  a  mixture  of  oil  and 
varnish  for  this  picture,  which  alone,  without  the  various  other 
causes  of  its  ruin,  would  have  prevented  any  long  duration  of 
its  beauties.    It  is  now  almost  entirely  effaced. 

(02)  This  statue  is  one  of  the  last  works  of  Canova,  and  was 
not  yet  in  marble  when  I  left  Rome.  The  other,  which  seems 
to  prove,  in  contradiction  to  very  high  authority,  that  exprea- 
sion,  of  the  intensest  kind,  is  fully  within  tho  sphere  of 
sculpture,  was  executed  many  years  ago,  and  is  in  the  posaes- 
sion  of  the  Count  Somarivn,  at  Paris. 

(63)  Chantrey. 

(64)  Canova  always  shows  his  fine  h.atue,  the  Venere  VId- 
citrice,  by  the  light  of  a  small  candle. 


POLITICAL  AID  SATIEICAL  POEMS. 


THE  INSURRECTION  OF  THE  PAPERS, 


"It  would  be  impossible  for  his  Royal  Highness  to  disen- 
gage his  person  from  the  accumulating  pile  of  papers  that  en- 
compassed it." — Lord  Castlkreagu's  Spetch  upon  Colonel 
Jil'.Va/ia/Cs  Jlppointmcnt^  April  14,  1812. 

Last  night  I  toss'd  and  turn'd  in  bed, 
But  could  not  sleep — at  length  I  said, 
"  I'll  think  of  Viscount  Castlereagh, 
"And  of  his  speeches — that's  the  way." 
And  so  it  was,  for  instantly 
I  slept  as  sound  as  sound  could  be. 
And  then  I  dream'd — so  dread  a  dream! 
Fuseli  has  no  such  theme; 
Lewis  never  wrote  or  borrow'd 
Any  horror,  half  so  horrid! 

Jlethouglit  the  Prince,  in  whisker'd  state, 
Before  me  at  his  breakfast  sate; 
On  one  side  lay  unread  Petitions, 
On  t'other.  Hints  from  five  Physicians; 
Here  tradesmen's  bills, — offici.tl  p.iper9, 
Notes  from  my  Lady,  drams  for  vapors — 
There  plans  of  saddles,  tea  and  toast, 
De.ath-warrants  and  the  Horning  Post. 

When  lo  !  the  Papers,  one  and  all, 
As  if  at  some  ra.ngieian's  call, 
Began  to  flutter  of  themselves 
From  desk  and  table,  floor  and  shelvoB, 
And,  cutting  each  some  different  capers, 
Adv.anced,  oh  j.tcobinic  papers  ! 
As  though  they  said,  "  Our  solo  design  is 
"To  HulTocato  his  Royal  Highness!" 
The  leader  of  this  vile  sedition 
Was  a  huge  Catholic  Petition, 
With  grievances  so  full  and  heavy, 
It  threaleii'd  wmA  of  all  the  bevy. 
Then  Common-IIall  Addresses  camo 
(n  iw.iggering  shoetii  and  took  their  nhn 


Right  at  the  Regent's  well-dress'd  head. 

As  \i  determined  to  be  read. 

Next  Tradesmen's  Bills  began  to  fly. 

And  Tradesmen's  Bills,  we  know,  mount  high 

Nay,  ev'n  Death-w.arrants  thought  they'd  best 

Be  lively  too,  and  join  the  rest. 

But,  oh  the  basest  of  defections  ! 
His  letter  .-jbout  "  predilections," — 
His  own  dear  Letter,  void  of  grace. 
Now  flew  up  in  its  parent's  face ! 
Shock'd  with  his  breach  of  filial  duty. 
He  just  could  murmur  " et  Tu  Brute!" 
Then  sunk,  subdued  upon  the  floor 
At  Fo.t's  bust,  to  rise  no  more  I 

I  waked — and  pray'd,  w-ith  lifted  hand, 
"  Oh  !  never  may  this  Dream  prove  true 

"  Though  paper  overwhelms  the  land, 
"  Let  it  not  crush  the  Sovereign  too  !" 


PARODY 

OF    \    CELEBRATED    LETTIIR.' 

At  lenglli,  dearest  Freddy,  the  moment  la  nigh. 
When,  with  Perceval's  leave,  I  may  throw  my  chains 

by; 
And,  as  time  now  is  precious,  the  first  thing  I  do, 
Is  to  sit  down  and  write  a  wise  letter  to  you. 
*  *  *  * 


*  «  *  * 

I  meant  before  now  to  have  sent  you  this  Letter, 
But  Ynrmnulh  ami  I  (lioutjlit  perhaps  'twould  bo 
better 


POLITICAL  AND  SATIRICAL  POEMS. 


221 


To  wait  till  the  Irish  affairs  were  decided — 
(That  is,  till  both  Houses  had  prosed  and  divided, 
With  all   due  appearance  of  thought  and  diges- 
tion,)— 
For,  though  Hertford  House  had  long  settled  the 

question, 
I  thought  it  but  decent,  between  me  and  you, 
That  the  two  other  Houses  should  settle  it  too 

I  need  not  remind  you  how  cursedly  bad 
Our  affairs  were  all  looking,  when  Father  went 

mad  y' 
A  straight  waistcoat  on   him  and  restrictions  on 

me, 
A  more  Ihniled  Monarchy  could  not  well  be. 
I  was  call'd  upon  then,  in  that  moment  of  puzzle, 
To  choose  my  own  Minister — just  as  they  muzzle 
A  playful  young  bear,  and  then  mock  his  disaster. 
By  bidding  him  choose  out  his  own  dancing-master. 

I  thought  the  best  way,  as  a  dutiful  son, 
Was  to  do  as  Old  Royalty's  self  would  have  done.' 
So  I  sent  word  to  say,  I  would  keep  the  whole 

batch  in. 
The   same  chest  of  tools,   without  cleansing   or 

patching : 
For  tools  of  this  kind,  like  Martinus's  sconce  ;* 
Would  lose  all  their  Beauty,  if  purified  once ; 
And  think — only  think — if  our  Father  should  find, 
Upon  graciously  coming  again  to  his  mind," 
That  improvement  had  spoil'd  any  fovorite  adviser — 
That  Rose  was  grown  honest,  or  Westmoreland 

wiser — 
That    Radnor    was,    ev'n    by    one    twinkle,    the 

brighter — 
Or  Liverpool's  speeches  but  half  a  pound  lighter — 
What  a  shock  to  his  old  royal  heart  it  would  be  ! 
No  ! — far  were  such  dreams  of  improvement  from 

me: 
And  it  pleased  me  to  find,  at  tlie  House,  where,  you 

know," 
There's   such   good    mutton   cutlets,    and   strong 

cura^oa,' 
That  the  Marchioness  call'd  me  a  duteous  old  boy. 
And  my  Yarmouth's  red  whiskers  grew  redder  for 

joy- 

You  know,  my  dear  Freddy,  how  oft,  if  I  would. 
By  the  law  of  last  Sessions  I  might  have  done  good. 
I  might  have  withheld  these  political  noodles 
From  knocking  their  heads  against  hot   Yankee 

Doodles ; 
I  might  have  told  Ireland  I  pitied  lier  lot. 
Might  have  soothed  her  with  hope — but  you  know 
I  did  not. 


And  my  wish  is,  in  truth,  that  the  best  of  old 

fellows 
Should  not,  on  recovering,  have  cau.se  to  be  jealous, 
But  find  that,  while  he  has  been  laid  on  the  shelf, 
We've  been  all  of  us  nearly  as  mad  as  himself 
You  smile  at  my  hopes — but  the  Doctors  and  I, 
Are  the  last  th.-it  can  think  the  King  ei-er  will  Aw.' 

A  new  era's  arrived.'' — though  you'd  hardly  be- 
lieve it — 

And  all  things,  of  course,  must  be  new  to  receive  it. 

New  villas,  new  fetes,  (which  ev'n  Waithman  at- 
tends,)— 

New   .saddles,   new    helmets,   and — why   not    new 
friends  ? 

*  *  %  *  * 

***** 

I  repeat  it,  "  New  I'"'ricnds" — for  I  cannot  describe 

The  delight  I  am  in  with  this  Perceval  tribe. 

Such  capering  I — Such   vaporing! — Such  rigor  I^ 
Such  vigor! — 

North,  South,  East,  and  West,  they  have  cut  such 
a  figure, 

That  soon  they  will  bring  the  whole  world  round 
our  ears. 

And  leave  us  no  friends — but  Old  Nick  and  Algiers. 

When  I  think  of  the  glory  they've  beam'd  on  my 

chains, 
'Tis  enough  quite  to  turn  my  illustrious  brains. 
It  is  true  we  are  bankrupts  in  commerce  and  riches, 
But  think  how  we  find  our  Allies  in  new  breeches! 
We've  lost  the  warm  hearts  of  the  Irish,  'tis  granted, 
But  then  we've  got  Java,  an  island  much  wanted. 
To  put  the  last  lingering  few  who  remain. 
Of  the  Walcheren  warriors,  out  of  their  pain. 
Then  how  Wellington  fights !  and  how  squabbles 

his  brother ! 
For  Papists  the  one,'  and  with  Papists  the  other, 
One  crushing  Napoleon  by  taking  a  City, 
While  t'other  lays  waste  a  whole  Cath'lic  Com- 

mittee. 
Oh  deeds  of  renown! — .shall  I  boggle  or  flinch. 
With  such  prospects  before  me?  by  Jove,  not  an 

inch. 
No — let  England's  affairs  go  to  rack,  if  they  will, 
We'll  look  after  th'  afiairs  of  the  Continent  still; 
And,  with  nothing  at  home  but  starvation  and  riot. 
Find  Lisbon  in  bread,  and  keep  Sicily  quiet. 

I  am  proud  to  declare  I  have  no  predilections," 
My  heart  is  a  sieve,  where  some  scatter'd  affections 
Are  just  danced  about  for  a  moment  or  two. 
And  the  finer   they   are,  the    more    sure  to   run 
through : 


222 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Neither  feel  I  resentments,  nor  wish  there  should 

come  ill 
To  mortal — except  (now  I  tliink  on't)  Beau  Brum- 

mel, 
Who  threaten'd  last  year,  in  a  superfine  passion, 
To  cut  TTie,  and  bring  the  old  King  into  fashion. 
This  is  all  I  can  lay  to  my  conscience  at  present ; 
When  such  is  my  temper,  so  neutral,  so  pleasant, 
So  royally  free  from  all  troublesome  feelings. 
So  little  encumber'd  by  faith  in  my  dealings, 
(And  that  I'm  consistent  the  world  will  allow, 
^Vhat  I  was  at  Newmarket  the  same  I  am  now.) 
When  such  are  ray  merits,  (you  know  I  hate  crack- 
in?,) 
I  hope,  like  the  Vender  of  Best  Patent  Blacking, 
"  To  meet  with  the  gen'rous  and  kind  approbation 
"Of  a  candid,  cnlighten'd,  and  liberal  nation." 

By  the  by,  ere  I  close  this  magnificent  Letter, 
(No  man,  except  Pole,  could  have  writ  you  a  better,) 
Twould  please  me  if  those,  whom  I've  humbugg'd 

so  long"  • 

With  the  notion  (good  men  I)  th.at  I  knew  right 

from  wrong. 
Would  a  few  of  them  join  me — mind,  only  a  few — 
To  let  too  much  light  in  on  me  never  would  do ; 
But  even  Grey's  brightness  shan't  make  me  afraid. 
While  I've  Camden  and  Eldon  to  fly  to  for  shade  ; 
Nor  will  Holland's  clear  intellect  do  us  much  harm. 
While  there's  Westmoreland  near  him  to  weaken 

the  charm. 
As  for  Moir.a's  high  spirit,  if  aught  can  subdue  it. 
Sure  joining  with  Hertford  and  Yarmouth  will  do 

it! 
Between  Radnor  and  Wliarton  let  Sheridan  sit. 
And  the  fogs  will  soon  quench  even  Sheridan's  wit: 
And  against  all  the  pure  public  feeling  th.it  glows 
Ev'n  in  Wliitbrcad  himself  we've  a  Host  in  George 

Rose  ! 
So,  in  short,  if  they  wish  to  have  Places,  they  may. 
And  I'll  thank  you   to  tell  all  these  matters  to 

Grey," 
Who,  I  doubt  not,  will  write  (as  there's  no  time  to 

lose) 
By  the  twopenny  po»t  to  tell  Grenville  the  news ; 
And  now,  dearest  Fred,  (though  I've  no  predilec- 
tion,) 
Believe  me  yours  always  with  truest  affection. 

P.  S.     A  copy  of  this  is  to  Perceval  going:" 
tiood  Lord,  how  St,  Stephoi's  will  ring  with  his 
crowing ! 


ANACRKONTIC. 

TO  A  PLUMASSIEE. 

Fixe  and  feathery  artisan, 
Best  of  Plumists  (if  you  can 
With  your  art  so  far  presume) 
M.ake  for  me  a  Prince's  Plume — 
Feathers  soft  and  feathers  rare. 
Such  as  suits  a  Prince  to  wear. 

First,  Ihou  downiest  of  men. 
Seek  me  out  a  fine  Pea-hen  ; 
Such  a  Hen,  so  tall  and  grand, 
As  by  Juno's  side  might  stand, 
If  tliere  were  no  cocks  at  hand. 
Seek  her  feathers,  soft  as  down, 
Fit  to  shine  on  Prince's  crown  ; 
If  thou  canst  not  find  them,  stupid! 
Ask  the  w.iy  of  Prior's  Cupid." 

Ranging  these  in  order  due. 
Pluck  me  next  an  old  Cuckoo  ; 
Emblem  of  the  happy  fates 
Of  easy,  kind,  cornutcd  mates. 
Pluck  him  well — be  sure  you  do — 
Who  wouldn't  be  an  old  Cuckoo, 
Thus  to  have  his  plumage  bicss'd, 
Beaming  on  a  Royal  crest  ? 

Bravo,  PlumistI — now  what  bird 
Shall  we  find  for  Plume  tlie  third  ? 
You  must  get  a  learned  Owl, 
Bleakest  of  bl.iek-letter  fowl, — 
Bigot  bird,  that  hates  the  light," 
Foe  to  all  that's  fair  and  bright. 
Seize  his  quills,  (so  form'd  to  pen 
Books,"  that  shun  the  se:irch  of  men  j 
Books,  that,  far  from  every  eye. 
In  "svvelter'd  venom  sleeping"  lie,) 
Stick  llicm  in  between  the  (wo. 
Proud  Pea-hen  and  old  Cuckoo 

Now  you  have  the  triple  leather. 
Bind  the  kindred  stems  together 
Willi  a  silken  tie,  whoso  hue 
Once  was  brilliant  Bnfi'and  Blue; 
Sullied  now — alas,  how  much  I 
Only  fit  for  Ynrnioiith's  IcmicIi. 

There — »iioiigh — thy  task  is  done  ; 
Present,  worthy  George's  Son  ; 
Now,  beneath,  in  letters  neat. 
Write  "  I  SKRVE,"  ;Mid  all's  coinpluto. 


POLITICAL  AND  SATIRICAL  POEMS. 


223 


EXTRACTS 

FROM    TIIK    DIARV    OF    A    rOLlTICIAN. 

fVednesdafj. 
Through  Manclicster  Square  took   a  cantor  just 

now — 
Met  the  nhl  ye.Utno  r.hariol"  aud  in:ide  a  low  bow. 
This  I  did,  of  course,  thinkinir  'twas  loyal  and  civil, 
But  got  such  a  look — oh  'twas  black  as  the  devil ! 
How  unlucky! — incog,  he  was  trav'ling  about. 
And  I,  like  a  noodle,  must  go  find  him  out. 

Mem. — ulien  ne.\t  by  the  old  yellow  chariot  I  ride, 
To  remember  tliere  is  nothing  princely  inside. 

Thursday. 

At  Levee  to-day  made  another  .sad  blunder — 
What  can  be  come  over  me  lately,  I  wonder? 
The  Prince  was  as  cheerful,  as  if,  all  his  life, 
He  had  neverbeen  troubled  with  Friends  or  a  Wife — 
"  Fine  weather,"  .says  lie — to  which  I,  who  7mist 

prate, 
Answer'd,  "  Yes,  Sir,  but  changeable  rather  of  late." 
He  took  it,  I  fear,  for  he  look'd  somewhat  gruff. 
And  handled  his  new  pair  of  whiskers  so  rough. 
That  before  all  the  courtiers  I  fear'd  thev'd  come 

off. 
And  then,  Lord,  hov,'  Geramb"  would  triumphantly 

scoff' 

Mem. — to  buy  for  son  Dicky  some  unguent  or  lotion 
To  nourish  his  whiskers — sure  road  to  promotion  !" 

'  iiaturdni/. 

Last  night  a  Concert — vastly  gay — 
Given  by  Lady  Castlereagh. 
My  Lord  loves  music,  and,  we  know, 
Has  "two  strings  always  to  his  bow.""° 
In  choosing  songs,  the  Regent  named 
"Had  la  heart  for  falsehood  framed.^' 
While  gentle  Hertford  begg'd  and  pray'd 
For  "  Young  I  am,  and  sore  afraid." 


K.riGRAM. 

What  news  to-day  ? — Oh  I  worse  and  worsc- 
*'  J\Iao"  is  the  Prince's  Privy  Purse !" — 
The  Prince's  Purse!  no,  no,  you  fool, 
Yen  mean  the  Prince's  Ridicule. 


KING  CRACK"  AND  HIS  IDOLS. 

WRITTK.V    AI'THR    THE    LATE    NEQOTIATION    FOR    A    NEW 
UIXISTBV. 

King  Crack  was  the  best  of  all  possible  Kings, 
(At  least,  so  his  Courtiers  would  swear  to  you 
gladly,) 

But  Crack  now  and  then  would  do  het'rodox  things 
And,  at  last,  took  to  worshipping-  Images  sadly. 

Some  broken-down  Idols,  tliat  long  had  been  placed 

In  his  father's  old  Cabinet,  pleased  him  so  much, 

That  he  knelt  down  and  worshipped,  though — such 

was  his  taste — 

They  were  monstrous  to  look  at,  and  rotten  to 

touch. 

And  these  were  the  beautiful  Gods  of  King  Crack ! — 

But  his  People,  disdaining  to  worship  such  things. 

Cried  arloud,  one  and  all,  "  Come,  your  Godships 

must  pack — 

"You'll  not  do  for  us,  though  you  7iiai/  do  for 

Kings." 

Then,  tr.impling  these  images  under  their  feet, 
They  sent  Crack  a  petition,  beginning  "Great 
Ciesar ! 
"  We're  willing  to  worship;  but  only  entreat 
"  That  you'll  find  us  some  decenler  Godheads  than 
these  are." 

"I'll  try,"  says  King  Crack — so  they  furnish'd  him 

models 

Of  better-shaped  Gods,  but  he  sent  them  all  back, 

Some  were  chisell'd  too  fine,  some  had  heads  'stead 

of  noddles, 

In  short,  they  were  all  much  too  godlike  for  Crack. 

So  he  took  to  his  darling  old  Idols  again, 

.\nd,  just  mending  their  legs  and  new  bronzing 
their  faces, 
III  open  defiance  of  Gods  and  of  man. 

Set  the  monsters  up  grinning  once  more  in  their 
places. 


WHAT'S  MY  THOUGHT  LIKE  J 

Quest.  Wht  is  a  Pump  like  Viscount  Castlereagh! 

Ansjv.  Because  it  is  a  slender  thing  of  wood, 
That  up  and  down  its  awkward  arm  doth  sway, 
And  coolly  apout  and  spout  and  spout  away, 

In  one  weak,  washy,  everlasting  flood  I 


224 


MOOEE'S  WOKKS. 


EPIGRAM. 

DULOGUE    BETWEEN    A    CATHOLIC    DELEGATE    AND    HIS 
BOTAL    HIGHNESS    THE    DCKC    OF    CrMBERLAND. 

Said  his  Highness  to  Ned,"'  with  that  grim  face  of 
his, 
"  Why  refuse  us  the  Veto,  dear  Catholic  Neddy  !" 
"  Because,  Sir,"  said  Ned,  looking  full  in  his  phiz, 
"  You're  forbidding  enough,  in  all  conscience,  al- 
ready !" 


■tt'KEATHS  FOR  THE  MINISTERS. 

AN    ANACEEONTIC. 

Hither,  Flora,  Queen  of  Flowers! 
Haste  thee  from  Old  Broinpton's  bowers- 
Or,  (if  sweeter  that  abode,) 
From  the  King's  well-odor'd  Road, 
Where  each  little  nursery  bud 
Breathes  the  dust  and  quaffs  the  mud. 
Hither  come  and  gayly  twine 
Brightest  herbs  and  flowers  of  thine 
Into  wreaths  for  those  who  rule  us. 
Those,  who  rule  and  (some  say)  fool  us- 
Flora,  sure,  will  love  to  please 
England's  Household  Deities  !'* 

First  you  must  then,  willy-nilly, 
Fetch  me  many  an  orange  lily — 
Orange  of  the  darkest  dye 
Irish  GifTord  can  supply  ; — 
Choose  me  out  the  longest  sprig, 
And  stick  it  in  old  Eldon'3  wig. 

Find  me  next  a  Poppy  posy, 
Type  of  his  harangues  so  dosy. 
Garland  gaudy,  dull  and  cool, 
To  crown  the  head  of  Liverpool. 
'Twill  console  his  brilliant  brows 
For  th.at  loss  of  laurel  boughs, 
Which  they  sufTev'd  (what  a  pity !) 
On  the  road  to  Paris  City. 

Next,  our  Castlercagh  to  crown. 
Bring  me  from  the  County  Down, 
Wither'd  Shamrocks,  which  have  been 
Gilded  o'er,  to  hide  the  green — 
(Such  as  Hcadfort  brought  away 
From  Pall-Mall  last  Patrick's  day)—" 
Rtilch  the  garland  through  and  through 
With  shabby  threads  of  every  hue  ; — 
And  .'IS,  Goddess  I — enlre  7wus — 
Hin  liird-tliip  loves  ((hough  l)cst  of  mon) 
A  little  Uirlura,  oow  and  then, 


Crimp  the  leaves,  thou  first  of  Syrens 
Crimp  them  with  thy  curling-irons. 

That's  enough — away,  away — 
Had  I  leisure,  I  could  say 
How  the  oldest  rose  that  grows 
JIust  bo  pluck'd  to  deck  Old  Rose — 
How  the  Doctor's"'  brow  should  smile 
Crown'd  with  wreaths  of  chamomile. 
But  time  presses — to  thy  taste 
I  leave  the  rest,  so,  prithee,  haste ! 


EPIGRAM. 

DIALOOnE    BETWEEN  A  DOWAGEK    AND    UER,    MAID    ON    lOB 
NIGHT    OF    LORD    YARMOUTH'S    FETE. 

"  I  WANT  the  Court  Guide,"  said  my  lady,  "  to  look 

"  If  the  House,  Seymour  Place,  be  at  30,  or  20."— 

"We've  lost  the   Court  GiiiWe,  Ma'am,  but  here's 

the  Red  Book, 

"  Where  you'll  find,  I  dare  say,  Seymour  Places 

in  plenty !" 


HORACE,  ODE  XI.  LIR.  II. 

FREELY    TRANSLATED    BY    TlIF    I'aiNCK    REGENT." 

"  Come   Yarmouth,  my   boy,  never   trouble   youi 
brains, 
About  what  your  old  crony, 
The  Emperor  Boney, 
Is  doing  or  brewing  on  Muscovy's  plains; 

'■"  Nor  tremble,  my  hid,  at  the  st.ite  of  our  granaries : 
Should  there  come  famine, 
Still  plenty  to  cram  in 
You  always  shall  have,  my  dear  Lord  of  the  Stan- 
naries. 

Brisk  let  us  revel,  while  revel  wo  may ; 
"  For  the  gay  bloom  of  fifty  soon  passes  away, 
And  then  people  get  fat. 
And  infirm,  and — all  that, 
*'  And  a  wig  (I  confess  it)  so  clumsily  sits, 

That  it  frightens  the  little  Loves  out  of  their  \vit»; 

"  Thy  whiskers,  too,  Ynrmouth! — alas,  even  they, 
Though  so  rosy  they  burn. 
Too  quickly  must  turn 
(What  a  he.art-breaking  ohango  for  thy  wliis- 
kors !)  to  Groy. 


POLITICAL  AND  SATIRICAL  POEMS. 


225 


"  Then  why,  my  Lord  Warden,  oh !   why  should 
you  fidget 
Your  mind  about  matters  you  don't   under- 
stand ? 
3r  wliy  should  you  write  yourself  down  for  an 
idiot, 
Because  " you"  forsooth,  " have  the  pen  in  your 
hard!" 

Think,  think  how  much  better 
Than  scribbling  a  letter, 
(Which  both  you  and  I 
Should  avoid  by  the  by,) 
"  How  much  pleasanter  'tis  to  sit  under  the  bust 
Of  old  Charley,"  my  friend  here,  and  drink 
like  a  new  one; 
While  Charley  looks  sulky  and  frowns  at  me,  just 
As  the  Ghost  in  the  Pantomime  frowns  at  Don 

Juan. 
"  To  crown  us.  Lord  Warden, 
In  Cumberland's  garden 
Grows  plenty  of  monk's  hood  in  venomous  sprigs ! 
While  Otto  of  Roses 
Refreshing  all  noses 
Shall  sweetly  exhale  from  our  whiskers  and  wigs. 

"  What  youth  of  the  Household  will  cool  our  Noyau 
In  that  streamlet  delicious, 
That  down  'midst  the  dishes. 
All  full  of  gold  fishes. 
Romantic  doth  flow  ? — 
"  Or  who  will  repair 
Unto  Manchester  Square, 
And  see  if  the  gentle  Marchesa  be  there  ? 
Go — bid  her  haste  hither, 
"  And  let  her  bring  with  her 
The  newest  No-Popery  Sermon  that's  going — 
*°  Oh !  let  her  come,  with  her  dark  tresses  flowing. 
All  gentle  and  juvenile,  curly  and  gay. 
In  the  manner  of — Ackermann's  Dresses  for  May ! 


HORACE,  ODE  XXII.  LIB.  L 

FREBLT  TRANSLATED  BT  LORD  ELDON. 

"  The  man  who  keeps  a  conscience  pure, 
(If  not  his  own,  at  least  his  Prince's,) 
Through  toil  and  danger  walks  secure, 
Looks  big  and  black,  and  never  winces. 

"  No  want  has  he  of  sword  or  dagger, 
Cock'd  hat  or  ringlets  of  Geramb  ; 
Though  Peers  may  laugh,  and  Papists  swagger, 
He  doesn't  care  one  single  d-mn. 
VOL.  n  —29 


"  Whether  midst  Irish  chairmen  going, 
Or  through  St.  Giles's  alleys  dim, 
'Mid  drunken  Shoelahs,  blasting,  blowing, 
No  matter,  'tis  all  one  to  him. 

"  For  instance,  I,  one  evening  late. 
Upon  a  gay  vacation  sally, 
Singing  the  praise  of  Church  and  State, 

Got  (God  knows  how)  to  Cranbourne  Alley 

When  lo  !  an  Irish  Papist  darted 

Across  my  patli,  gaunt,  grim,  and  big — 

I  did  but  frown,  and  off"  he  started, 
Scared  at  me,  even  without  my  wig. 

"  Yet  a  more  fierce  and  raw-boned  dog 
Goes  not  to  mass  in  Dublin  City, 
Nor  shakes  his  brogue  o'er  Allen's  Bog, 
Nor  spouts  in  Catholic  Committee. 

"  Oh !  place  me  midst  O'Rourkes,  O'Toolcs, 
The  ragged  royal-blood  of  Tara ; 
Or  place  me  where  Dick  Martin  rules 
The  houseless  wilds  of  Connemara  ; 

"  Of  Church  and  State  I'll  warble  still 

Though  ev'n  Dick  Martin's  self  should  grum- 
ble; 
Sweet  Church  and  State,  like  Jack  and  Jih, 
"  So  lovingly  upon  a  hill — 

Ah  !  ne'er  like  Jack  and  Jill  to  tumble  I 


THE  NEW  COSTUME  OF  THE  MINISTERS. 

■ Nova  inonstra  creavit. 

Ovid.  Metamorph.  I.  i.  v.  437. 

Having  sent  off"  the  troops  of  brave  Major  Camac, 
With  a  swinging  horse-tail  at  each  valorous  back, 
And  such  helmets,  God  bless  us !  as  never  deck'd 

any 
Male  creature  before,  except  Signor  Giovanni — 
"  Let's  see,"  said  the  Regent,  (like  Titus,  perplex'd 
With  the  duties  of  empire,)  "  w'hom  shall  I  dress 

nextl" 

He  looks  in  the  glass — but  perfection  is  there. 
Wig,  whiskers,  and  chin-tufts  all  right  to  a  hair ;" 
Not  a  single  ex-curl  on  his  forehead  he  traces — 
For  curls  are  like  Ministers,  strange  as  the  case  is. 
The /aZser  they  are,  the  more  firm  in  their  places. 
His  coat  he  next  views — but  the  coat  who  could 

doubt? 
For  his  Yarmouth's  o-mi  Frenchified  hand  oiit  it  oat; 


226 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Every  pucker  and  seam  were  made  matters  of  state, 
And  a  Grand  Household  Council  was  held  on  each 
plait. 

Then  whom  shall  he  dress  ?  shall  he  new-rig  his 

brother, 
Great  Cumberland's  Duke,  with  some  kickshaw  or 

other? 
And  kindly  invent  him  more  Christian-like  shapes 
For  his  feather-bed  neckcloths  and  pillory  capes. 
Ah !  no — here  his  ardor  would  meet  with  delays. 
For  the  Duke  had  been  lately  pack'd  up  in  new 

stays. 
So  complete  for  the  winter,  he  saw  very  plain 
'Twould  be  devilish  hard  work  to  unpack  him  again. 

So,  what's  to  be  done  ? — there's  the  5Iinisters, 
bless  'em  ! — 

As  he  made  tlie  puppets,  why  shouldn't  he  dress  'em  ? 

"  An  excellent  thought ! — call  the  tailors— be  nim- 
ble— 

"  Let  Cum  bring  his  spy-glass,  and  Hertford  her 
thimble ; 

«  While  Yarmouth  shall  give  us,  in  spite  of  all 
quizzers, 

"  The  last  Paris  cut  with  his  true  Gallic  scissors." 

So  saying,  he  calls  Castlere.igh,  and  the  rest 
Of  his  heaven-born   statesmen,  to  come  .ind  be 

dress'd. 
While  Yarmouth,  with  snip-like  and  brisk  expedi- 
tion. 
Cuts  up,  all  at  once,  a  large  Cath'lic  Petition 
In  long  tailors'  measures,  (the  Prince  crying  "  Well- 
done  !") 
And  first  puis  in  hand  ray  Lord  Chancellor  Eldon. 
*  ♦  *  * 


CORRESPONDENCE 

BETWEEN  A  LADY  AND  GENTLEMAN, 

orom  the  adtantaok  of  (what  is  called)   "  datixo 
law"  on  onk's  side." 

The  OerUkman's  Proposal. 

"  Lcfftfo  nurett, 
8'el  place,  el  llco." 

CoHE,  fly  to  these  arm^,  nor  lot  beauties  so  bloomy 

To  ono  frigid  owner  bo  tied ; 
Your  prudes  may  revile,  and  your  old  ones  look 
gloomy, 

Bvt,  drtrost,  we've  I/<iu  on  our  nido. 


Oh!  think  the  delight  of  two  lovers  congenial. 

Whom  no  dull  decorums  divide ; 
Their  error  how  sweet,  and  their  raptures  how 
venial, 

When  once  they've  got  Law  on  their  side. 

'Tis  a  thing,  that  in  every  King's  reign  has  been 
done,  too ;      * 
Then  why  should  it  now  be  decried  ? 
If  the  Father  has  done  it,  why  shouldn't  the  Son, 
too? 
For  so  argues  L.aw  on  our  side. 

And,  ev'n  should  our  sweet  violation  of  duty 

By  cold-blooded  jurors  be  tried. 
They  can  but  bring  it  in  "  a  misfortune,"  my  beauty, 

As  long  as  we've  Law  on  our  side. 

The  Lady's  Answer. 

Hold,  hold,  my  good  sir,  go  a  little  more  slowly  ; 

For,  grant  me  so  faithless  a  bride, 
Such  sinners  as  we,  are  a  little  too  lowly, 

To  hope  to  have  Law  on  our  side. 

Il.id  you  been  a  gre.at  Prince,  to  whose  star  slii. 
ning  o'er  'em 
The  people  should  look  for  their  guide. 
Then  your  Highness  (.and  welcome  !)  might  kick 
down  decorum — 
You'd  always  have  Law  on  your  side. 

Were  you  ev'n  an  old  Marquis,  in  mischief  grown 
hoary. 

Whose  he.irt,  tliough  it  long  ago  died 
To  the  pleasures  of  vice,  is  alive  to  its  glory — 

You  still  would  have  Law  on  your  side. 

But  tor  you,  sir,  crim.  con,  is  a  path  full  of  Irouble.i, 

By  my  .idvieo  therefore  abide, 
And  leave  the  pur.suit  to  those  Princes  and  Noblen 

Who  have  such  a  Law  on  their  side. 


OCCASIONAL  ADDRESS 

Foil  THE  OPENINO  OF  TIIF.  NEW  TIIEATRF.  OP 
ST.  STEPHEN. 

INTF.NDKD  TO   HAVE   BEEN  SPOKEN  IIV  THE  PROPRIETOB  IW 
FULL  009Ti;UK,  ON  THE  2'ItII  OK  NOVESIBEIl,  1812. 

This  day  ii  New  House,  for  your  edification, 
We  open,  most  thinking  and  righl-hcadod  nation  I 


POLITICAL  AND  SATIRICAL  POEMS. 


227 


•fixcuso  the  materials — though  rotten  and  bad. 
Thoy're  the  best  that  for  money  just  now  couUl  be 

had ; 
^nd,  it' echo  the  charm  of  such  houses  should  be 
V'ou  will  find  it  sliall  echo  my  speech  to  a  T. 

As  for  actors,  we've  got  the  old  Company  yet, 
The  same  motley,  odd,  trngi-coraical  set ; 
And  eonsid'ring  they  all  were  but  clerks  t'other  day, 
It  is  truly  surprising  how  well  they  can  phiy. 
Our  Jlanager,"  (he,  who  in  Ulster  was  nursed. 
And  sung  Erin  go  Brah  for  the  galleries  first. 
But,  on  finding  PtK-interest  a  much  better  thing. 
Changed  his  note  of  a  sudden,  to  God  save  the  King,) 
Still  wise  as  he's  blooming,  and  fat  as  he's  clever, 
Himself  and  his  speeches  as  lengthy  as  ever. 
Here  offers  you  still  the  full  use  of  his  breath. 
Your  devoted  and  long-winded  proser  till  deatli. 

You  remember  last  season,  when  things  went 

perverse  on, 
We  had  to  engage  (as  a  block  to  rehearse  on) 
One  Mr.  Vansittart,  a  good  sort  of  person, 
Who's  also  employ'd  for  this  season  to  play. 
In  "  Raising  the  Wind,"  and  the  "  Devil's  to  Pay."" 
We  expect  too — at  least  we've  been  plotting  and 

planning — 
To  get  that  great  actor  from  Liverpool,  Canning  ; 
And,  as  at  the  Circus  there's  nothing  attracts 
Like  a  good  single  combat  brought  in  'twixt  the  acts, 
If  the  manager  should,  with  the  help  of  Sir  Popham, 
Get  up  new  diversions,  and  Canning  should  stop 'em. 
Who   knows  but  we'll    have  to  announce  in  the 

papers, 
"  Grand  fight,  second  time,  with  additional  capers." 

Be  your  taste  for  the  ludicrous,  humdrum,  or  sad. 
There  is  plenty  of  each  in  this  House  to  be  had. 
Where  our  Manager  ruleth,  there  weeping  will  be, 
For  a  dead  hand  at  tragedy  always  was  he  ; 
And  there  never  was  dealer  in  dagger  and  cup. 
Who  so  smilingly  got  al.  his  tragedies  up. 
His  powers  poor  Ireland  will  never  forget, 
.\nd  the  widows  of  Walcheren  weep  o'er  them  yet. 

So  much  for  the  actors ; — for  secret  machinery. 
Traps,  and  deceptions,  and  shifting  of  scenery, 
Yarmouth  and  Cum  are  the  best  we  can  find, 
To  transact  all  that  trickery  business  behind. 
The  former's  employ'd  to  teach  us  French  jigs, 
Keep  the  whiskers  in  curl,  and  look  after  the  wigs. 

In  taking  my  leave  now,  I've  only  to  say, 
A  few  Seats  in  the  House,  not  as  yet  sold  awa^ 
May  be  had  of  the  Manager,  Pat  Castlereagh. 


THE  SALE  OF  I'HE  TOOLS. 

Inatrumenta  regni.— TACtTUf. 

Here's  a  choice  set  of  Tools  for  you,  Ge'ramen  and 

Ladies, 
They'll  fit  you  quite  hajidy,  whatever  your  trade  is: 
(Except  it  bo  Cabinet-making  ; — no  doubt. 
In  that  delicate  service  they're  rather  worn  oulr 
Though  their  ovvjier,  bright  youth!  if  Iie'd  had  lii-j 

own  will. 
Would    have    bungled    away   with   them   joyously 

still.) 
You  can  see  they've  been  pretty  well  hacked — and 

alack ! 
What  tool  is  there  job  after  job  will  not  hack  1 
Their  edge  is  but  dullish,  it  must  be  confess'd, 
And  their  temper,  like  Ellenb'rough's,  none  of  the 

best; 
But  you'll  find  them  good  hard-working  Tools,  upon 

trying, 
Wer't  but  for  their  brass,  they  are  well  worth  the 

buying; 
They're  famous  formaking  iZiTiis,  s/ifers,  and  screens, 
And  are,  some  of  them,  excellent  turning  machines. 

Tlie  first  Tool  I'll  put  up  (they  call  it  a  Chancellor) 
Heavy  concern  to  both  purchaser  and  seller. 
Though  made  of  pig  iron,  yet  worthy  of  note  'tis, 
Tis  ready  to  jnelt  at  a  half  minute's  notice." 
Who   bids?    Gentle   buyer!    'twill   turn   as   thou 

shapes! ; 
'Twill  make  a  good  thumb-screw  to  torture  a  Papist; 
Or  else  a  cramp-iron,  to  stick  in  the  wall 
Of  some  church  that  old  women  are  fearful  will  fall ; 
Or  better,  perhaps,  (for  I'm  guessing  at  random,) 
A  heavy  drag-chain  for  some  Lawyer's  old  Tandem. 
Will  nobody  bid '     It  is  cheap,  I  am  sure.  Sir — 
Once,  twice, — going,  going, — thrice,  gone  ! — it  ia 

yours.  Sir. 
To  pay  ready  money  you  shan't  be  distress'd, 
As  a  bill  at  long  date  suits  the  Chancellor  best. 

Come,  Where's  the  next  Tool ' — Oh  !  'tis  nere  in  a 

trice — 
This  implement,  Ge'mmen,  at  first  was  a  Vice; 
(A  tenacious  and  close  sort  of  tool,  that  will  let 
Nothing  out  of  its  grasp  it  once  happens  to  get ;) 
But  it  since  has  received  a  new  coating  of  Tin, 
Bright  enough  for  a  Prince  to  behold  himself  in. 
Come,  what  shall  we  s.ay  for  it  ?  briskly  I  bid  on, 
We'll  the  sooner  get  rid  of  it — going— quite  gone. 
God  be  with  it,  such  tools,  if  not  quickly  knock'd 

down. 
Might  at  last  cost  their  owner — how  much?  why, 

a  Croivn .' 


228 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


The  next  Tool  I'll  set  up  has  hardly  had  handsel  or 
Trial  as  yet,  and  is  also  a  Chancellor — 
Such  dull  things  as  these  should  be  sold  by  the 

gross ; 
Yet,  dull  as  it  is,  'twill  be  found  to  shave  close, 
And  like  other  close  shavers,  some  courage  to  gather, 
This  blade  first  began  by  a  flourish  on  leather.''* 
Vou  shall  have  it  for  nothing — then,  marvel  with  me 
At  the  terrible  tinkering  work  there  must  be, 
Where  a  Tool  such  as  this  is  (I'll  leave  you  to  judge 

it) 
Is  placed  by  ill  luck  at  the  top  of  the  Budget! 


LITTLE  MAN  AND  LITTLE  SOUL. 

A  BALLAD. 

To  tie  tune  of  *'  There  was  a  tittle  mati,  and  he  woo^d  a  little 
maid," 

DEDICATED    TO   THE   EX.  UO.V.  CHARLES    ABBOT. 

Arcades  ambo 
£t  caiti-aro  pares. 

1813. 

There  was  a  little  JIan,  and  he  had  a  little  Soul, 
And  he  said,  '•  Little  Soul,  let  us  try,  try,  try, 

"  Whether  it's  within  our  reach 

"To  make  up  a  little  Speech, 
"Just  between  little  you  and  little  I,  I,  I, 
"  Just  between  little  you  and  little  I !" — 

Then  said  his  little  Soul, 

Peeping  from  her  hole, 
"  I  protest,  little  Man,  you  arc  stout,  stout,  stout, 

"But,  if  it's  not  uncivil, 

"Pray  tell  me  what  the  devil 
"  Must  our  little,  little  speech  be  about,  bout,  bout, 
"Must  our  little,  little  speech  be  about?" 

The  little  Man  look'd  big 
With  th'  assistance  of  his  wig, 
And  he  call'd  his  little  Sinil  to  order,  order,  order, 
Till  she  fear'd  he'd  make  her  jog  in 
To  jail,  like  Thomas  Croggan, 
(As  she  wasn't  Duke  or  Earl,)  to  reward  her,  ward 
her,  ward  her. 
As  she  wasn't  Duke  or  Hurl,  to  reward  her. 

The  little  M.in  then  spoke, 

"  Little  Soul,  it  is  no  joke, 
"  For  ns  sure  as  Jacky  Fuller  loves  a  .sup,  sup,  sup, 

"  I  will  tell  the  Prince  and  People 

"  What  I  think  of  Church  and  Steeple, 
"  And  my  little  patent  plan  to  prop  them  up,  up,  up, 
"  And  my  little  patent  plan  to  drop  them  up." 


Away  then,  cheek  by  jowl, 
Little  Man  and  little  Soul 
Went  and  spoke  their  little  speech  to  a  tittle,  tittle, 
tittle, 
And  the  world  all  declare 
That  this  priggish  little  pair 
Never  yet  in  all  their  lives  look'd  so  little,  little 
little. 
Never  vet  in  all  their  lives  look'd  so  little  ! 


REINFORCEMENTS  FOR  LORD  WELLINGTON. 

Suosque  tibi  commendat  Troja  Penates 
>Io3  cape  fatorura  comites.  Virgil. 

181S. 
As  recruits  in  these  times  are  not  easily  got, 
And  the  Marshal  must  have  them — pray,  why  should 

we  not. 
As  the  last  and,  I  grant  it,  the  worst  of  our  lo.ans 

to  him, 
Ship  off  the  Ministry,  body  and  bones  to  him  ? 
There's  not  in  all  England,  I'd  venture  to  swear, 
Any  men  we  could  half  so  conveniently  spare ; 
And,  though  they've  been  helping  the  French  for 

years  past, 
We  may  thus  make  them  useful  to  England  at  last. 
Castlereagh  in  our  sieges  might  save  some  disgr.aces, 
Being  used  to  the  taking  and  keeping  of  p/nccs; 
And  Volunteer  Canning,  still  ready  for  joining, 
Might  show  off  his  talent  for  sly  undermining. 
Could  the  Houschoiti  but  spare  us  its  glory  and 

pride. 
Old  Ile.adfort  at  horn-ivorks  again  iniglit  be  tried, 
And  tlie  Cliief  Justice  make  a  bold  charge  at  his 

side: 
While  Vansittart  could  victual  the  troops  upon  tick, 
And  the  Doctor  look  after  the  baggage  and  sick. 

Nay,  I  do  not  see  why  the  great  Regent  himself 
Should,  in  limes  such  as  tlicse,  stay  at  home  on  the 

shelf: 
Though  tlirough  narrow  defiles  he's  not  fitted  to 

pass, 
Yet  who  could  resist,  if  he  bore  down  en  7nasse  .' 
And  though  oft,  of  an  evening,  perluips  he  might 

prove. 
Like  our  Sp.miMh  confod'rates,  "  uniiblo  to  rnovo,"" 
Yet  there's  (i»i«  tiling  in  war  ofadvantage  nnhoniuled. 
Which  is,  th.at  he  could  not  willi  crise  be  surrDimdal. 

In  mv  next  I  shall  sing  of  tlifir  arniH  and  eiiniii- 
nient ; 
At  present  no  more,  but — good  luck  to  the  shipmentl 


POLITICAL  AND  SATIRICAL  POEMS. 


229 


HORACE,  ODE  I.  LIB.  HI. 

A    I'UAGMENT. 

Odi  profanum  vulgiis  et  arceo: 
Favote  linguia:  cariuina  iion  prius 
Audita  Musarum  saccrdoa 
Virginibus  puerisque  canto. 
Regum  timcndorutn  in  proprios  gregcs, 
Regea  in  ipsoa  imperium  est  Jovis. 


1813. 


I  HATE  tliee,  oil,  Mob,  as  my  Lady  hates  delf ; 
To  Sir  Francis  I'll  give  up  tliy  claps  and  thy 
hisses, 
I  icave  old  Magna  Charta  to  shift  for  itself, 
And,  like  Godwin,  write  books  for  young  masters 
and  misses. 
Oh  !  it  is  not  liigh  rank  that  can  make  the  heart 
merry. 
Even   monarchs  tliemselves  are  not  free  from 
mishap : 
Though  the  Lords  of  Westphalia  must  quake  before 
Jerry, 
Poor  Jerry  himself  has  to  quake  before  Nap. 


HORACE,  ODE  XXXVIII.  LIB.  L 

A   FRAGMENT. 

Persicos  odi,  puer,  adparatus ; 
Displicent  nexae  pbilyra  coronse  ; 
JtliUe  scctari^  Rosa  guo  locorum. 

Sera  morctur. 

TRANSLATED    BV    A   TEEASCEY    CLEEE,    WCILE    T.'AITISQ 
BINNEE   FOE  THE   EIGHT    HON.    GE0E03   EOSB. 

Boy,  tell  the  Cook  th.at  I  hate  all  nick-nackeries. 
Fricassees,  vol-au-vents,  puffs,  and  gim-crackeries — 
Sl\  by  the  Horse-Guards  ! — old  Georgy  is  late — 
But  come — lay  the  table-cloth — zounds !  do  not  wait. 
Nor  stop  to  inquire,  while  the  dinner  is  staying. 
At  which  of  his  pl.ices  Old  Ro.se  is  delaying !°° 


IMPROMPTU. 

CrON  BEING  OBLIGED  TO  LEAVE  A  PLEASANT  PAETY, 
FEOM  THE  WANT  OF  A  FAIE  OF  BREECHES  TO  DEESS 
FOE    DINNEE    IN. 

1810. 
riETWEEN  Adam  and  me  the  great  difference  is 

Though  a  paradise  each  has  been  forced  to  resign. 
That  he  never  wore  breeches  till  turn'd  out  of  his. 
While,  for  want  of  my  breeches,  I'm  banish'd  from 
mine. 


LORD  WELLINaTON  AND  THE  MIXISTER.S. 

1813. 

So  gently  in  peace  Alcibiades  smiled. 

While  in  battle  he  shone  forth  so  terribly  grand. 
That  the  emblem  they  graved  on  his  seal,  was  a  child 

With  a  thunderbolt  placed  in  its  innocent  hand. 

Oh  Wellington,  long  as  .such  Ministers  wield 
Your  magnificent  .arm,  the  same  emblem  will  do: 

For  while  tliey're  in  the  Council  and  7/07i  in  the  Field, 
We've  the  babies  in  tliem  and  the  thunder  in  you  ! 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  PERCEVAL. 

In  the  dirge  we  sung  o'er  him  no  censure  was  heard, 
Unembitter'd  and  fi'ee  did  the  tear-drop  descend; 

We  forgot,  in  that  hour,  how  the  statesman  had  err'd, 
And  wept  for  the  husband,  the  father,  and  friend. 

Oh,  proud  was  the  meed  his  integrity  won. 

And  gen'rous  indeed  were  the  tears  that  we  shed, 

When,  in  grief,  we  forgot  all  the  ill  he  had  done. 
And,  though  wrong'd  by   him,  living,  bewail'd 
him,  when  dead. 

Even  now,  if  one  harsher  emotion  intrude, 
'Tis  to  wish  he  had  chosen  some  lowlier  state. 

Had  known  what  he  was — and,  content  to  be  good, 
Had  ne'er,  for  our  ruin,  aspired  to  be  great. 

So,  left  through  their  own  little  orbit  to  move. 
His  years  might  have  roU'd  inoffensive  .away; 
His  children  might  still  h.ave  been  bless'd  with  his 
love. 
And  England  would  ne'er  have  been  cursed  with 
his  sway. 


To  the  Editor  of  the  Morning  Chronicle. 

Sir, 

In  order  to  e.xpLain  the  following  Fragment,  it  13 
necessary  to  refer  your  readers  to  a  late  florid  de- 
scription of  the  Pavilion  at  Brighton,  in  the  apart- 
ments of  which,  we  are  told,  '•  FuM,  Tlie  Chinese. 
Bird  of  Royalty,"  is  a  pr'ncipal  ornament. 

I  am,  sir,  yours,  &c. 
Mum. 

FUM  AND  HUM,  THE  TWO  BIRJ)S  OF 
ROYALTY. 

One  day  the  Chinese  Bird  of  Royalty,  Fc.M, 
Thus  accosted  our  own  Bird  of  Royalty,  Hen, 


280 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


In  that  Palace  or  Cliina-shop  (Brighton,  which  is 

it?) 
Where  FcM  had  just  come  to  pay  Hum  a  short 

visit — 
Near  akin  are  tliese  Birds,  tliough  they  differ  in 

nation, 
(The  breed  of  the  Hums  is  as  old  as  creation ;) 
Both,  fuU-craw'd  Legitimates — both,  birds  of  prey. 
Both,  cackling  and  ravenous  creatures,  half  way 
'Twixt  the  goose  and  the  vulture,  like  Lord  Castle- 

KEAGH. 

Wliile  FuM  deals  in  JIandarins,  Bonzes,  Bohea, 
Peers,  Bishops,  and  Punch,  Hum,  aie  sacred  to  thee  ! 
So  congenial  their  tastes,  that,  when  FuM  first  did 

light  on 
The  floor  of  that  grand  China-warehouse  at  Brigh- 
ton, 
The  lanterns,  and  dragons,  and  things  round  tlie 

dome 
Were  so  like  what  he  left,  "  Gad,"  says  FuM,  "  I'm 

at  home." — 
And  when,  turning,  he  saw  Bishop  L ge, 

"  Zooks,  it  is," 
Quoth  the  Bird,  "  Yes — I  know  him — a  Bonze,  by 

his  phiz — 
"  And  that  jolly  old  idol  he  kneels  to  so  low 
"  Can  be  none  but  our  round-about  godhead,  fat  Fo !"' 
It  chanced  at  this  moment,  th'  Episcopal  Prig 
Was  imploring  the  PEtNXE  to  dispense  with  his 

wig," 
Which  the  Bird,  overhearing,  flew  high   o'er  liis 

head. 
And  some  Tonix-Iike  marks  of  his  patronage  shed. 
Which  so  dimm'd  the  poor  Dandy's  idolatrous  eye, 
Th.tt,  while  Fum  cried  "  Oh  Fo  !"  nil  the  court  cried 

"  Oh  fie !" 

But,  a  truce   to    digression; — these   Birds    of    a 

feather 
Thus  talk'd,  t'other  night,  on  State  matters  together; 
(The  Pki.vxe  just  in  bed,  or  about  to  depart  for't. 
His  legs  fuH  of  gout,  and  his  anus  full  of  Hert- 
ford,) 
"I  say,  Hum,"  says  Fu.m — Fum,  of  course,  spoke 

Chinese, 
But,  bless  you,  th.at's  nothing — at  Brighton  one  sees 
Foreign  lingoes  and  Hishojjs  translated  with  case — 
"1  nay,  Hum,  how  fares  it  with  Royally  now? 
"  Is  it  up  ?  is  it  prime  ?  is  it  spooney — or  liow  ?" 
(The  Bird  had  just  taken  a  flash-man's  degree 
Under  nAP.KVMOKE,  Yarmouth,  and  young  Jlaster 

LffE,) 
"  As  for  HH  in  Pekiii" — hero,  a  devil  of  a  din 
From  the  bed'haniber  came,  where  that  long  Man- 
darin, 


Castlereagh,  (whom  Fum  calls  the  Confucius  of 

Prose.) 
Was  rehearsing  a  speech  upon  Europe's  repose 
To  the  deep,  double  bass  of  the  fat  Idol's  nose. 

(Nota  bene — his  Lordship  and  Liverpool  come. 
In  collateral  lines,  from  the  old  Mother  Hum, 
Castlereagh   a   HuM-bug — Liverpool    a   Hum- 

drum.) 
The  Speech  being  iinish'd,  out  rush'd  Castlereagh, 
Saddled  Hum  in  a  hurry,  and,  whip,  spur,  aw.iy. 
Through  the  regions  of  air,  like  a  Snip  on  his  hobby. 
Ne'er  p.aused,  till  he  lighted  in  St.  Stephen's  lobby. 


LINES  ON"  THE  DEATH  OF  SHERIDAN. 
Principibus  placuiase  viri3  I — IIorat. 

Yes,  grief  will  have  way — but  the  fiist  falling  tear 
Shall  be  mingled  with  deep  execrations  on  those, 

Who  could  bask  in  that  Spirit's  meridian  career. 
And  yet  leave  it  thus  lonely  and  dark  at  its 
close : — 

Whose  vanity  flew  round  him  only  while  fed 
By  the  odor  his  fiime  in  its  summer-time  gave  : — 

Whose  v.inity  now,  with  quick  scent  for  the  de.ad. 
Like  the  Gholc  of  the  East,  comes  to  feed  at  his 


Oh !  it  sickens  the  heart  to  see  bosoms  so  hollow. 
And  spirits  so  mean  in  the  great  and  high-born  ; 

To  think  what  a  long  line  of  titles  m.ay  follow 
The  relics  of  liiin  who  died — friendless  and  lorn ! 

How  proud  tliey  can  press  to  the  fuu'ral  array 
Of  one,  whom  they  shuun'd  in  his  sickness  and 
sorrow : — 

How  baililfs  may  seize  his  last  blanket,  to-day. 
Whose  p.nll  shall  he  held  up  by  nobles  to-morrow! 

And  Thou,  too,  whose  life,  a  sick  epicure's  dream, 
Incoherent  and  gross,  even  grosser  had  passM, 

Were  it  not  for  that  cordial  and  soul-giving  hcam, 
Which  his  friendship  and  wit  o'er  thy  nothingness 
cast ; — 

No,  not  for  the  wealth  of  thr  land,  that  supplies  thee 
With  millions  to  heap  upon  Foppery's  shrine;— 

No,  not  for  the  riches  of  all  who  despise  thee, 
Tliough  this  would   make   Hurnpe's  whole  opu- 
lence mine ; — 


POLITICAL  AND  SATIRICAL  POEMS. 


231 


Would  I  suffer  what — ev'n  in  the  lieart  that  thou 
hast — 
All  mean  as  it  is — must  have  consciously  burn'd, 
When  the  pittance,  which  shame  had  wrung  from 
thee  at  last, 
And  wliich  found  all  his  wants  at  an  end,  was 
return'd ;" 

"Was  this  then  the  fete," — future  ages  will  say, 
When  some  names  shall  live  but  in  history's  curse ; 

When  Truth  will  be  heard,  and  these  Lords  of  a  day 
Be  forgotten  as  fools,  or  remembor'd  as  worse ; — 

"  Was  this  tlien  the  fate  of  that  high-gifted  man, 
"  The  pride  of  the  palace,  the  bow'r  and  the  hall, 

"  The  orator, — dramatist, — minstrel, — who  ran 
"  Through  each  mode  of  the  lyre,  and  was  master 
of  all;— 

"  Whose  mind  was  an  essence,  compounded  with  art 

"  From  the  finest  and  best  of  all  other  men's 

pow'rs : — 

"  Who  ruled,  like  a  wizard,  the  world  of  the  heart, 

"  And  could  call  up  its  sunshine,  or  bring  down 

its  show'rs ; — 

"  Whose  humor,  as  gay  as  the  fire-fly's  light, 

"Play'd   round  every  subject,  and  shone  as  it 
play'd; — 

"  Whose  wit,  in  the  combat,  as  gentle  as  bright, 
"  Ne'er  carried  a  heart>-stain  away  on  its  blade ; — 

"  Whose  eloquence — bright'ning  whatever  it  tried, 
"  Whether  reason  or  fancy,  the  gay  or  the  grave, — 

"  Was  as  rapid,  as  deep,  and  as  brilliant  a  tide, 
"  As  ever  bore  Freedom  aloft  on  its  wave  !" 

Yes — such  was  the  man,  and  so  wretched  his  fate ; — 
And  thus,  sooner  or  later,  shall  all  have  to  grieve. 

Who  waste  their  morn's  dew  in  the  beams  of  the 
Great, 
And  expect  'twill  return  to  refresh  them  at  eve. 

In  the  woods  of  the  North  there  are  insects  that  prey 
On  the  brain  of  the  elk  till  his  very  last  sigh ;" 

Oh,  Genius !  thy  patrons,  more  cruel  than  they, 
First  feed  on  thy  brains,  and  then  leave  thee  to 
die! 


EPISTLE 
FROM  TOM  CRIB  TO  BIG  BEN,"" 

CONCERNINO    SOME    FOUL   PLAY    IX   A    LATE   TRANSACTION. ''^ 

"  Ahi,  mlo  Ben  !" — Metastasio.^^ 

What  !  Ben,  my  old  hero,  is  this  your  renown  ? 

Is  ihii  tlie  new  gol — kick  a  man  when  he's  down !    i 


When  the  foe  has  knock'd  under,  to  tread  on  him 

then — 
By  the  fist  of  my  father,  I  blush  for  thee,  Bes  ! 
"  Foul !  foul  I"  all  the  lads  of  the  Fancy  exclaim — 
Charj.et    Shock    is    electrified — Belcher    spits 

flame — • 
And  MoLYNEHX — ay,  even  Blacky"  cries  "  shame !" 
Time  was,  when  John  Bull  little  difference  spied 
'Tvvixt  the  foe  at  his  feet,  and  the  friend  at  his  side : 
When  he  found  (such  his  humor  in  figliting  and 

eating) 
His  foe,  like  his  beef-steak,  tlie  sweeter  for  beating. 
But  this  comes.  Master  Ben,  of  your  cursed  foreign 

notions. 
Your  trinkets,  wigs,  thingumbobs,  gold  lace,  and 

lotions ; 
Your   Noyeaus,  Cura^oas,  and  the  Devil   knows 

what — 
(One  swig  of  Blue  Ruin"  is  worth  the  whole  lotl) 
Y'our  great  and  small  crosses — (my  eyes,  what  a 

brood ! 
A  cro«s-buttock  from  me  would  do  some  of  them 

good !) 
Which  have  spoil'd  you,  till  hardly  a  drop,  my  old 

porpoise. 
Of  pure  English  claret  is  left  in  your  corpus ; 
And  (as  Jim  says)  the  only  one  trick,  good  or  bad, 
Of  the  Fancy  you're  up  to,  is  fibbing,  my  lad. 
Hence  it  comes, —  Boxl4na,  disgrace  to  thy  page ! — 
Having  floor'd,  by  good  luck,  the  first  swell  of  the 

age. 
Having  conquer'd  the  prim£  one,  that  miWd  us  all 

round, 
Y'ou  kick'd  him,  old   Be.\,   as   he  gasp'd  on   the 

ground! 
Ay — just  at  the  time  to  show  spunk,  if  you'd  got 

any — 
Kick'd  him,  and  jaw'd  him,  and  lagg'd^''  him  to 

Botany ! 
Oil,  shade  of  the  Cheesemonger .'"  you  who,  alas. 
Doubled  up,  by  the  dozen,  those  Mounseers  in  brass, 
On  that  great  day  of  milling,  when  blood  lay  in 

lakes. 
When  Kings  held  the  bottle,  and  Europe  the  stakes. 
Look  down  upon  Ben — see  him,  dunghill  all  o'er, 
In&*ult  the  fall'n  foe,  that  can  liarm  him  no  more ! 
Out,  cowardly  spooney  ! — again  and  again. 
By  the  fist  of  my  father,  I  blush  for  thee,  Beh. 
To  show  the  white  feather  is  many  men's  doom, 
But,  what  of  one  feather? — Ben   shows  a  whoU 

■Plume. 


232 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


NOTES. 


0)  Letter  from  his  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  Regent  to  the 
Duke  of  York,  Feb.  13,  1812. 

(2j  "I  think  it  hardly  necessorj- to  call  your  recollection  lo 
the  recent  circumstances  under  which  I  assumed  the  authority 
delegated  to  me  by  Parliament." — Prince's  l.etter, 

(3)  "  My  sense  of  duly  to  our  Royal  father  solely  decided  that 
choice." — Ibid, 

(4)  The  antique  shield  of  Martinus  Scriblerus,  which,  upon 
scouring,  turned  out  to  be  only  an  old  sconce. 

(5)  "I  waived  any  personal  gratiflcation,  io  order  that  hia 
Majesty  might  resume,  on  his  restoration  to  health,  every  power 
and  prerogative,**  &.c. — Prince's  Letter, 

(6)  "  And  I  have  the  aatisfaction  of  knowing  that  such  was 
the  opinion  of  persons  for  whose  judgnient,"  &.C,  &c. — Ibid. 

(7)  The  letter-writer's  favorite  luncheon. 

(8)  ^^  I  certainly  am  the  last  person  in  the  kingdom  to  whom 
it  can  be  permitted  to  despair  of  our  royal  father's  recover)." 
— Prince's  Letter. 

(9)  "A  new  era  is  now  arrived,  and  I  cannot  but  reflect  with 
•allBfaclion,"  tuc.—Ibid, 

(10)  "  I  have  no  pro<lilectlon3  lo  indulge,— no  resentments  to 
gratify,"— /6 1  rf. 

(11)  *'  I  cannot  conclude  wilhout  expressing  the  gratiflcaliou 
[  should  feci  if  some  of  those  persons  with  whom  the  early 
habits  of  my  public  life  were  formed  would  strengthen  my  hands, 
and  constitute  a  part  of  my  government." — Ibid. 

(PJ)  "  You  are  authorized  to  communicate  these  sentiments 
(o  Lord  Grey,  who,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  make  them  known  to 
I-ord  GrcQville."— /Aid. 

(■|3j  "  I  shall  send  a  copy  of  this  letter  Immediately  to  Mr. 
Perceval." — Princt^a  Letter. 

<li)  Sec  Prior's  poem,  cniltlcd  "  The  Dove.*' 

05)  Perceval. 

(l(t)  In  nlliiBion  to  "  thi?  Dook"  which  created  aiich  a  sensa- 
iJon  St  that  period. 

(17)  The  inco/^.  vehicle  of  the  Prince. 

(18)  Ooron  Goramb,  the  rival  of  bla  Royal  lllghncaa  In 
whitkoni. 

(10)  Knuland  linot  the  only  country  whrra  merit  of  this  kind 
Is  nollcrd  and  rnwnrdod.  "  I  remfnibcr,"  nays  Tavornirr,  "  to 
Imvfl  nvvti  <inn  of  lliu  King  of  pyntla'd  porters,  whonti  rooimta* 
•hr*  wcro  no  loriK  thnt  ho  could  tie  Ihum  behind  his  nock,  for 
Vhicti  fvtKm  bo  bs(l  s  doubk>  pont'oo.'* 


(20)  A  rhetorical  figure  used  by  Lord  CasllereLgh,  in  on* 
of  his  speeches. 

(21)  Colonel  Macmahon. 

(22)  One  of  those  antediluvian  Princes  with  whom  Manetho 
and  VVhiston  seem  so  intimately  acquainted.  If  we  had  the 
Memoirs  of  Tholh,  from  which  Manetho  compiled  his  History, 
we  should  lind,  1  dare  say,  that  Crack  was  only  a  Regent,  and 
that  he,  perhaps,  succeeded  Typhon,  who  (as  Whiston  says) 
was  the  last  King  of  the  Antediluvian  Dynasty. 

(23)  Edward  Byrne,  the  head  of  the  Delegates  of  the  Irish 
Catholics. 

(24)  The  ancients,  in  like  manner,  crowned  their  Lares,  or 
Household  Gods,  See  Juvenal,  Sat.  9,  iv.  138. — Plutarch,  too> 
tells  us  that  Household  Gods  were  then,  as  they  are  now 
"  much  given  to  War  and  penal  Statutes." 

(25)  Certain  tinsel  imitations  of  the  Shamrock  which  are  dis' 
tributcd  by  the  Servants  of  Carlton  House  every  Patrick's 
Day. 

(20)  The  sobriquet  given  to  Lord  Sidmoulh. 

(27)  This  and  the  following  ore  extracted  from  a  Work  which 
may,  some  time  or  other,  meet  the  eye  of  the  Public— entitled 
**Odea  of  Horace,  done  into  English  by  several  Persons  ol 

Fashion." 


(28) 

(29) 
(30) 
(31) 
(32j 
(33) 
(34) 


Quid  beilicosus  Cantaber.  et  Scythes, 
llirpine  Quincti,  cogitet,  Hadrla 
Dlvisus  objecto,  reraitlas 
Qnicroro. 

Ncc  tropidcs  in  usum 
Poscenlis  levl  paur« 

Fugit  retro 
Levis  juvfulus  et  deco^ 

Pellonte  lascivos  amores 
Canitle. 


Nuque  uno  Luna  rubens  nltnt 


Vultu, 


Quid  ii'lcrnls  minorem 
Consiliis  aniniuin  fnligas? 

Cur  non  sub  alia  vel  plntano,  vol  hao 
Pinujacontes  sic  tomerc. 


(35)  Charles  Fox. 
(30) 


Rotft 
CauoM  odornlt  caplllos, 

Dum  licet,  Assyriaquo  nardo 
l*otumui  uoctl. 


POLITICAL  AND  SATIRICAL  POEMS. 


23 


(3T) 

.38) 

(39) 

(40) 

C4I) 
(40) 


Quis  puer  ocius 
RestinguDt  ardentis  Falerni 
Pocula  prictcrcuntc  lymjiha  ? 

Quis c-Iiciet  doiiio 

Lydun  ? 

Kburna,  die  iiffe.  cum  lyni  (qii,  Hn^-ti) 
Mat  lire  t. 

Incointani  hnca-iix* 
More  comnm  ruligata  nodo. 

Integer  vitre  sceleriaquo  purus. 


Non  eget  Mauri  jaculis,  ncque  mcu, 
Ncc  vctienatis  gravida  sagillis, 

Tusce,  pharetra. 

(43)  t*ive  per  Syrtes  iter  Eestuosas, 
Sivo  racturu3  per  inliospitalem 
Caucasutn,  vel  quje  loca  fabulosus 

Lambit  Ilydaspep. 

The  Noble  Translator  had,  at  first,  laid  the  5CGAe  ot*  these 
Imagined  dangers  of  hi3  Man  of  Conscience  among  the  Pa^ 
pists  of  Spain,  and  had  translated  the  words  "qus  loca  fabu- 
losus lambit  Hydaspes"  thus— "The  fabling  Spaniard  licks  the 
French  ;"  but,  recollecting  that  it  is  our  interest  just  now  to  be 
respectful  to  Spanish  Catholics,  (though  there  is  certainly  no 
earthly  reason  for  our  being  even  commonly  civil  to  frisk 
ones,)  he  altered  the  passage  as  it  stands  at  present. 

(44)  Namque  me  silvil  lupus  in  Sabind, 
Dum  meam  canto  Lalagen,  et  ultra 
Terminura  curis  vagor  expeditis, 

Fugit  inermem. 

1  cannot  hu]p  calling  the  reader's  attention  to  the  peculiar 
ingenuity  with  which  these  lines  are  paraphrased.  Nut  to 
mention  the  happy  conversion  of  the  Wolf  into  a  Papist, 
(seeing  that  Romulus  was  suckled  by  a  wolf,  that  Rome  was 
founded  by  Romulus,  and  that  the  Pope  has  always  reigned  at 
Rome,)  there  is  something  particularly  neat  in  supposing  "  ultra 
(ftrmmum"  to  mean  vacation-time  :  and  then  the  modest  con- 
sciousness with  which  the  Noble  and  Learned  Translator  has 
avoided  touching  upon  the  words  "  curis  erpeditis,''^  {or,  aa  it 
has  been  otherwise  read,  "  causis  eipeditis,'")  and  the  felicitous 
idea  of  his  being  "inermis"  when  "  without  his  wig,"  are  al- 
together the  most  delectable  specimens  of  paraphrase  in  our 
language. 


(45) 


(40) 


Quale  portentum  neque  militaria 
Daunias  latis  alit  aesculetis, 
Nee  Juba;  tellus  general  leonum 
Arida  nutrix. 


Pone  me  pigris  ubi  nulla  campis 
Arbor  restiva  rccreatur  aura: 
Quod  latus  raundi,  nebuhe,  raalusquo 
Jupiter  urget. 
1  must  here  remark,  that  the  said  Dick  Martin  being  a  very 
good  fellow,  it  was  not  at  all  fair  to  make  a '"mains  Jupiter" 
of  litm. 


(47) 


Dulce  rideutein  Lalagen  amabo, 
Dulco  Utqueiitem. 


(48)  There  canuot  be  imagined  a  more  happy  illustration  of 
the  inseparability  of  Church  and  State,  and   their  (what  is 
called)  "standing  and   falling    together,"  than    this  ancient 
I'pologue  of  Jack  and  Jill.    Jack,  of  course,  represents  the 
Blato  in  this  ingenious  little  Allegory. 
Jack  fell  down. 
And  broke  his  Croirn, 
And  Jit]  came  tumbling  oiter. 
"nt..  It, — 30 


(49)  That  model  of  Princea,  the  Emperor  Commudiis,  v.-i: 
particularly  luxurious  in  the  dressing  nnd  ornamenting  of  hiii 
hair.  His  conscience,  however,  would  not  suffer  liim  to  Inijt 
himself  with  a  barber,  and  he  uwd,  accordingly,  to  brirn  olfhin 
beard— "  timoro  tonsoris,"  says  I.ampridius.  (,lli.it.  Jlufrnyl. 
Scriptor.)  The  dissolute  Aihm  Verus,  loo,  was  ef|ually  attentive 
to  the  decoration  of  his  wig.  (.'^eu  Jul.  Capitojin.)— Indeed, 
this  was  not  the  oiili/  princely  trail  in  the  character  of  Verus, 
as  he  had  likewise  u  most  hearty  and  dignilled  contempt  for 
his  \Vife.— See  his  insulting  answer  to  her  in  Spartianus. 

(30)  In  allusion  to  Lord  Klleuhorough. 

(51)  Lord  Castlereagh. 

(52)  He  had  recenlly  been  a|>pointeil  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer. 

(.53)  An  allusion  to  Lord  Eldon's  lachrymose  tendencies. 

(.M)  "  Of  the  taxes  proposed  by  Jlr.  Vansittarl,  that  princi- 
pally opposed  in  Parliament  was  the  additional  duty  on 
leather." — inn.  Rrgistcr. 

(55)  The  character  given  to  the  Spanish  soldier,  in  Sir  John 
Murray's  memorable  dispatch. 

(50)  The  literal  closeness  of  the  version  here  cannot  but  ba 
admired.  The  Translator  has  added  a  long,  erudite,  and  flowery 
note  upon  lioscs,  of  which  I  can  merely  give  a  specimen  at 
present.  In  the  lirst  place,  he  ransacks  the  Rosarium  Politicum 
of  the  Persian  poet  Sadi,  with  the  hope  of  finding  some  Politic/:! 
Roses,  to  match  the  gentleman  in  the  text— but  in  vaint  he  then 
tells  us  that  Cicero  accused  Verres  of  reposing  upon  a  cushion 
"  Melitensi  Tosdfartum, "  which,  from  the  odd  mixture  ofwords, 
he  supposes  to  be  a  kind  of  Irisk  Ded  of  Roses,  like  Lord  Caatle- 
reagh's.  The  learned  Clerk  next  favors  us  with  some  remarks 
upon  a  well-known  punning  epitaph  on  fair  Rosamond,  and  ex- 
presses a  most  loyal  hope,  that,  if  •'  Rosa  munda"  mean  "  a  Rose 
with  clean  hands,"  it  may  be  found  applicable  to  the  Right  Hon- 
orable Rose  in  question.  Ho  then  dwells  at  some  length  upon 
the  "  Rosa  aurca,"  which,  though  descriptive,  in  one  sense,  o( 
the  old  Treasiu-y  Statesman,  yet,  as  being  consecrated  and 
•worn  by  the  Pope,  must,  of  course,  not  be  brought  into  the 
same  atmosphere  with  him.  Lastly,  in  reference  to  the  word.s 
"o/rf  Rose,"  he  winds  up  with  the  pathetic  lamentation  of  the 
Poet  "consenuisse  Rosas."  The  whole  note,  indeed,  shows  n 
knowledge  of  Roses,  that  is  quite  edifying. 

(57)  In  consequence  of  an  old  promise,  that  he  should  be  al- 
lowed to  wear  his  own  hair,  whenever  he  might  be  elevated  to 


a  Bishopric  by  his  Royal  Highness. 


(58)  The  sura  was  two  hundred  \Ki\mi\s— offered  when  Sheri- 
dan could  no  longer  take  any  sustenance,  and  declined,  for 
him,  by  his  Wends. 

(59)  Naturalists  have  observed  tliat,  upon  dissecting  an  elk, 
there  were  found  in  its  head  some  targe  flies,  with  its  brain 
almost  eaten  away  by  them.— //wtory  of  Poland. 

(60)  A  nickname  given,  at  this  time,  to  the  Prince  Regent. 

(61)  ^Vritten  soon  after  Bonaparte's  transportation  to  St. 
Helena. 

(62)  Tom  I  suppose,  was  "  assisted"  to  this  Motto  by  Mr. 
Jackson,  who,  it  is  well  known,  keeps  the  most  learned  com- 
pany going. 

(63)  Names  and  nicknames  of  celebrated  pugilists  at  thai 
time. 

(64)  Gin. 

(65)  Transported. 

(06)  .K  Life  Guardsman,  one  of  the  Fancy,  who  distinguished 
himself,  and  was  killed  in  the  memorable  an-ta  at  Walerloo. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


OCCASIONAL  EPILOGUE. 

rOlEN  BV  ME.  CORaT,  IN  THE  CHAEACTEE  OK  VAPID, 
AfTEE  THE  PL.AT  OF  THE  DEAM.WIST,  AT  THE  KIL- 
KENNY   THE.\TRE. 

(Entering  lu  if  ta  announce  the  Play.) 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  on  Monday  night, 
For  tlie  ninth  time — oh  accents  of  delight 
To  the  poor  iiutlior's  car,  when  three  times  three 
W'itli  a  full  bumper  crowns  his  Comedy  ! 
When,  long  by  money,  and  the  muse,  forsak'n, 
He  finds,  at  length,  his  jokes  and  bo.vcs  tak'ii, 
And  sees  his  pla)--bill  circulate — alas. 
The  only  bill  on  whicli  his  name  will  pass! 
Thus,  Vapid,  thus  shall  Thespian  scrolls  of  fame 
Through  bo.\  and  gall'ry   waft  your  well-known 

name. 
While  critic  eyes  the  happy  cast  shall  con. 
And  learned  ladies  spell  your  Dram.  Person. 

'Tis  said  our  wortliy  Manager'  intends 
To  htlj)  my  night,  and  he,  you  know,  has  friends. 
Friends',  did  I  say?  for  fi.\ing  friends,  or  parts, 
Engaging  actors,  or  engaging  hearts. 
There's  nothing  like  him !  wit.s,  at  his  request, 
Are  turn'd  to  fools,  and  dull  dogs  learn  to  jest; 
Soldiers,  for  him,  good  "  trembling  cowards"  make, 
And  beaus,  turn'd  clowns,  look  ugly  for  his  sake  ; 
For  him  ev'n  lawyers  talk  without  a  fee. 
For  him  (oh  friendship!)  /act  tragedy! 
In  short,  like  Orpheus,  his  persuasive  tricks 
Mnkn  hoars  amusing,  and  put  life  in  sticks. 

Willi  such  a  manager  wo  can't  but  please. 
Though  Lnndori  sent  us  all  her  loud  O.  P.'s,' 
Let  them  come  on,  like  snakes,  all  hiss  and  rattle, 
Arin'd  with  a  thousand  fans,  we'd  give  them  battle  ; 
You,  on  our  side,  R.  V.'  upon  our  banners, 
Bonn  «hotiM  wo  tonrb  the  maty  O.  P.'h  manners: 


I   And    show    that,    here — howe'er    John    Bull    maj 
doubt — 
In  all  our  plays,  the  Riot-Act's  cut  out ; 
And,  while  we  skim  the  cream  of  many  a  jest. 
Your  well-timed  thunder  never  sours  its  zest. 

Oh  gently  thus,  wlien  three  short  weeks  are  past. 
At  Sliakspeare's  altar,'  shall  we  breathe  our  last; 
And,  ere  this  long-loved  dome  to  ruin  nods. 
Die  all,  die  nobly,  die  like  demigods  ! 


EXTRACT 

KEOU  A  I'BOLOGL'E  WEITTE.N  AND  SPOKEN  UT  TllL  At'TIIOK, 
AT  THE  OPENING  OK  THE   KILKENNY  TUE.VTEE,  OCTOBEE, 

1809. 


Yet,  even  here,  though  Fiction  rules  the  hour, 
There  shine  some  genuine  smiles,  beyond  her  power; 
And  there  are  tears,  too — tears  that  Memory  sheds 
Ev'n  o'er  the  feast  that  mimic  fancy  spreads. 
When  her  heart  misses  one  lamented  guest,' 
Whose  eye  so  long  threw  light  o'er  all  tlie  rest! 
Tliere,  there,  indeed,  the  Muse  forgets  her  task, 
And  drooping  weeps  behind  Thalia's  mask. 

Forgive  this  ghiom — forgive  this  joyless  strain, 
Too  sad  to  welcome  pleasure's  smiling  train. 
Rut,  meeting  thus,  our  hearts  will  part  the  lighter 
As  mist  at  dawn  hut  makes  the  setting  brighter; 
Gay  Epilogue  will  shine  where  Prologue  fails — 
As  glow-worms  keep  their  splendor  for  their  tails 

I  kjuiw  not  why — but  lime,  ini'lhinks,  halli  pass'd 
More  Meet  than  usual  since  we  pmled  last. 
It  seems  hut  like  a  dream  of  yester-night, 
Whose  clnrm  still  hniigs,  with  fond,  delayinff  light; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


236 


And,  ere  the  memory  lose  one  glowing  hue 
Of  former  joy,  we  come  to  kindle  new. 
Tluis  ever  may  tlie  flying  moments  haste 
With  trackless  foot  along  life's  vulgar  waste, 
But  deeply  print  and  lingeriiigly  move, 
When  thus  they  reach  the  sunny  spots  we  love. 
Oh  yes,  whatever  be  our  gay  career, 
Let  this  be  slill  the  solstice  of  the  year, 
Where  Pleasure's  sun  shall  at  its  height  renuiin. 
And  slowly  sink  to  level  life  again. 


THE  SYLPH'S  BALL. 

A  SvLrii,  as  bright  as  ever  sported 
Her  figure  through  the  fields  of  air, 

By  an  old  swarthy  Gnome  was  courted, 
And,  strange  to  say,  he  won  the  fair. 

The  ann.als  of  the  oldest  witch 
A  pair  so  sorted  could  not  show. 

But  how  refuse  1 — the  Gnome  was  rich, 
The  Rothschild  of  the  world  below ; 

And  Sylphs,  like  other  pretty  creatures. 
Are  told,  betimes,  they  must  consider 

Love  as  an  auctioneer  of  features. 

Who  knocks  them  down  to  the  best  bidder. 

Home  she  was  taken  to  his  Mine — 
A  Palace,  paved  with  diamonds  all — 

And,  proud  as  lady  Gnome  to  shine. 
Sent  out  her  tickets  for  a  Ball. 

The  lower  world,  of  course,  was  there. 
And  all  the  best ;  but  of  the  upper 

The  sprinkling  was  but  shy  and  rare, 
.\  few  old  Sylphids,  who  loved  supper. 

As  none  yet  knew  the  wondrous  Lamp 
Of  Davy,  that  renown'd  Aladdin, 

And  the  Gnome's  Halls  exh.iled  a  damp, 
Which  accidents  from  fire  were  bad  in  ; 

The  chambers  were  supplied  with  light 
By  many  strange  but  safe  devices ; 

Large  fire-ilies,  such  as  shine  at  night 

Among  the  Orient's  flowers  and  spices  ; — 

Musical  flint-mills — swiftly  play'd 
By  elfin  hands — that,  flashing  round, 

Like  certain  fire-eyed  minstrel  maids, 
Gave  out,  at  once,  both  light  and  sound. 


Bologna  stones,  that  drink  the  sun  ; 

And  water  from  that  Indian  sea. 
Whose  waves  at  night  like  wild-fire  run — 

Cork'd  up  in  crystal  carefully. 

Glow-worms,  that  round  the  tiny  dishes, 
Like  little  light-houses,  were  set  up; 

And  pretty  phosphorescent  fishes, 

That  by  their  own  gay  light  were  eat  up. 

'Mong  the  few  guests  from  Ether,  came 
That  wicked  Sylph,  whom  Love  we  call  ; 

My  Lady  knew  him  but  by  name. 
My  Lord,  her  husband,  not  .at  all. 

Some  prudent  Gnomes,  'tis  s.-iid,  appnzeil 
That  he  was  coming,  and,  no  doubt, 

Alarm'd  about  his  touch,  advised 

He  should,  by  all  means,  be  kept  out. 

But  others  disapproved  this  plan, 

And,  by  his  flame  though  somewliat  frighted, 
Thought  Love  too  much  a  gentleman. 

In  such  a  dangerous  place  to  light  it. 

However,  there  he  was — and  dancing 
With  the  fair  Sylph,  light  as  a  feather ; 

They  look'd  like  two  fresh  sunbeams,  glar  cing, 
At  daybreak,  down  to  earth  together. 

And  all  had  gone  off  safe  and  well, 
But  for  that  plaguy  torch,  whose  light. 

Though  not  yet  kindled — who  could  tell 
IIow  soon,  how  devilishly,  it  might  ? 

And  so  it  chanced — which,  in  those  dark 
And  fireless  halls,  was  quite  amazing ; 

Did  we  not  know  how  small  a  spark 
Can  set  the  torch  of  Love  a-blazing. 

Whether  it  came  (when  close  entangled 
In  the  gay  waltz)  from  her  bright  eyes. 

Or  from  the  lucciole,  that  spangled 
Her  locks  •  f  jet — is  all  surmise  ; 

B\it  certain  'tis  th'  ethereal  girl 

Did  drop  a  spark,  at  some  odd  turning. 

Which,  by  the  waltz's  windy  whirl, 
Was  fann'd  up  into  actual  burning. 

Oh  for  th.at  Lamp's  metallic  g.auze. 

That  curtain  of  protecting  wire, 
Which  Davt  delicately  draws 

-Ground  illicit,  dangerous  fire !— 


236 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


The  wall  he  sets  'twixt  Flame  and  Air, 

(Like  that,  which  barr'd  young  Thisbe's  bliss,) 

Through  whose  small  holes  this  dangerous  pair 
May  see  each  other,  but  not  kiss.' 

At  first  the  torch  look'd  rather  bluely, 
A  sign,  they  s.ay,  th.at  no  good  boded — 

Then  quick  the  gas  became  unruly. 

And,  crack !  the  ball-room  all  exploded. 

Sylphs,  gnomes,  and  fiddlers  mi.vd  together, 
Wiih  all  their  aunts,  sons,  cousins,  nieces, 

Like  butterflies  in  stormy  weather. 

Were  blown — legs,  wings,  and  tails — to  pieces  I 

While,  'mid  these  victims  of  the  torch. 
The  Sylph,  alas,  too,  bore  her  part — 

Found  lying,  with  a  livid  scorcli. 
As  if  from  lightning,  o'er  her  heart! 
****** 

"  Well  done" — a  laughing  Goblin  said — 
Escaping  from  this  gaseous  strife — 

"  'Tis  not  the  first  time  Love  has  made 
"A  hloiv-vp  in  connubial  life!" 


REMONSTRANCE. 

.fjur  a  Conversalion  leith  Lord  John  Russett^  in  vhich  he  had 
intimated  tome  Idea  of  gicii\g  up  all  political  Pursuits, 

What!  thou,  with  thy  genius,  thy  youth,  and  thy 
name — 

Thou,  born  of  a  Russell — whose  instinct  to  run 
The  accustom'd  career  of  thy  sires,  is  the  same 

As  the  ciglets,  to  so.ir  with  his  eyes  on  the  sun ! 

Whose  nobility  comes  to  tliee,  stamp'd  with  a  seal. 
Far,  far  more  ennobling  than  monarch  e'er  set; 

With  the  blood  of  thy  race,  offer'd  iip  for  the  vveal 
Of  a  nation,  that  swears  by  that  martyrdom  yet ! 

Shalt  thou  be  faint-hearted,  and  turn  from  the  .strife. 
From  the  mighty  arcn.a,  wliere  all  that  is  grand. 

And  devoted,  and  pure,  and  adorning  in  life, 
lb  for  high-thoughted  spirits  like  thine  to  com- 
mand ? 

Oh  no,  never  dream  it — while  good  men  despair 
Between  tyrants  and  traitors,  and  timid  men  bow, 

Never  think,  for  an  inst.int,  thy  country  can  spare 
Such  a  light  from  her  darkening  horizon  as  thou. 

With  a  spirit,  oh  meek  as  the  gentlest  of  those 
Who  in  lifp'B  bunnv  valley  lip  nhHtor'd  and  warm  ; 


Yet  bold  and  heroic  as  ever  yet  rose 

To  the  top-cliflTs  of  Fortune,  and  breasted  her 
storm ; 

^^'ith  an  ardor  for  liberty,  fresh  as,  in  youth, 

It  first  kindles  the  bard  and  gives  life  to  his  lyre  ; 

Yet  mellow'd,  ev'n  now,  by  that  mildness  of  truth  ; 
Which  tempers,  but  chills  not,  the  patriot  fire  ; 

With  an  eloquence — not  like  those  rills  from  a 
height, 
Which  sparkle,  and  foam,  .and  in  vapor  are  o'er ; 
But  a  current,  that  works  out  its  way  into  light 
Through  the  filtering  recesses  of  thought  and  of 
lore. 

Thus  gifted,  thou  never  canst  sleep  in  the  sh.ade ; 

If  the  stirrings  of  Genius,  the  music  of  fame. 
And  the  charms  of  thy  cau.se  have  not  power  to 
persuade, 
Yet  think  how  to  Freedom  thou'rt  pledged  by  thy 
N.ame. 

Like  the  boughs  of  that  laurel,  by  Delphi's  decree 
Set  apart  for  the  Fane  and  its  service  divine 

So  the  branches,  that  spring  from  the  old  Ilussel' 
tree, 
Are  by  Liberty  claimed  for  the  use  of  her  Shrine 


MY  BIRTH-DAY. 

"  My  birth-day" — what  a  difi"rent  sound, 
That  word  had  in  my  youthful  cars! 

And  how,  each  lime  the  day  comes  roun  1, 
Less  and  less  v.hite  its  mark  appears ! 

When  first  our  scanty  years  are  told, 
It  seems  like  pastime  to  grow  old ; 
And,  as  Youth  counts  the  shining  links, 

That  Time  around  him  binds  so  fast. 
Pleased  with  the  Uisk,  he  little  thinks 

How  hard  that  chain  will  press  at  last. 
Vain  was  the  man,  and  false  as  vain. 

Who  said' — "  were  he  ordain'd  to  run 
"  His  long  career  of  life  again, 

"  He  would  do  all  that  he  had  done.'  — 
Ah,  'tis  not  thus  the  voice,  that  dwells 

In  sober  birlh-days,  speaks  to  mc ; 
Far  otherwise — of  time  it  tells, 

Lavish'd  unwisely,  carelessly ; 
Ofcoui\scl  mock'd  ;  of  talents,  made 

Haply  for  high  and  pure  designs, 
Hut  ofl,  like  Israel's  incense,  laid 

Upon  unholy,  carlhV  BliriiiPs; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


237 


Of  nursing  many  a  wrong  desire ; 

Of  wandering  after  Love  too  far, 
And  taking  every  meteor  fire, 

Tliat  cross'd  my  pathway,  for  Iiis  star.— 
All  tliis  it  tells,  and,  could  I  trace 

Th'  imperfect  picture  o'er  again. 
With  pow'r  to  add,  retouch,  efface 

The  lights  and  shades,  the  joy  and  pain, 
How  little  of  the  past  would  stay  ! 
How  quickly  all  should  melt  away — 
All— but  that  Freedom  of  the  Mind, 

Which  hath  been  more  than  wealth  to  me ; 
Those  friendships,  in  my  boyhood  twined. 

And  kept  till  now  unchangingly; 
And  that  dear  home,  that  saving  ark, 

Where  Love's  true  light  at  last  I've  found, 
Cheering  within,  when  all  grows  dark. 

And  comfortless,  and  stormy  round  I 


FANCY. 


The 


more  I've  view'd  this  world,  the  more  I've 
found, 

That,  fiU'd  as  'tis  with  scenes  and  creatures  rare, 
Fancy  commands,  \vithin  her  own  bright  round, 

A  world  of  scenes  and  creatures  far  more  fair. 
Nor  is  it  that  her  power  can  call  up  there 

A  single  charm,  that's  not  from  nature  won, — 
No  more  than  rainbows,  in  their  pride,  can  wear 

A  single  tint  unborrow'd  from  the  sun ; 
But  'tis  the  mental  medium  it  shines  through. 
That  lends  to  Beauty  all  its  charms  and  hue ; 
As  the  same  light,  that  o'er  tlie  level  lake 

One  dull  monotony  of  lustre  flings. 
Will,  entering  in  the  rounded  rain-drop,  make 

Colors  as  gay  as  those  on  angels'  wings! 


SONG. 

I'ASNY,    DEAliKST 


Yes!  had  I  leisure  to  sigh  and  mourn, 

Fanny,  dearest,  for  theo  I'd  sigh  ; 
And  every  smile  on  my  cheek  should  turn 

To  tears  when  thou  art  nigh. 
But,  between  love,  and  wine,  and  sleep. 

So  busy  a  life  I  live, 
That  even  the  time  it  would  take  to  weep 

Is  more  than  my  heart  can  give. 
Then  wish  me  not  to  despair  and  pine, 

Fanny,  dearest  of  all  the  dears  ! 
The  Love  that's  order'd  to  bathe  in  wine, 

Would  he  sure  to  take  cold  in  tears.   . 


Reflected  bright  in  this  heart  of  mine, 
Fanny,  dearest,  thy  imago  lies; 

But,  ah !  the  mirror  would  cease  to  shine, 
If  dimm'd  too  often  with  sighs. 

They  lose  the  half  of  beauty's  light. 
Who  view  it  through  sorrow's  tear  ; 

And  'tis  but  to  see  thee  truly  bright 
That  I  keep  my  eye-beams  dear. 

Then  wait  no  longer  till  tears  shall  flow- 
Fanny,  dearest !  the  hope  is  vain  ; 

If  sunshine  cannot  dissolve  thy  snow, 
I  .sh.all  never  attempt  it  with  rain. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  CATULLUS. 

Carm.  70. 

Dicchas  ijuundantf  X-c. 

TO    LESBH. 

Thou  told'st  me,  in  our  d.ays  of  love, 
That  I  had  all  th.at  he.art  of  thine ; 

That,  ev'n  to  sh.are  the  coueh  of  Jove, 
Thou  wouldst  not,  Lesbia,  part  from  minp 

How  purely  wert  thou  worshipp'd  then  I 
Not  with  the  vague  and  vulgar  fires 

Wliich  Beauty  wakes  in  soulless  men, — 
But  loved,  as  children  by  their  sires. 

That  flatt'ring  dream,  alas,  is  o'er; — 
I  know  thee  now — and  though  these  eyes 

Doat  on  thee  wildly  as  before. 
Yet,  even  in  doating,  I  despise. 

Yes,  sorceress — mad  as  it  may  seem — 
With  all  thy  craft,  such  spells  adorn  thee, 

That  passion  even  outlives  esteem, 
.•\nd  I,  at  once,  adore — and  scorn  thee. 

Carm.  10. 

Pnnca  jiuitciatr  mci£  fiudttr. 

****** 

Comrades  and  friends !  with  whom,  where'er 
The  fates  have  will'd  through  life  I've  roved 

Now  speed  ye  home,  and  with  you  bear 
These  bitter  words  to  her  I've  loved. 

Tell  her  from  fool  to  fool  to  run, 
Where'er  her  vain  caprice  may  call; 

Of  all  her  dupes  not  loving  one. 
But  ruiniflg  aiKl  madd'ning  all. 


238 


MOOHE'S  WORKS. 


Bid  her  forget — what  now  is  past — 
Our  once  dear  love,  whose  ruin  lies 

Uke  a  fair  flow'r,  the  meadow's  last, 
Which  feels  the  ploughshare's  edge,  and  dies ! 

Carm.  29. 

Peninsuiarum  Sirmit},  instdarumijue 
OcelU. 

Sweet  Sirmio!  thou,  the  very  eye 

Of  all  peninsulas  and  isles, 
That  in  our  lakes  of  silver  lie. 

Or  sleep,  euwreathed  by  Neptune's  smiles- 
How  gladly  back  to  tliee  I  fly  ! 

Still  doubting,  asking — can  it  be 
That  I  have  left  Bithynia's  sky. 

And  gaze  in  safety  upon  thee  ? 

Oh  !  what  is  happier  than  to  find 
Our  hearts  at  ease,  our  perils  past ; 

When,  anxious  long,  the  lighten'd  mind 
Lays  down  its  load  of  care  at  last : 

When,  tired  with  toil  o'er  land  and  deep, 
Again  wc  tread  tlie  welcome  floor 

Of  our  own  home,  and  sink  to  sleep 
On  the  long-wish'd-for  bed  once  more.* 

This,  tills  it  is,  that  pays  alone 

The  ills  of  all  life's  former  track. — 

Shine  out,  my  beautiful,  my  own 

Sweet  Sirmio !  greet  thy  master  back. 

And  thou,  fair  Lake,  whose  water  quafl's 
The  light  of  heav'n,  like  Lydia's  sea. 

Rejoice,  rejoice — let  all  that  laughs 
Abroad,  at  home,  laugh  out  for  me! 


TIBULLUS  TO  SULPICIA. 

Nulla  tuum  nobli  subducel  Tcmlna  loctum,  &c  &.c. 

Lib.  iv.  Carm   13. 

".Nevf.ii  shall  woman's  smile  have  jKjw'r 
"To  win  me  from  fhoso  gentle  charms!'  — 

ThuH  swore  1,  in  that  happy  hour, 

When  Lovo  first  gaM;  ihcc  to  my  arms 

A  id  hii  1  nlonc  thou  cliarm'sl  my  Right — 
Still,  though  our  city  proudly  shine 

With  forms  and  faces,  fair  and  bright, 
I  tpf  nooo  fnir  or  bright  but  thina. 


Would  thou  wert  fair  for  only  me, 

And  couldst  no  heart  but  mine  allure! — 

To  all  men  else  unpleasing  be, 
So  shall  I  feel  my  pnze  secure.' 

Oh,  love  like  mine  ne'er  wants  the  zest 

Of  others'  envy,  others'  praise ; 
But,  in  its  silence  safely  bless'd, 

Broods  o'er  a  bliss  it  ne'er  betrays. 

Charm  of  my  life  !  by  whose  sweet  pow'r 
All  cares  are  hush'd,  all  ills  subdued — 

My  light,  in  ev'n  the  darkest  hour, 
My  crowd,  in  deepest  solitude  I '° 

No,  not  though  heav'n  itself  sent  down 
Some  m.aid,  of  more  thnn  heav'nly  charms, 

With  bliss  undreamt  thy  bard  to  crown, 
Would  he  for  her  forsake  those  arms! 


IMITATION. 


FBOM  THE   FRENCIL 


With  women  and  apples  both  Paris  and  Adam 

Made  mischief  enough  in  their  day: — 
God  bo  praised  that  the  fate  of  mankind,  my  don 
Madam, 

Depends  not  on  us,  the  same  way. 
For,  weak  as  I  am  with  temptation  to  grapple, 

The  world  would  have  doubly  to  rue  thee ; 
Like  Adam,  I'd  gladly  take/rom  thee  the  apple. 

Like  Paris,  .at  once  give  it  In  thco. 


INVITATION  TO  DINNER. 

ADDRESSKD   TO    LORD    l.AXDSDOWNE. 

September,  1811 
Some  think  we  b-irds  have  nothing  real ; 

That  poets  live  among  the  stars  so, 
Their  very  dinners  are  ideal, — 

(.\nd,  heaven  knows,  too  oft  they  are  so,) — 
For  instance,  that  we  have,  instead 

Of  vulgar  chops,  and  stews,  and  hashes, 
First  course — a  Phoenix,  at  the  head. 

Done  in  its  own  celestial  ashes; 
At  foot,  a  cygnet,  which  kejit  singing 
All  the  time  its  neck  was  wringing. 
Side  dishes  thus — Minerva's  owl, 
Or  «ny  euch  like  learnt  fowl: 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


239 


Doves,  such  as  heaven's  poulterer  gets, 

Grand,  from  the  Truth  that  reigns  o'er  all ; 

When  Cupid  shoots  his  mother's  pets. 

The  unshrinking  Truth,  that  lets  her  ligh' 

Larks,  stew'J  in  Slorning's  roseate  breath, 

Through  Life's  low,  dark  interior  fall. 

Or  roasted  by  a  sunbeam's  splendor; 

Opening  the  whole,  severely  bright: 

And  nightingales,  berhymed  to  death — 

Like  young  pigs  uhipp'd  to  muke  tliem  tender. 

Yet  softening,  as  she  frowns  along, 

O'er  scenes  which  angels  weep  to  see — 

Sueli  fare  may  suit  tho.se  bards,  vvlio're  able 

Where  Truth  herself  half  veils  the  Wrong 

To  banquet  at  Duke  Humphrey's  table ; 

In  pity  of  the  Misery. 

But  as  for  me,  who've  long  been  taught 

To  eat  and  drink  like  other  people ; 

True  bard  ? — and  .simple,  as  the  race 

And  can  put  up  with  mutton,  bought 

Of  true-born  poets  ever  are, 

Where  Bromham"  rears  its  ancient  steeple — 

When,  stooping  from  their  starry  place, 

If  Landsdowne  will  consent  to  share 

They're  chiMren,  near,  though  gods,  afar. 

My  humble  feast,  though  rude  the  fare. 

Yet,  season'd  by  that  salt  he  brings 

How  freshly  doth  my  mi)}d  recall. 

From  Attica's  salinest  springs, 

'Mong  the  few  days  I've  known  with  theo. 

'Twill  turn  to  dainties; — while  the  eup 

One  that,  most  buoyantly  of  all. 

Beneath  his  influence  bright'ning  up, 

Floats  in  the  wake  of  memory  ■" 

Like  that  of  Baucis,  toueh'd  by  Jove, 

Will  sparkle  fit  for  gods  above ! 

When  he,  the  poet,  doubly  graced, 

In  life,  as  in  his  perfect  strain. 

With  that  pure,  mellowing  power  of  Taste, 

Wittiout  winch  rancy  slimes  m  vam; 

VERSES  TO  THE  POET  CRABBE'S 

Who  in  his  page  will  leave  behind, 

INKSTAND."' 

Pregnant  with  genius  though  it  be. 

But  half  the  treasures  of  a  mind, 

•WEITTEN    M.\Y,    1832. 

Whore  Sense  o'er  all  holds  mastery : — 

All,  as  he  left  it ! — ev'n  the  pen. 

Friend  of  long  years  I  of  friendship  tried 

Sl>  lately  at  that  mind's  command. 

Through  many  a  bright  and  dark  event ; 

Carelessly  lying,  as  if  then 

In  doubts,  my  judge — in  taste,  my  guide- 

Just  fallen  from  his  gifted  hand. 

In  all,  my  stay  and  ornament  I 

Have  we  then  lost  him  !  scarce  an  hour, 

He,  too,  was  of  our  feast  that  day. 

A  little  hour,  seems  to  have  pass'd. 

And  all  were  guests  of  one,  whose  hand 

Since  Life  and  Inspiration's  poiver 

Hath  shed  a  new  and  deathless  ray 

Around  that  relic  breathed  their  last. 

Around  the  lyre  of  this  great  land  ; 

Ah,  powerless  now — lilte  talisman. 

In  whose  sea-odes — as  in  those  shells 

Found  in  some  vanisli'd  wizard's  halls, 

Where  Ocean's  voice  of  majesty 

Whose  mighty  charm  with  him  began, 

Seems  still  to  sound — immortal  dwells 

Whose  charm  with  him  extinguish'd  falls. 

Old  Albion's  Spirit  of  the  Sea. 

Yet  though,  alas !  the  gifts  that  shone 

Such  was  our  host ;  and  though,  since  then. 

Around  that  pen's  exploring  track, 

Slight  clouds  have  ris'n  'twixt  him  and  me, 

Be  now,  with  its  great  master,  gone, 

Who  would  not  grasp  such  hand  again, 

Nor  living  hand  can  call  them  back  ; 

Stretch'd  forth  .again  in  amity? 

Who  does  not  feel,  while  thus  his  eyes 

Who  can,  in  this  short  life,  afford 

Rest  on  the  e  ichanter's  broken  wand, 

To  let  such  mists  a  moment  stay, 

Each  earth-born  spell  it  work'd  arise 

When  th«s  one  frank,  atoning  word, 

Before  him  in  succession  grand  ? — 

Like  sunshine,  melts  them  all  aviy? 

240 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Bright  was  our  board  that  day — though  one 

Thou  bring'st  thy  Lord  a  dower  above 

Unworthy  brother  there  had  place  ; 

All  earthly  price,  pure  woman's  love; 

As  'mong  the  horses  of  the  Sun, 

And  show'st  what  lustre  Rank  receives. 

One  was,  tliey  say,  of  earthly  race. 

When  with  his  proud  Corinthian  leaves 

Her  rose  thus  liigh-bred  Bea\ity  weaves. 

Vet,  next  to  Genius  is  the  power 

Of  feelinrr  where  true  Genius  lies  ; 

Wonder  not  if,  where  all's  so  fair 

And  there  was  light  around  that  liour 

To  choose  were  more  than  bard  can  dare ; 

Such  a.s,  in  memory,  never  dies; 

Wonder  not  if,  while  every  scene 

I've  watch'd  thee  through  so  bright  hath  been, 

Liiglit  which  comes  o'er  me,  as  I  gaze, 

Th'  enamor'd  Muse  should,  in  her  quest 

Thou  Relic  of  the  De.ad,  on  thee, 

Of  Beauty,  know  not  how  to  rest. 

Like  all  sucli  dreams  of  vanish'd  days, 

But  dazzled,  at  tliy  feet  thus  fall. 

Brijrhtly,  indeed — Imt  moiirnfully  ! 

Hailing  thee  beautiful  in  all  I 

TO  CAItOLI^fE,  VISCOUNTESS  ^'ALLETORT. 

A  SPECULATION. 

WRITTEN   AT    LACOCK   ABBEY,   JASUARt,    183i. 

Of  all  speculations  the  market  holds  forth, 

When  I  would  sing  thy  beauty's  light, 
Such  various  forms,  and  all  so  bright, 
I've  seen  thee,  from  thy  childhood,  wear. 

The  best  that  I  know  for  a  lover  of  pelf. 
Is  to  buy  Marcus  up,  nt  the  price  he  is  worth, 
And  then  sell  him  at  that  which  he  seta  on 
himself. 

1  know  not  which  to  call  most  fair. 

Nor  'mong  the  countless  charms  that  spring 

For  ever  round  thee,  ichicli  to  sing. 

When  I  would  paint  tliee,  as  thou  art, 

TO  MY  MOTHER. 

Then  all  thou  wcrt  comes  o'er  my  heart — 

WEnTE.\    IX    A    rOCKET    EOOi!,     1822. 

The  graceful  child,  in  beauty's  dawn. 

Within  the  nursery's  shade  withdrawn, 

They  tell  us  of  an  Indian  tree. 

Or  peeping  out — like  a  young  moon 

Which,  howsoe'cr  the  sun  and  sky 

Upon  a  world  'twill  brighten  soon. 

May  tempt  its  boughs  to  wander  free, 

Then  next,  in  girlhood's  blushing  liour, 

And  shoot,  and  blossom,  wide  and  high. 

As  from  thy  own  loved  Abbey-tow'r 

I've  seen  thee  look,  all  radiant,  down, 

Far  better  loves  to  bend  its  arms 

With  smiles  that  to  tlie  hoary  frown 

Downward  again  to  that  dear  earth, 

Of  centuries  round  thee  lent  a  my, 

From  wiiich  the  life,  th.it  fills  and  warms 

Chasing  even  Age's  gloom  away  ; — 

Its  grateful  being,  first  liad  hirlli. 

Or,  in  the  world's  resplendent  throng. 

As  I  have  mark'd  thee  glide  along. 

'Tis  thus,  though  woo'd  by  Hattering  frienda 

Among  the  crowds  of  fair  and  great 

And  fed  with  fame  (if  fame  it  be) 

A  spirit,  pure  and  scp.irate, 

This  heart,  my  own  dear  mother,  bends, 

To  which  even  Adminition's  eye 

With  love's  true  instinct,  back  to  thee! 

Was  fearful  to  approach  too  nigh  ; — 

A  creature,  circled  by  a  spoil 

Witliin  which  nothing  wrong  could  dwell  ; 

And  fresh  and  clc.ir  as  from  the  source, 

Holding  through  life  her  limpid  course, 

I.OVE  ANn  IIVMEN. 

Like  Arethusa  through  the  sen, 

Stealing  in  fountain  purity. 

IjOve  h.'id  a  fever — ne'er  could  close 

His  little  eyes  till  day  was  breaking; 

Now,  too,  another  change  of  light! 

And  wild  and  strange  <Miough,  IIe:iv'n  known, 

An  noble  bride,  still  meekly  bright 

The  things  he  raved  about  while  wakini{. 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


241 


To  let  him  pine  so  were  a  sin  ; — 

One,  to  whom  all  tlio  world's  a  debtor — 

So  Doctor  Hymen  was  call'd  in, 

And  Love  that  night  slept  rather  better. 

Next  day  tlie  case  gave  further  hope  yet. 
Though  still  some  ugly  fever  latent; — 

"  Dose,  as  before" — a  gentle  opiate, 
For  which  old  Hymen  has  a  patent. 

After  a  month  of  daily  call. 

So  fast  the  dose  went  on  restoring. 

That  Love,  who  first  ne'er  slept  at  all. 

Now  took,  file  rogue !  to  downright  snoring. 


LINES 

O.V  THE 

ENTKY  OF  THE  .1USTRIANS  INTO  N.\PLE.S,  1831. 
Carbone  notati. 

At — down  to  the  dust  with  Ihem,  slaves  as  they 
are, 
From  this  hour,  let  the  blood  in  their  dastardly 
veins. 
That  shrunk  at  the  first  touch  of  Liberty's  war 
Be  wasted  for  tyrants,  or  stagnate  in  chains. 

On,  on  like  a  cloud,  through  their  beautiful  vales, 
Ye  locusts  of  tyranny,  blasting  them  o'er — 

Fill,  fill  up  their  wide  sunny  waters,  ye  sails 

From  each  slave-mart  of  Europe,  and  shadow 
their  shore  I 

Let  their  fate  be  a  mock-word — let  men  of  all  lands 
Laugh  out,  with  a  scorn  that  shall  ring  to  the 
poles. 
When  each  sword,  that  the  cowards  let  fall  from 
their  hands, 
Shall  be  forged  into  fetters  to  enter  their  souls. 

And  deep,  and  more  deep,  as  the  iron  is  driv'n. 
Base  slaves !  let  the  whet  of  their  agony  be. 

To  think — as  the  Doom'd  often  think  of  that  heav'n 
They  had  once  within  reach — that  they  might 
have  been  free. 

Oh  shame!  when  there  was  not  a  bosom,  whose 
heat 
Ever  rose  'bove  the  zero  of  Castlereagh's  heart. 
That  did  not,  like  echo,  your  war-hymn  repeat. 
And  send  all  its  prayers  with  your  Liberty's  start; 
VOL.  u. — 31 


When  the  world  stood  in  hope — when  a  spirit,  that 
breathed 
The    fresh    air    of   the   olden    time,   whisper'd 
about ; 
Aiul  the  swords  of  all  Italy,  hiilf-way  unsheath'd. 
But  w.-iitcd  one  conquering  cry,  to  flash  out! 

When  around  you  the  shades  of  your  Mighty  in 
fame, 
Fii.icAJAs  and  PETP.Anciis,  seeni'd  bursting  to 
view, 
And  their  words,  and  their  warnings,  like  tongues 
of  bright  flame 
Over  Freedom's  apostles,  fell  kindling  on  you! 

Oh  shame !  tliat,  in  such  a  proud  moment  of  life. 
Worth  the  hist'rv  of  ages,  when,  had  you  but 
hurl'd 
One  bolt  at  your  tyrant  invader,  that  strife 

Between  freemen  and  tyrants  h.ad  spread  through 
the  world — 

That  then — oh !  disgrace  upon  manhood — ev'n  then, 

You  should  falter,  should  cling  to  vour  pitiful 

breath ; 

Cow'r  down  into  beasts,  when  you   might  have 

stood  men. 

And  prefer  the  slave's  life  of  prostration  to  death. 

It  is  stsange,  it  is  dreadful : — shout.  Tyranny,  shout 

Thrjugh  your  dungeons  and  palaces,  "  Freedom 

iS  o'er  ;"— 

If  thfj^j  lingers  one  spark  of  her  light,  tread  it  out. 

And  return  to  your  empire   of  darkness  once 

more. 

Fo..  li  such  are  the  bnaggarts  that  claim  to  be  free, 
l,ome.  Despot  of  Russia,  thy  feet  let  me  kiss ; 

Fli,  nobler  to  live  the  brute  bondman  of  thee, 
Vhan  to  sully  ev'n  chains  by  a  struggle  like  this  I 


SKEPTICISJL 

Eke  Psyche  drank  the  cup,  that  shed 

Immortal  Life  into  her  soul. 
Some  evil  spirit  pour'd,  'tis  said. 

One  drop  of  Doubt  into  the  bowl — 

WTiich,  mingling  darkly  with  the  stream. 
To  Psyche's  lips — she  knew  not  why — 

Made  even  that  blessed  nectar  seem 
As  though  its  sweetness  soon  would  die, 


242 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


Oft,  in  the  very  arms  of  Love, 

A  chill  came  o'er  her  heart — a  fear 

That  Death  might,  even  yet,  remove 
Her  spirit  from  that  happy  sphere. 

'■  Those  sunny  ringlets,"  she  exelaimd. 
Twining  them  round  her  snowy  fingers  ; 

'■  Th:it  forehead,  where  a  light,  unnamed, 
"Unknown  on  e:ir!h,  for  ever  lingers; 

*  Those  lips,  through  which  I  feel  the  breath 
"Of  Heaven  itself,  whene'er  they  sever — 

"  Say,  are  they  mine,  beyond  all  death, 
'•My  own,  hereafter,  and  for  ever? 

"  Smile  not — I  know  that  starry  brow, 
"Those  ringlets,  and  bright  lips  of  thine, 

"  Will  always  shine,  as  they  do  now — 
"But  shall  /  live  to  see  them  shine?" 

In  vain  did  Love  say,  ■•  Turn  thine  eyes 
"On  all  that  sparkles  round  thee  here — 

"  Thou'rt  now  in  heaven,  where  nothing  dies, 
"  And  in  these  arms — what  canst  thou  fear?" 

In  vain — the  fatal  drop,  that  stole 
Into  that  cup's  immortal  treasure, 

Had  lodged  its  bitter  near  her  soul, 
And  gave  a  tinge  to  every  pleasure. 

And,  though  there  ne'er  was  transport  given 
Like  P.syche's  with  that  radiant  boy, 

Hers  is  the  only  face  in  heaven, 
That  wears  a  cloud  amid  its  joy. 


A  JOKE  VERSIFIED. 

*  Cojin,  come,"  said  Tom's  father,  '•  at  your  time  of 
life, 
"  There's  no  longer  excuse  for  thus  playing  the 
rake — 
"It  is   time   you    should    think,   Imy,   of  taking   a 
wife" — 
"  Why,  so  it  is,  father — whose  wife  shall  I  t.ike?" 


ON  THE  DEATH  OK  A  FRIEND. 

t'unE  as  the  mantle,  which,  o'er  him  who  stood 
By  Jordan's  strcnm,  descended  from  the  sky, 

Fb  thai  remembrance,  which  the  wise  and  good 
I/cavn  In  the  hearts  (hat  love  tlicni,  when  tliev 
die. 


So  pure,  so  precious  shall  the  memory  be, 
Bequeath'd,  in  dying,  to  our  souls  by  thee — 
So  shall  the  love  we  bore  thee,  cherish'd  warm 

Within  our  souls  through  grief,  and  pain,  and 
strife. 
Be,  like  Elisha's  cruise,  a  holy  charm. 

Wherewith  to  "  heal  the  waters"  of  this  life  ! 


TO  JAMES  CORRY,  ESQ., 

ON  HIS  MAKINO  ME  A  PSESEMT  OF  A  WINE  STEAIXEE. 

IJrighton,  June,  1825 
This  life,  dear  Corry,  who  can  doubt  ? — 

Resembles  much  friend  Ewart's"  wine, 
When, /Ers/  the  rosy  drops  come  out, 

How  beautiful,  how  clear  they  shine  I 

And  thus  awhile  they  keep  their  tint. 
So  free  from  even  a  shade  witli  some, 

Th.it  they  would  smile,  did  you  but  hint, 
Th.at  darker  drops  would  evci-  come. 

But  soon  tlie  ruby  tide  runs  short, 

E.ich  minute  m.akes  the  sad  truth  plaine 

Till  life,  like  old  and  crusty  port. 

When  near  its  close,  requires  a  strainer 

This  friendship  can  alone  confer. 
Alone  can  teach  the  drops  to  pass. 

If  not  as  bright  .as  once  they  were. 

At  least  unclouded,  tlu'ough  the  glasa. 

Nor,  Corry,  could  a  boon  be  mine, 

Of  which  this  heart  were  fonder,  vainer, 

Than  thus,  tf  Ifl'e  grow  like  old  wine, 
To  have  thy  friendship  for  its  strainer. 


FRAGMENT  OF  A  CHARACTER. 

Here  lies  Factotum  Ned  at  last; 

Long  .as  ho  breathed  the  vital  air. 
Nothing  througlunit  all  Europe  pass'd, 

In  which  Ned  hadn't  some  small  sh:iro. 

Whoe'er  was  in,  whoe'er  was  out, 
Whatever  stjitcsmen  did  or  said. 

If  not  exactly  brought  about, 

'Twas  all,  at  least,  contrived  hy  Ned. 

With  NaI',  if  Russia  went  to  war, 
'Twas  owing,  under  Providence, 

To  certain  hints  Ned  gave  the  Czar — 
(Vide  hir,  pamphlet — price,  BJ.xpencii) 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


243 


If  France  was  beat  at  Waterloo 

As  all  but  Frenchmen  think  she  was — 

To  Ned,  as  Weliinglon  well  knew, 
Was  ou-ing  half  that  day's  applause. 

Then  for  his  news — no  envoy's  bag 
E'er  pass'd  so  many  secrets  through  it ; 

Scarcely  a  telegraph  could  wag 

Its  wooden  fingers,  but  Ned  knew  it. 

Sucli  tales  he  had  of  foreign  plots, 

With  foreign  names,  one's  ear  to  buz/,  in  ! 

From  Russia,  chefs  and  ofs  in  lots, 
From  Poland,  owskis  by  the  dozen. 

When  George,  idarm'd  for  England's  creed, 
Turn'd  out  the  last  Whig  ministry, 

And  men  ask'd — wlio  .-idvised  the  deed  ? 
Ned  modestly  confess'd  'twas  he. 

For  though,  by  some  unlucky  miss. 
He  had  not  downriglit  seen  the  King, 

/le  sent  such  hints  through  Viscount  This, 
To  Marquis  Thai,  as  clench'd  the  thing. 

The  same  it  was  in  science,  arts, 

The  Drama,  Books,  MS.  and  printed — 

Kean  learn'd  from  Ned  his  cleverest  parts, 
And  Scott's  last  work  by  him  w.is  hinted. 

Childe  Harold  in  the  proofs  he  read, 

And,  here  and  there,  infused  some  soul  iii't— 

Nay,  Davy's  Lamp,  till  seen  by  Ned, 

Had — odd  enough — an  awkward  hole  in't. 

'Twas  thus,  all-doing  and  all-knowing. 
Wit,  statesman,  bo.ver,  chymist,  singer, 

Whatever  was  the  best  pie  going 

In  that  Ned — trust  him — had  his  finger. 

******** 


WHAT  SHALL  I  SING  THEE! 

TO  

What  shall  I  sing  thee  ?     Sh.all  I  teli 
Of  that  bright  hour,  remember'd  well 
As  though  it  shone  but  yesterday. 
When,  loitering  idly  in  the  ray 
Of  a  spring-sun,  I  heard,  o'erhead. 
My  name  as  by  some  spirit  said. 
And,  looking  up,  saw  two  bright  eyes 
Above  me  from  a  casement  shine. 


Dazzling  my  wind  with  such  surprise 
Ab  they,  who  sail  beyond  the  Line, 

Feel  when  new  stars  above  them  rise ; — 

And  it  was  thine,  the  voice  that  spoke. 
Like  Ariel's,  in  the  mid  air  then  ; 

And  thine  the  eye,  whose  lustre  broke— 
Never  to  be  forgot  again  I 

Wluat  shall  I  sing  thee  ?  Shall  I  weave 
A  song  of  that  sweet  summer-eve, 
(Summer,  of  which  the  sunniest  part 
Was  that  we,  each,  had  in  the  heart,) 
When  thou  and  I,  and  one  like  thee. 

In  life  and  beauty,  to  the  sound 
Of  pur  own  breathless  minstrelsy. 

Danced  till  the  sunlight  faded  round, 
Ourselves  the  whole  ideal  Ball, 
Lights,  music,  company,  and  all  ! 
Oh,  'tis  not  in  the  languid  strain 

Of  lute  like  mine,  whose  day  is  past, 
To  call  up  even  a  dream  again 

Of  the  fresh  light  those  moments  eax' 


COUNTRY  DANCE  AJS'D  QUADRILLE. 

O.NE  night  the  nymph  call'd  Country  Dance— 
(Whom  folks,  of  late,  have  used  so  ill, 

Preferring  a  coquette  from  France, 

That  mincing  thing,  Mamselle  Quadkiele)— 

Having  been  chased  from  London  down 
To  that  most  humble  haunt  of  all 

She  used  to  grace— a  Country  Town — 
Went  smiling  to  the  New-Vear's  Ball. 

"Here,  here,  at  least,"  she  cried,  "  though  driven 
'■  From  London's  gay  and  shining  tracks — 

'•  Though,  like  a  Peri  cast  from  heaven, 
"I've  lost,  for  ever  lost,  Almack'.s — 

"  Tliough  not  a  London  Miss  alive 

"  Would  now  for  her  .acquaintance  own  me; 

"  And  spinsters,  even,  of  forty-five, 

"  Upon  tlieir  honors  ne"er  have  known  me, 

"  Here,  here,  at  last,  I  triumph  still, 

"  And — spite  of  some  few  dandy  Lancers, 

"  Who  vainly  try  to  preach  Quadrille — 

"  Sae  naught  but  true-Uue  Country  Dancers. 

"  Here  still  I  reign,  and,  fresh  in  charm.s, 
"  My  throne,  like  Magna  Charta,  raise 

"  'Mong  sturdy,  freeborn  legs  and  arms, 

"That  scorn  the  threaten'd  cliaine  Avslaise.' 


2U 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Twas  thus  she  said,  as  'mid  the  din 

Of  footmen,  and  the  town  sedan, 
She  lighted  at  the  King's  Head  Inn, 

And  up  the  stairs  triumphant  ran. 

The  Squires  and  their  Squiresses  all. 
With  young  Squirinas,  just  come  out, 

And  niv  Lord's  daughters  from  the  Hall, 
(Qu.idrillcrs,  in  their  heart*,  no  doubt,) — 

All  these,  as  light  she  tripp'd  iip  stairs, 
Were  in  the  cloak-room  seen  assembling — 

When,  hark  !  some  new,  outlandish  airs, 
From  the  First  Fiddle,  set  her  trembling. 

She  stops— she  listens — cayi  it  be  ? 

Alas,  in  vain  her  ears  would  'scape  it — 
It  is  "Di  tanti  palpiti" 

As  plain  as  English  bow  can  scrape  it. 

"Courage!"  however — in  she  goes, 
With  her  best,  sweeping  country  grace ; 

When,  ah  too  true,  her  worst  of  foes. 
Quadrille,  there  meets  her  face  to  face. 

Oh  for  the  lyre,  or  violin, 

Or  kit  of  that  g.iy  Muse,  Terpsichore, 
To  sing  the  rage  these  nymphs  were  in, 

Their  looks  and  language,  airs  and  trickery. 

There  stood  Quadrille,  with  cat-like  face, 
(The  beau-idea!  of  French  beauty,) 

A  bandbox  thing,  all  art  and  l.nce 

Down  from  her  nose-tip  to  her  shoe-tie. 

Her  flounces,  fresh  from  Viclorinc — 

From  llippolijle,  rouge  and  hair — 
Her  poetry,  from  Lamartine — 

Her  morals,  from — tlie  Lord  knows  where. 

And,  when  slie  danced — so  slidingly, 
So  near  the  ground  she  plied  her  art. 

You'd  swear  her  mother-earth  and  she 
Had  made  a  cninpact  ne'er  to  part. 

Her  face  too,  all  the  while,  sedate, 
No  signs  of  life  or  motion  showing, 

Ijke  a  bright  pcnJitk's  dial-i)latc — 

So  slill,  you'd  hardly  think  'twas  going. 

Full  flouting  her  stood  Cuuntrij  Uance — 

A  fresh,  frank  nymph,  whom  yoii  would  know 

For  English,  at  n  single  glance — 
Eiic7liHh  all  o'er,  from  top  to  toe. 


A  little  gauche,  'tis  fair  to  own, 

And  rather  given  to  skips  and  bounces ; 

Endangering  thereby  many  a  gown, 

And  pl.aying,  oft,  the  devil  with  ilouiiees. 

Unlike  Mamsclle — who  would  prefer 

(As  morally  a  lesser  ill) 
A  thousand  fiaws  of  character, 

To  one  vile  rumple  of  a  frill. 

No  rouge  did  she  of  Albion  we.ar, 
Let  her  but  run  that  two-heat  race 

She  calls  a  Set,  not  Dian  e'er 

Came  rosier  from  the  woodland  chase. 

Such  was  the  nymph,  whose  soul  had  in't 
Such  anger  now — whose  eyes  of  blue 

(Eyes  of  that  bright,  victorious  tint, 
Which  English  maids  call  '•  Waterloo") 

Like  summer  lightnings,  in  the  dusk 
Of  a  warm  evening,  flashing  broke, 

While — to  the  tune  of  "  Money  JIusk,"" 

W^hich  struck  up  now — she  proudly  spoke  : — 

"  Heard  you  timt  strain — that  joyous  strain  ? 

"  'Twas  such  as  England  loved  to  hear, 
"  Ere  thou,  and  all  thy  frippery  train, 

"Corrupted  both  her  foot  and  ear — 

"  Ere  Waltz,  that  rake  from  foreign  land.s, 
"  Presumed,  in  sight  of  all  beholders, 

'■  To  lay  his  rude,  licentious  hands 

"  On  virtuous  English  backs  and  shoulders — 

"Ere  times  and  morals  both  grew  bad, 

"And,  yet  unlleeced  by  funding  blockheads, 

"  Happy  John  Bull  not  only  had, 

"  But  danced  to,  '  i\roney  in  both  pockets.' 

'•  .Mas,  the  change  ! — Oh,  Londonderry, 
"  Where  is  the  land  could  'scape  disasters, 

"  With  such  a  Foreign  Secretary, 

"  Aided  by  Foreign  Dancing  Masters? 

"  Woo  to  ye,  men  of  ships  and  shops  ! 

"Rulers  of  d.iy-books  and  of  waves! 
"Qn.ndrilled,  on  one  side,  into  fops, 

"  And  <lrill'd,  on  t'other,  into  slaves! 

"  W',  too,  ye  lovely  victims,  seen, 

"Like  pigeons,  Iruss'd  for  exhibition, 

"  With  elbows,  A  la  crapautlinc, 

"And  feet  in — <J»(d  knows  what  position  , 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


245 


"  Hemni'd  in  by  watchful  chaperons, 
"  Inspectors  of  your  air.s  and  graces, 

"  Wlio  intercept  all  whisper'd  tones, 
"And  read  yonr  tclej^rraphic  faces; 

"Unable  with  the  youth  adored, 
"  In  that  grim  cordon  of  Mammas, 

"  To  interchange  one  tender  word, 

"Though  whispcr'd  but  in  queue  de  chats. 

"  Ah  did  you  know  how  bless'J  we  ranged, 
"  Ere  vile  Quadrille  usurp'd  the  fiddle — 

"  What  looks  in  setting  were  exchanged, 
"  What  tender  words  in  doicn  the  middle; 

"  How  many  a  couple,  like  tlie  wind, 
"  Which  nothing  in  its  course  controls, 

"  Left  time  and  chaperons  far  behind, 
"  And  gave  a  loose  to  legs  and  souls ; 

"  How  matrimony  throve — ere  stopp'd 
"  By  this  cold,  silent,  foot-coquetting — 

"  How  charmingly  one's  partner  popp'd 
"  Th'  important  question  in  poussetting. 

"While  now,  alas — no  sly  advances — 
"  No  marriage  hints — all  goes  on  badly — 

"  'Twixt  Parson  Malthus  and  French  Dances, 
"  We,  girls,  are  at  a  discount  sadly. 

"  Sir  William  Scott  (now  Baron  Stowell) 
"  Declares  not  Ii.alf  so  much  is  m.ade 

"  By  Licenses — and  lie  must  know  well — 
"  Since  vile  Quadrilling  spoil'd  the  trade." 

She  ceased — tears  fell  from  every  Miss — 
She  now  had  touch'd  the  true  pathetic : — 

One  such  authentic  fact  as  this 
Is  wortli  whole  volumes  tlieoretic. 

Instant  the  cry  was  "  Country  Dance  !" 
And  the  maid  saw,  v.ith  brightening  face, 

The  Steward  of  the  night  advance, 
And  lead  her  to  lior  birtgright  place. 

The  fiddles,  whicli  awhile  had  ceased. 
Now,  tuned  again  their  summons  sweet. 

And,  for  one  happy  night,  at  least, 
Old  England's  triumph  was  complete. 


OAZEL. 

Haste,  Miuami,  the  spring  is  nigh  ; 

Already,  in  th'  unopon'd  flowers 
That  sleep  around  us.  Fancy's  eye 

Can  see  the  blush  of  future  bowers ; 
And  joy  it  brings  to  thee  and  me. 
My  own  beloved  M:uimi ! 

The  streamlet  frozen  on  its  way, 

To  feed  the  marble  Founts  of  Kings, 

Now,  loosen'd  by  the  vernal  ray. 
Upon  its  path  exulting  springs — 

As  doth  this  bounding  heart  to  thee, 

My  ever  blissful  Maami ! 

Such  bright  hours  were  not  made  to  stay 
Enough  if  they  a  while  remain. 

Like  Irem's  bowers,  that  fade  away, 
From  time  to  time,  and  come  ag.iin 

And  life  shall  all  one  Irem  be 

For  us,  my  gentle  Maami. 

O  haste,  for  tliis  impatient  heart, 
Is  like  the  rose  in  Yemen's  vale, 

That  rends  its  inmost  leaves  apart 
With  passion  for  the  nightingale ; 

So  languishes  this  soul  for  thee,* 

3Iy  briglit  and  blusliing  Maami  ! 


LINES 


ON   THE    DEATH   OF 
JOSEPH  ATKINSON,  ESQ.,  OF  DUBLIN. 

If  ever  life  was  prosperously  cast. 

If  ever  life  was  like  the  lengthen'd  flow 

Of  some  sweet  music,  sweetness  to  the  last, 
'Twas  his  who,  mourn'd  by  many,  sleeps  beow 

The  sunny  temper,  bright  where  .all  is  strife. 
The  simple  heart  .above  all  worldly  wiles ; 

Light  wit  that  plays  along  the  calm  of  life. 
And  stirs  its  languid  surface  into  smiles ; 

Pure  charity,  that  comes  not  in  a  shower, 
Sudden  and  loud,  oppressing  what  it  feeds. 

But,  like  the  dew,  with  gradual  silent  power. 
Felt  in  the  bloom  it  leaves  along  tlie  me.ads ; 

The  happy  grateful  spirit,  that  improves 
And  brightens  every  gift  by  fortune  given  ; 

That,  wander  where  it  will  with  those  it  loves. 
Makes  every  pl.ace  a  home,  .and  home  a  heaven 


24(5 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


All  these  were  liis. — Oh,  thou  wlio  read'st  this  stone, 
When  for  thyself,  thy  children,  to  the  sky 

Tliou  hiunblv  prayest,  aslt  this  boon  alone, 
That  ve  like  hini  may  livp,  like  him  may  die ! 


UEXIUS  AXD  CRITICISM. 

Scripsil  qtiidem  fhla,  sed  sequilur. 

Seneca. 

Of  old,  the  Sultan  Genius  reign'd, 
As  Nature  meant,  supreme  alone  ; 

With  mind  uncheck'd,  and  hands  uncliain'd. 
His  views,  his  conquests  were  his  own. 

But  power  like  his,  that  digs  its  grave 
With  its  own  sceptre,  could  not  last ; 

So  Genius'  .self  became  the  slave 
Of  law.«  that  Genius'  self  had  pass'd. 

As  Jove,  who  forged  the  chain  of  Fate, 
Was,  ever  after,  doom'd  to  wear  it ; 

His  nods,  his  struggles  all  too  late — 
•'  Qui  semeljussit,  semper  paret." 

To  check  young  Genius'  proud  career, 
The  slaves,  who  now  his  throne  invaded. 

Made  Criticism  his  prime  Vizir, 

And  from  that  hour  his  glories  faded. 

Tied  down  in  Legislation's  school. 
Afraid  of  even  his  own  ambition. 

His  very  victories  were  by  rule, 

And  he  was  great  but  by  permission. 

His  most  heroic  deeds — the  same, 

That  dazzled,  when  spontaneous  .actions — 
Now,  done  l)y  law,  secm'd  cold  and  tame. 

And  shorn  of  all  their  first  attractions. 

If  he  but  stirrVl  to  take  the  air, 
Instant,  the  Vizir's  Council  sat — 

"Good  Lord,  your  Highness  can't  go  there — 
"Bless  me,  your  Highness  can't  do  tliat." 

If,  loving  pomp,  he  chose  to  buy 

Rich  jewels  for  his  diadem, 
"  The  taste  w.is  bad,  the  price  was  high — 

"  A  flower  were  simpler  than  a  gem." 

To  plcaHe  thi'm  if  he  took  lo  flowers — 
"  What  trilling,  what  unmeaning  things! 

"  Kit  for  a  woman's  tiiili-t  hours, 

"But  not  at  all  llio  style  for  Kings." 


If,  fond  of  his  domestic  sphere. 

He  pl.iv'd  no  more  the  rambling  comet — 
"  A  dull,  good  sort  of  man,  'twas  clear, 

"  But,  as  for  great  or  brave,  for  from  it." 

Did  he  then  look  o'er  distant  oceans. 

For  realms  more  worthy  to  enthrone  him  ? 

"  Saint  Aristotle,  what  wild  notions  ! 
'•  Servo  a  '  ne  exeat  regno'  on  him."' 

At  length,  their  last  and  worst  to  cto, 

They  round  him  placed  a  guard  of  watchmen 

Reviewers,  knaves  in  brown,  or  blue 

Turn'd  up  with  yellow — •chiefly  Scotchmen  ; 

To  dog  his  footsteps  all  about. 

Like  those  in  Longwood's  prison  grounds, 
Who  ,at  Napoleon's  heels  rode  out. 

For  fear  the  Conqueror  should  break  bounds. 

Oh  for  some  Champion  of  his  power, 

Some  Ultra  spirit,  to  set  free, 
As  erst  in  Shakspearc's  sov'reign  hour. 

The  thunders  of  his  Roy.alty! — 

To  vindicate  his  ancient  line, 

The  first,  the  true,  the  only  one. 
Of  Right  eternal  and  divine, 

That  rules  beneath  t!ie  blessed  sun. 


TO  L.\DY  JERSEY, 

ON    REINO    ASKED   TO    WRITE    SOMETIIINO    IN    HER    ALBUM. 

Wriltcn  at  Midilleton. 

On  albums,  albums,  how  I  dread, 

Your  everlasting  scrap  and  scrawl  ! 
How  often  wish  that  from  the  dead. 
Old  Omar  would  pop  forth  his  head, 
.^nd  make  a  bonfire  of  you  .all  ! 

So  might  I  'scape  the  spinster  band. 

The  bUishless  blues,  who,  day  and  night, 
Like  duns  in  doorways,  take  their  stand. 
To  w.aylay  bards,  wilh  book  in  hand. 
Crying  for  ever,  "  Write,  sir,  write  !' 

So  might  I  shun  the  MJiamo  and  pnin, 
That  o'er  me  at  this  instant  come. 

When  Beauly,  seeking  Wit  in  vain, 

Knoi'ks  at  llie  portal  of  my  brain, 

And  gets,  for  answer,  "  Not  al.  hone!" 

.Vottfwirr,  IR88. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


247 


TO  THE  SAME. 

ON    LOOEINO    rilEOUUII    lIEIt    ALBUM. 

No  wonder  b:irds,  botli  high  and  low, 
From  Byron  down  to  *****  and  me, 

Sliould  see  the  fume,  vvliich  .ill  bestow 
On  him  whose  task  is  praising  thee. 

Let  but  the  theme  be  Jersey's  eyes. 
At  once  all  errors  .ire  forgiven ; 

As  ev'n  old  Sternhold  still  we  prize, 

Because,  though  dull,  he  sings  of  heaven. 


AT  NIGHT." 

At  night,  when  all  is  still  around. 
How  sweet  to  hear  the  distant  sound 

Of  footstep,  coming  soft  and  light ! 
VVh.at  pleasure  in  the  anxious  beat. 
With  which  the  bosom  flies  to  meet 

Th.-it  foot  th.at  comes  so  soft  at  night  ? 

And  then,  at  night,  how  sweet  to  say 
'  'Tis  late,  my  love  !"  and  chide  delay, 

Though  still  the  western  clouds  are  bright ; 
Oh  !  happy,  too,  the  silent  press, 
The  eloquence  of  mute  caress. 

With  those  we  love  e.xchanged  at  night ! 


TO  LADY  HOLLAND. 
ON  napoleon's  legacy  ok  a  snuff-box. 

Gift  of  the  Hero,  on  his  dying  day. 

To  her,  whose  pity  watch'd,  for  ever  nigh  ; 

Oh !  could  he  see  the  proud,  the  happy  ray. 
This  relic  lights  up  in  her  generous  eye. 

Sighing,  he'd  feel  how  easy  'tis  to  pay 

A  friendship  .all  his  kingdoms  could  not  buy. 

Paria,  Juhj,  1821. 


EPILOGUE. 

WKirrEN  FOR  lady  dacre's  tkauedt  of  ixa. 

Last  nig'ot,  .as  loi  ely  o'er  my  fire  I  sat, 
Thinking  of  cuos,  starts,  exits,  and — all  that, 


And  wondering  much  what  little  knavish  sprite 
Had  put  it  first  in  women's  heads  to  write: 
iSudilen  I  saw — as  m  some  witching  dream — 
A  bright-blue  glory  round  my  book-case  beam. 
From  whose  quick-opening  folds  of  azure  light 
Out  Hew  a  tiny  form,  as  small  and  bright 
As  I'uek  the  Fairy,  when  he  pops  his  head, 
Some  sunny  morning,  from  a  violet  bed. 
"Bles.'i    me!"    I   starting  cried,   "what    ini])   are 

you  ?"— • 
"  A  small  he-devil.  Ma'am — my  name  Bas  Bleu — 
"  A  bookish  sprite,  much  giv'n  to  routs  and  reading  ; 
"  'Tis  I  who  teach  your  spinsters  of  good  breeding, 
"The  reigning  taste  in  chemistry  and  caps, 
"The  last  new  bounds  of  tuckers  and  of  maps, 
"  And,  when  the  waltz  lias  twirl'd  her  giddy  brain, 
"With  metaphysics  twirl  it  back  again  I" 

I  view'd  him,  as  he  spoke — liis  hose  was  blue. 
His  wings — the  covers  of  the  last  Review — 
Cerulean,  border'd  with  a  jaundice  hue. 
And  tinseU'd  gayly  o'er  for  evening  wear, 
Till  the  next  quarter  brings  a  new-fledged  pair. 
"  Inspired  by  rae, — (pursued  this  waggish  Fairy)— 
"  That  best  of  wives  and  Sapphos,  Lady  Slary, 
"  Votary  alike  of  Crispin  .and  the  IMuse, 
"Makes  her  own  splay-foot  epigrams  and  shoes, 
"  For  me  the  eyes  of  young  Camilla  shine, 
"And  mingle  Love's  blue  brilliances  with  mine  ; 
"For  me  she  sits  ap.art,  from  coxcombs  shrinking, 
"  Looks  wise — the  pretty  soul ! — and  tlii7jks  she's 

thinking. 
"  By  my  advice  Miss  Indigo  attends 
"  Lectures  on  Memory,  and  assures  her  friends, 
" '  'Pon  honor  I — (mimics) — nothing  can  surpass  the 

plan 
"'Of  th.at  professor — (trying  to  recollect) — psha! 

that  memory-man — 
" '  That — what's  his  name  1 — him  I  attended  lately — 
"''Pon  honor,  he  improved  my  memory  greatly.'" 

Here,  curtseying  low,  I  ask'd  the  blue-legg'd  sprite 
What  share  he  h.ad"in  this  our  play  to-night. 
"Nay,   there — (he    cried) — there    I    am    guiltles.s 

quite — 
"  What !  choose  a  heroine  from  that  Gothic  time, 
"  When  no  one  w.altz'd,  and  none  but  monks  could 

rhyme ; 
'•  When  lovely  woman  .all  unschool'd  and  wild, 
"Blush'd  without  .art,  .and  without  culture  smiled — 
"  Simple  as  flowers,  while  yet  unclass'd  they  shone 
"Ere  Science  call'd  their  brilliant  world  her  own, 
"  Ranged  the  wild,  rosy  things  in  learned  orders, 
"And  fiU'd  with  Greek  the  garden's  blushing  bor- 
ders ! — 


248 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


"  No,  no — your  gentle  Inas  will  not  do — 

A  face — the  very  f^ice,  raethought, 

"To-morrow  evening,  when  the  lights  burn  blue. 

From  which  had  breathed,  as  from  a  shrine 

"  Fll  come — (pointing  dojonward) — you  understand 

Of  song  and  soul,  the  notes  I  sought — 

—till  then  adieu !" 

Came  with  its  music  close  to  mine  ; 

And  has  the  sprite  been  here  ?  No — jests  apart — 

And  sung  the  long-lost  measure  o'er, — 

Howe'er  man  rules  in  science  and  in  art. 

E.ich  note  .and  word,  with  every  tone 

The  sphere  of  woman's  glories  is  the  heart. 

And  look,  that  lent  it  life  before, — 

And,  if  our  Muse  have  sketch'd  with  pencil  true 

All  perfect,  all  again  my  own! 

The  wife — the  mother — firm,  yet  gentle  too — 

Whose  soul,  wT.app'd  up  in  ties  itself  hath  spun, 

Like  parted  souls,  when,  mid  the  Blest 

Trembles,  if  touch'd  in  the  remotest  one  ; 

Tlicy  meet  again,  each  widow'd  sound 

Who  loves — yet  dares  even  Love  himself  disown. 

Through  memory's  realm  had  wing'd  in  qtiest. 

When  Honor's  broken  shaft  supports  his  throne ; 

Of  its  sweet  mate,  till  .all  were  found. 

If  sucli  our  Ina,  she  may  scorn  the  evils, 

Dire  as  they  are,  of  Critics  and — Blue  Devils. 

Nor  even  in  waking  did  the  clue. 

Thus  str.angely  caught,  esc.ipe  again ; 

For  never  lark  its  matins  knew 

So  well  iis  now  I  knew  this  str.ain. 

THE  DAT-DREAM." 

And  oft,  when  memory's  wondrous  spell 

They  both  were  hush'd,  the  voice,  the  chords — 

Is  talk'd  of  in  our  tranquil  bower. 

I  heard  but  once  tliat  witching  lay ; 
And  few  the  notes,  and  few  the  words, 

I  sing  this  lady's  song,  and  tell 

The  vision  of  that  morning  hour. 

Rly  spell-bound  memory  brought  away  ; 

Tr.iccs  rcmember'd  here  and  there. 

Like  echoes  of  some  broken  strain  ; — 

SONG. 

Links  of  a  sweetness  lost  in  air, 

That  notliing  now  could  join  again. 

Where  is  tlic  heart  that  would  not  gi' 

Years  of  drowsy  d.ays  and  nights, 

Ev'n  these,  too,  ere  tlie  morning,  fled ; 

One  little  hour,  like  this,  to  live — 

And,- though  the  charm  still  linger'd  on. 

Full,  to  the  brim,  of  life's  delights' 

That  o'er  e.ach  sense  her  song  had  shed. 

Look,  look  around 

The  song  itself  was  faded,  gone ; — 

This  fairy  ground, 

With  love-lights  glittering  o'er; 

Gone  like  the  thoughts  that  once  were  ours, 

While  cups  that  shine 

On  summer  d.ays,  ere  youtli  had  set; 

With  freight  divine 

Thoughts  bright,  we  know,  as  summer  flower?, 

Go  coasting  round  its  shore. 

Though  what  they  were,  we  now  forget. 

Hope  is  the  drop  of  fnt\ire  hours, 

In  vain,  with  hints  from  other  strains, 

Memory  lives  in  those  gone  by ; 

I  woo'd  this  truant  air  to  come — 

Neither  can  see  the  moment's  flowers 

As  birds  are  tauglit,  on  cistern  plains, 

Springing  up  fresh  beneath  the  eye 

To  lin'c  lluir  \vilil(>r  Mndrcd  liome. 

Wouldst  thou,  or  thou, 

Forego  what'.s  ;ioir. 

In  vain: — the  song  that  Sappho  g.ave. 

For  all  that  Hope  may  say  ? 

In  dying,  to  the  mournful  sea. 

No — Joy's  reply. 

Not  muter  slept  beneath  the  wave, 

From  every  eye. 

Than  Ihis  within  my  memory. 

Is,  "  Live  wo  while  wo  may." 

At  Icnglh,  oni'  morning,  as  I  lay 

In  that  half-waking  mood,  when  dream* 

Unwillingly  at  last  give  way 

To  the  full  truth  of  daylight's  hcnm:i. 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


249 


SONG  OF  THE  POCO-CUEANTE  SOCIETY. 

Ilaud  curat  Hipiv»*'.idt;s. 

Erasm.  ^Ua{[. 

To  Uiosowo  lovo  we've  drank  to-niglit; 

But  now  attend,  ;md  stare  not, 
Wliilc  I  the  ampler  list  recite 

Of  those  for  whom — We  care  not. 

For  royal  men,  liowe'er  they  frown, 
If  on  their  fronts  they  bear  not 

That  noblest  gem  that  decks  a  crown, 
The  People's  Love — We  care  not. 

For  slavish  men,  who  bend  beneath 

A  despot  yoke,  yet  dare  not 
Pronounce  the  will,  whose  very  breath 

Would  rend  its  links— We  care  not. 

For  priestly  men,  wlio  covet  sway 
And  wealth,  though  they  declare  not; 

Who  point,  like  finger-posts,  the  way 
They  never  go — We  care  not. 

For  martial  men,  who  on  their  sword, 
Howe'er  it  conquers,  wear  not 

The  pledges  of  a  soldier's  word, 
Redeem'd  and  pure — We  cake  not. 

For  legal  men,  wlio  plead  for  wrong. 
And,  though  to  lies  they  swear  not, 

Are  hardly  better  than  the  throng 
O  those  who  do — We  care  not. 

For  courtly  men,  who  feed  upon 
The  land,  like  grubs,  and  spare  not 

The  smallest  leaf,  where  tliey  can  sun 
Their  crawling  limbs — We  cake  not. 

For  wealthy  men,  who  keep  their  mines 
In  darkness  hid,  and  sliare  not 

The  paltry  ore  with  him  who  piites 
In  honest  want — We  care  not. 

For  prudent  men,  who  hold  the  power 

Of  Love  aloof,  and  bare  not 
Their  hearts  in  any  guardless  hour 

To  Beauty's  shaft — We  care  not. 

For  all,  in  short,  on  land  or  sea, 
In  camp  or  court,  who  are  not, 

Who  never  were,  or  e'er  will  be 
Good  men  and  true — We  .-are  not 


ANNE  BOLEYN. 


TEANSLATIO.V  FnOM  THE  METRIOAI. 
BOLEV.N." 


'  niSTOIEE  D  AWSl 


SVllo  estuit  buUe  et  cic  taille  (;16gante, 
Estoit  dc8  yeiilx  encur  plus  attirante, 
Lcsqucl;£  Bfavoit  bion  conduyre  a  propos 
En  lea  tenant  quelqueroys  en  repos ; 
Aucunefoys  cnvoyant  on  message 
Porter  du  cueur  lo  secret  teamoignagc. 

Much  as  her  form  seduced  the  sight, 

Her  eyes  could  even  more  surely  woo  ; 
And  when  and  how  to  shoot  their  light 

Into  men's  hearts  full  well  she  knew. 
For  sometimes,  in  repose,  she  liid 
Their  rays  beneath  a  downcast  !id  ; 
And  then  again,  with  wakening  air. 

Would  send  their  sunny  glances  out, 
Like  heralds  of  delight,  to  bear 

Her  heart's  sweet  messages  about. 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  TWO  SISTERS. 

FROM    DANTE. 

Nell  ora,  credo,  che  dell'  oriento 
Prima  raggib  nel  raonte  Citerea, 
Che  di  faoco  d'  amor  par  sempre  ardente, 

Giovane  e  bella  in  sogno  mi  parea 
Donna  vedere  andar  per  una  landa 
Cogliendo  fiori ;  e  canlando  dicea : —        , 

Sappia  qualunquc  M  mio  nome  dimando, 
Ch'  io  mi  son  Lia,  e  vo  movendo  'ntorno 
Le  belle  mani  a  farmi  una  ghirlanda — 

Per  piacermi  alio  epecchio  qui  m'  adomo; 
Ma  raia  suora  Rachel -mai  nonsi  smaga 
Dal  8U0  amrairaglio,  e  siede  tutto  il  giorno. 

Ell'  &  de'  euoi  begli  occhi  veder  vaga, 
Com'  io  dell'  adoroarmi  con  le  mani ; 
Lei  lo  vedere  e  me  Tovrare  appaga. 

Dante,  Pur^.  canto  xxTli, 

'TvvAS  eve's  soft  hour,  and  bright,  above, 

The  star  of  Beauty  beam'd. 
While  luU'd  by  light  so  full  of  love, 

In  slumber  thus  I  dream'd — 
Methought,  at  that  sweet  hour, 

A  nymph  came  o'er  the  lea. 
Who,  gath'ring  many  a  flow'r. 

Thus  said  and  sung  to  me : — 
"  Should  any  ask  what  Leila  loves, 

"  Say  thou,  To  wreathe  her  hair 
"  With  flow'reta  cull'd  from  glens  and  groves. 

■  's  Leila's  only  enro. 


VOL.  u. — 32 


250 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


"  While  thus  in  quest  of  flow'rets  rare, 

Thy  voice,  like  music,  cheer'd  the  Free 

"  O'er  hill  and  dale  I  roam, 

Thy  very  smile  was  victory ! 

"  My  sister,  Rachel,  for  more  fair, 

"  Sits  lone  and  mute  at  home. 

Nor  reign  such  queens  on  thrones  alone — 

"  Before  her  glass  untiring, 

In  cot  and  court  the  same. 

"  With  thoughts  that  never  stray, 

Wherever  woman's  smile  is  known. 

"Her  own  bright  eyes  admiring. 

Victoria's  still  her  name. 

"  She  sits  the  live-long  day ; 

For  though  she  almost  blush  to  reign, 

"  While  I ! — oh,  seldom  even  a  look 

Though  Love's  own  flow'rets  wreathe  the  cham, 

"  Of  self  salutes  my  eye ; — 

Disguise  our  bondage  as  wo  will. 

'  My  only  glass,  the  limpid  brook, 

'Tis  woman,  woman,  rules  us  still. 

"  That  shines  and  passes  by." 

COME,  PLAY  ME  THAT  SIMPLE  AIR  AGAIN 

SOVEREIGN  -WOMAN. 

A   BALLAD. 

A    BALLAD. 

Come,  play  me  that  simple  air  ag.ain, 

The  dance  was  o'er,  yet  still  in  dreams 

I  used  so  to  love,  in  life's  young  day. 

That  fairy  scene  went  on ; 

And  bring,  if  thou  canst,  the  dreams  that  then 

Like  clouds  still  flush'd  with  daylight  gleams, 

Were  waken'd  by  tliat  sweet  lay. 

Though  day  itself  is  gone. 

The  tender  gloom  its  strain 

And  gracefully,  to  music's  sound. 

Shed  o'er  the  heart  and  brow. 

The  same  bright  nymphs  went  gliding  round  ; 

Grief's  shadow,  without  its  pain — 

While  thou,  the  Queen  of  all,  wert  there — 

Say  where,  where  is  it  now  1 

The  Fairest  still,  where  all  were  fair. 

But  play  me  the  well-known  air  once  more. 

For  thoughts  of  youth  still  haunt  its  strain 

The  dream  then  changed — in  halls  of  state, 

Like  dreams  of  some  far,  fairy  shore 

I  saw  thee  high  enthroned  : 

We  never  shall  see  again. 

While,  ranged  around,  the  wise,  the  great 

. 

In  thee  their  mistress  own'd  : 

Sweet  air,  how  every  note  brings  back 

And  still  the  same,  thy  gentle  sway 

Some  sunny  hope,  some  day-dream  bright, 

O'er  willing  subjects  won  its  way — 

That  shining  o'er  life's  early  tr.ick. 

Till  all  confcss'd  the  Right  Divine 

Fill'd  ev'n  its  tears  with  light. 

To  rule  o'er  man  was  only  thine! 

The  new-found  life  that  came 

With  love's  first  ccho'd  vow  ; — 

But,  lo,  the  scene  now  changed  again — 

The  fear,  the  bliss,  tlie  shame — 

And  borne  on  plumed  steed. 

AU — where,  where  are  they  nowt 

I  saw  thee  o'er  the  buttle-plain 

But,  still  the  same  loved  notes  prolong, 

Our  land's  defenders  lead  ; 

For  sweet  'twere  thus,  to  that  old  lay, 

And  stronger  in  thy  beauty's  charms, 

In  dreams  of  youth  and  love  and  song, 

Than  man,  with  countless  hosts  in  arms, 

To  bicathe  life's  Iioin-  away. 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


251 


NOTES. 


(1)  The  lute  Mr.  UiclKird  Powei. 

(2)  The  brief  appellation  by  whlcli  those  persona  were  dls- 
tinguiehod  who,  at  the  opening  of  the  new  theatre  of  Covent 
Garden,  clamoi'ed  for  the  continuance  of  the  old  prices  of  ad- 
tuissiou. 

(3)  The  initials  of  our  manager's  name. 

(4)  Tliis  alludes  to  a  scenic  representation  then  jirepaiing  for 
the  last  night  of  the  performances. 

(5)  The  late  Mr.  John  Lyster,  one  of  the  oldest  members  and 
best  actors  of  Iho  Kilkenny  Theatrical  Society. 

(6)  Parliquo  dedero 

Oscula  quisque  su^d,  non  pervenientia  contra, 

Ovid. 

(7)  FoNTENELLE.— ''Si  je  rccoiumencais  ma  carri^re,  je  fe- 
ral tout  CO  que  j'ai  fait." 

(8)  O  quid  solutis  est  beatius  curis 
Cum  mens  onus  reponit,  ac  peregrine 
Lahore  fessi  veuimus  larem  ad  nostrum, 
Desideratoquo  acquiescimua  lecto. 


3^ 


Displiceas,  aliis,  sic  e^o  tutus  ero. 


(10)         I'll  mlhl  curi^ram  .cquics,  tu  nocto  vel  alri 
Lumen,  et  in  solia  tu  mihl  turba  locis. 

(li)  A  picturesque  village  in  siglit  of  my  cottage,  and  from 
■which  it  is  separated  but  by  a  small  and  verdanl  valley. 

(12)  Soon  after  Mr.  Crabbc's  death,  the  sons  of  that  gentle- 
man did  me  the  honor  of  presenting  to  me  the  inkstand,  pen- 
cil, &c.,  which  their  distinguished  father  had  long  been  iu  the 
habit  of  using. 

(13)  The  lines  that  iodow  allude  to  a  day  passed  in  company 
with  Mr.  Crabbe,  many  years  since,  when  a  party,  consisting  only 
of  Mr.  Rogers,  Mr.  Crabbe,  and  the  author  of  these  verses,  had 
the  pleasure  of  dining  with  Mr.  Tliomas  Campbell,  at  his 
bouse  at  Sydenham. 

(14)  A  wine-merchant. 

(15)  An  old  English  Country  Dance. 

(16)  These  lines  allude  to  a  curious  lamp,  which  has  for  its 
device  a  Cupid,  with  tha  wcr.-^S  "at  night"  written  over  him. 

(17)  In  these  stanzas  I  have  done  little  more  than  relate  a 
fact  in  verse ;  and  the  lady,  whoso  singing  gave  rise  to  this  cu- 
rious instance  of  the  power  of  memory  in  sleep,  is  Mrs.  Robert 
Ark  w  right. 


THE   EPICUREAN, 

A  TALE. 


LOKD    JOHN    RUSSELL, 

TIUS    VOLUME   13    INSCHrBEI), 
BI    ONf    WUO    ADMIKE3   HIS    CUAKACTEB   AND   TALENTS,    AND   IS   PKUl  >   OF    HI3    FaiKSOSUIP. 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  TRANSLATOR, 


-,    ESQ. 


Cttiro,  Juuo  19,  1800. 

Mr  Dear  Sir, 

During  a  visit  lately  paid  by  me  to  llio  monas- 
tery of  St.  Bl.acarius — which  is  situated,  as  you 
know,  in  the  Valley  of  the  Lakes  of  Natron — I  was 
lupky  enough  to  obtain  possession  of  a  curious 
Greek  manuscript  which,  in  the  hope  that  you  may 
be  induced  to  translate  it,  I  herewith  transmit  to 
you.  Observing  one  of  the  monks  very  busily  oc- 
cupied in  tearing  up  into  a  variety  of  fantastic 
shapes  some  papers  which  had  Iho  appearance  of 
being  the  leaves  of  old  books,  I  inquired  of  him 
the  meaning  of  his  task,  and  received  the  following 
explanation : — 

The  Arabs,  it  seems,  who  arc  as  fond  of  pigeons 
as  the  ancient  Egyptians,  have  a  superstitious  notion 
that,  if  they  place  in  their  pigeon-houses  sm.ill 
scraps  of  paper,  written  over  with  learned  charac- 
ters, the  birds  arc  aUv.ays  sure  to  thrive  the  better 
for  the  charm  ;  and  the  monks,  who  are  never  slow 
In  profiting  by  nuperstition,  have,  at  all  times,  a 
supply  ofsuch  amulets  for  purchasers. 

In  general,  the  fathers  of  tho  monastery  have 
boon  in  tho  habit  of  scri'ybling  these  fragments 
lh»m!iclvo3 ;   I  ut  a  discovery  lately  made  by  them, 


s.ives  all  this  trouble.  Having  dug  up  (as  my  in- 
formant stated)  a  chest  of  old  manuscripts,  whicli. 
being  chiefly  on  the  subject  of  .ilchomy,  must  have 
been  buried  in  the  time  of  Dioclcsian,"  we  thouglit," 
added  the  monk,  "  that  we  could  not  employ  such 
rubbish  more  properly,  than  in  tearing  it  up,  as  you 
see,  for  the  pigeon-houses  of  the  Arabs." 

On  my  expressing  a  wish  to  rescue  some  part  of 
these  treasures  from  tho  fate  to  which  his  indolent 
fraternity  had  consigned  them,  ho  produced  the 
manuscript  whicli  I  have  now  tho  pleasure  of 
sending  yon — the  only  one,  ho  said,  remaining 
entire — and  I  very  readily  i)aid  the  price  which  he 
demanded  for  it. 

You  will  find  tho  story,  I  think,  not  altogether 
imiiileresting;  and  fho  coincidence,  in  many  re- 
spects, of  the  curious  details  in  Chap.  VI.  with  t!io 
description  of  tho  same  ceremonies  in  lhi>  IJo- 
inancc  of  Sclhos'  will,  Ihave  no  doubt,  strike 
you.  Hoping  that  you  m;iy  be  induced  to  give  H 
translation  of  this  Talc  to  tho  world, 

1  am,  my  dear  Sir, 

Very  truly  yours, 


THE  EPICUEEAN. 


258 


THK    EPICURE  AX. 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  in  the  fourth  year  of  the  reign  of  the 
iate  Emperor  Valerian,  tliat  the  followers  of  Epi- 
curus, who  were  at  that  time  numerous  in  Athens, 
proeeeded  to  the  election  of  a  person  to  fill  the 
vacant  chair  of  their  sect; — and,  by  the  unanimous 
voice  of  the  School,  I  was  the  individual  chosen  for 
their  Chief.  I  was  just  then  entering  on  my  twenty- 
fourth  year,  and  no  Instance  had  ever  before  oc- 
curred, of  a  person  so  young  being  selected  for 
that  high  office.  Youth,  however,  and  the  personal 
advantages  that  adorn  it,  could  not  but  rank  among 
the  most  agreeable  recoramend-ations  to  a  sect  that 
included  within  its  circle  all  tlie  beauty  as  well  as 
the  wit  of  Athens,  and  which,  though  dignifying  its 
pursuits  with  the  name  of  philosophy,  was  little 
else  than  a  plausible  prete.xt  for  the  more  refined 
cultivation  of  pleasure. 

The  character  of  the  sect  had,  indeed,  much 
changed  since  tlie  time  of  its  wise  and  vJrtuous 
founder,  who,  while  he  asserted  that  Pleasure  is 
the  only  Good,  inculcated  also  that  Good  is  the 
only  source  of  Pleasure.  The  purer  part  of  this 
doctrine  had  long  evaporated,  and  the  temperate 
Epicurus  would  have  as  little  recognised  his  own 
sect  in  the  assemblage  of  refined  voluptuaries 
who  now  usurped  his  name,  as  he  would  have 
known  his  own  quiet  Garden  in  the  luxurious 
groves  and  bowers  among  which  the  meetings  of 
the  School  were  now  held. 

Many  causes  concurred,  at  this  period,  besides 
the  attractiveness  of  its  doctrines,  to  render  our 
scliQol  by  far  the  most  popular  of  any  that  still 
survived  the  glory  of  Greece.  It  may  generally  be 
observed,  that  the  prevalence,  in  one  half  of  a  com- 
munity, of  very  rigid  notions  on  the  subject  of  re- 
ligion, produces  the  opposite  extreme  of  laxity  and 
infidelity  in  the  other;  and  this  kind  of  reaction  it 
w.as  that  now  mainly  contributed  to  render  the 
doctrines  of  the  Garden  the  most  fashionable  phi- 
losophy of  the  day.  The  rapid  progress  of  tlie 
Christian  faith  had  alarmed  all  those,  who,  either 
from  piety  or  worldliness,  were  interested  in  the 
continuance  of  the  old  established  creed — all  who 
believed  in  the  Deities  of  Olympus,  and  all  who 


lived  by  thcni.  The  natural  consequence  was,  a 
considerable  increase  of  zeal  and  activity,  through- 
out the  constituted  authorities  and  priesthood  of 
the  whole  Heathen  world.  What  w.ta  wanting  in 
sincerity  of  belief  was  made  up  in  rigor; — the 
weakest  parts  of  the  Mythology  were  those,  of 
course,  most  angrily  defended,  and  any  reflections, 
tending  to  bring  Saturn,  or  his  wife  Ops,  into  con- 
tempt, were  punished  with  the  utmost  severity  of 
the  law. 

In  this  state  of  affairs,  between  the  alarmed  big- 
otry of  the  declining  Faith  and  the  simple,  sublime 
austerity  of  her  rival,  it  was  not  wonderful  that 
those  lovers  of  ease  and  pleasure,  who  had  no 
interest^.rova'sioiiary-  or  otherwise,  in  the  old  re- 
ligion, tmd  were  too  indolent  to  inquire  into  the 
sanctions  of  the  new,  should  take  refuge  from  the 
severities  of  both  in  the  arms  of  a  luxurious  phi- 
losophy, which,  leaving  to  others  the  task  of  dis- 
puting about  the  future,  centred  all  its  wisdom  in 
the  full  enjoyment  of  the  present. 

The  sectaries  of  the  Garden  had,  ever  since  the 
death  of  their  founder,  been  accustomed  to  dedi- 
cate to  his  memory  the  twentieth  day  of  every 
month.  To  these  monthly  rites  had,  for  some 
time,  been  added  a  grand  annual  Festival,  in  com- 
memoration of  his  birth.  The  feasts  given  on  this 
occasion  by  my  predecessors  in  the  Chair,  had  been 
invariably  distinguished  for  their  taste  and  splen- 
dor; and  it  was  my  ambition,  not  merely  to  imitate 
this  example,  but  even  to  render  the  anniversary, 
now  celebrated  luider  my  auspices,  so  lively  and 
brilliant  as  to  efface  the  recollection  of  all  th.at  had 
preceded  it. 

Seldom,  indeed,  had  Athens  witnessed  so  bright 
a  scene.  The  grounds  that  formed  the  original 
site  of  the  Garden  had  received,  from  time  to  time, 
considerable  additions  ;  and  the  whole  extent  was 
now  laid  out  with  that  perfect  taste  wliich  under- 
st.ands  how  to  wed  Nature  with  .Art,  without  s.acri- 
ficing  any  of  her  simplicity  to  the  alliance.  Walks, 
leading  through  wildernesses  of  shade  and  fragrance 
— gkades,  opening,  as  if  to  afford  a  playground  for 
the  sunshine — temples,  rising  on  the  very  spots 
where  Imagination  herself  would  h.ive  called  them 
up,  RV.i  fountains  and  lakes,  in  .nltern.ite  motion 


234 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


and  repose,  either  wantonly  courting  the  verdure, 
or  calmly  sleeping  in  its  embrace — such  was  the 
variety  of  feature  that  diversified  these  fair  gardens ; 
■•.nd,  animated  as  they  were  on  tliis  occasion,  by  all 
tlie  living  wit  and  loveliness  of  Athens,  it  afforded 
a  scene  si;cii  as  my  own  youtl-.ful  fancy,  rich  as  it 
was  then  in  images  of  luxury  and  beauty,  could 
hnrdly  have  anticipated. 

Tiie  ceremonies  of  the  d.ay  began  with  the  very 
dawn,  when,  according  to  the  form  of  simpler  and 
better  times,  those  among  the  disciples  who  had 
apartments  within  the  Garden,  bore  the  image  of 
our  Founder  in  procession  from  chamber  to  cham- 
ber, chanting  verses  in  praise  of  what  had  long 
ceased  to  be  objects  of  our  imitation — his  frugality 
and  temperance. 

Round  a  beautiful  lake,  in  the  centre  of  the 
Garden,  stood  four  white  Doric  temples,  in  one  of 
which  was  collected  a  library  containing  all  tlie 
flowers  of  Grecian  literature ;  while  in  the  remain- 
ing three,  Conversation,  the  Song,  and  the  Dance, 
held,  uninterrupted  by  each  other,  their  respective 
rites.  In  the  Library  stood  busts  of  all  the  most 
illustrious  Epicureans,  both  of  Rome  and  Greece 
— Horace,  Atlicus,  Pliny  the  elder,  the  poet  Lucre- 
tius, Lucian,  and  the  lamented  biographer  of  the 
Philosophers,  lately  lost  to  us,  Diogenes  Laertius. 
There  were  also  tlie  portraits,  in  marble,  of  all  the 
eminent  female  votaries  of  the  school — Leontium 
and  her  fair  daughter  Danae,  Themista,  Philaenis, 
and  others. 

It  was  here  that,  in  my  capacity  of  Hercsiarch, 
on  the  morning  of  the  Festival,  I  received  the  felici- 
tations of  Ihc  day  from  some  of  the  fairest  lips 
of  Athens ;  and,  in  pronouncing  the  customary 
oration  to  the  memory  of  our  Master,  (in  which 
it  was  usual  to  dwell  upon  the  doctrines  ho 
had  inculcated,)  endeavored  to  attain  that  art, 
Ko  useful  before  such  an  audience,  of  lending 
to  the  gravest  subjects  a  charm,  which  secures 
litem  listeners  even  among  the  simplest  and  most 
volatile. 

Though  study,  as  may  be  supposed,  engrossed 
but  little  the  nights  or  mornings  of  the  Garden,  yet 
all  the  lighter  p.irts  of  learning — that  portion  of  its 
attic  honey,  for  which  the  bee  is  not  compelled  to 
go  very  deep  into  the  flower — was  somewhat 
zealously  cultivated  by  u».  Even  here,  iiowever, 
the  young  Hludent  had  to  encounter  that  kind  of 
distraction,  which  h,  of  all  other.",  the  least  favor- 
able to  composure  of  thought ;  and,  with  more 
than  one  of  my  fair  disciples,  thcro  used  to  occur 
■ueh  BCcncH  os  the  following,  which  a  poet  of  ihc 
Garden,  taking  hi«  picture  from  the  life,  thus  dc- 
icribcd  • — 


**  As  o'er  the  lake,  in  evening's  glow 

That  temple  threw  its  lengthening  shadt, 
Upon  the  marble  steps  below 

There  sate  a  fair  Corinthian  maid, 
Gracefully  o'er  some  volume  bending  ; 

\\*hile,  by  her  side,  the  youthful  Sage 
Held  back  her  ringlets,  lest,  descending^ 

They  should  oVrshadow  all  the  pajjo." 

Hut  it  v.'.a3  for  the  evening  of  that  day,  that  the 
richest  of  our  luxuries  were  reserved.  Every  part 
of  the  Garden  was  illumin.ited,  with  the  most  skil- 
ful variety  of  lustre ;  while  over  the  Lake  of  the 
Temples  were  scattered  wreaths  of  flowers,  through 
whieli  boats,  filled  with  beautiful  children,  floated, 
as  through  a  liquid  parterre. 

Between  two  of  these  boats  a  mock  combat  was 
perpetually  carried  on  ; — their  respective  coininaud- 
ers,  two  blooming  youths,  being  habited  to  repre- 
sent Eros  and  Anteros:  the  former,  the  Celosti.al 
Love  of  the  Platonists,  and  the  latter,  that  moro 
earth^jf  spirit,  which  usurps  the  name  of  Lovo 
among  tlie  Epicureans.  Throughout  the  .vhole 
evening  tlieir  conflict  was  maintained  witli  various 
success;  the  timid  distance  at  wliieh  Eios  kept 
aloof  from  his  lively  antagonist  being  his  orily  safe- 
guard against  those  darts  of  fire,  with  showers  of 
which  the  other  assailed  him,  but  which,  falling 
short  of  their  marli  upon  the  lake,  only  scorched 
the  few  flowers  on  wliicli  they  fell,  and  were  ex- 
tinguished. 

In  anotlier  part  of  the  Gardens,  on  a  wide  glade, 
illuminated  only  by  the  moon,  was  performed  an 
imitation  of  the  torch-race  of  the  Pan.ithenaia  by 
young  boys  chosen  for  their  fleetness,  and  arrayed 
with  wings,  like  Cupids ;  wliile,  not  far  oft',  a  group 
of  seven  nymphs,  with  eaeli  a  star  on  her  forehead, 
represented  the  movements  of  tlie  planetary  choir, 
and  embodied  the  dream  of  Pythagoras  into  real 
motion  and  song. 

At  every  turning  some  new  enchant iiient  broke 
unexpectedly  on  the  eye  or  ear;  and  now,  from  the 
depth  of  a  dark  grove,  from  which  a  fountain  at 
the  same  lime  issued,  there  camo  a  strain  of  sweet 
music,  which,  mingling  with  the  murmur  of  the 
water,  seemed  like  the  voice  of  the  spirit  that  pro- 
sided  over  its  (low; — while, iit  other  limes, the  same 
strain  appeared  to  conic  breathing  from  among 
flowers,  or  was  heard  suddenly  from  under  ground, 
as  if  the  foot  had  just  touched  some  spring  that  set 
its  melody  in  motion. 

It  may  Bcem  strange  that  I  sliouhl  now  dwell 
upon  all  these  tritling  details  ;  but  they  were  to  me 
full  of  the  future ;  and  every  thing  connected  with 
that  memorable  night — even  its  long-rcpcnled  fol- 
lies— must  for  ever  live  fondly  and  sacredly  in  my 
raemorv.     The  fcMtival  concluded  with  a  banquet. 


THE  EPICUEEAF. 


255 


at  which,  as  master  of  the  Sect,  I  presided ;  and 
being-,  myself,  in  every  sense,  the  ascendant  spirit 
of  tfie  whole  scene,  gave  life  to  all  around  me,  and 
saw  my  own  happiness  reflected  in  that  of  others. 


CHAPTER  11. 

The  festival  was  over; — the  sound  of  the  song 
and  dance  had  ceased,  and  I  was  now  left  in  those 
luxurious  gardens,  alone.  Tlioiigh  .so  ardent  and 
active  a  votary  of  pleasure,  I  had,  by  nature,  a  dis- 
position full  of  melancholy; — an  imagination  th.it, 
even  in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  liappiness,  presented 
saddening  thoughts,  and  tlircw  the  shadow  of  the 
future  over  the  gayest  illusions  of  the  present. 
Melancholy  was,  indeed,  twin-horn  in  my  soul  with 
Passion;  and  not  even  in  the  fullest  fervor  of  the 
latter  were  they  ever  separated.  From  the  first 
moment  that  I  was  conscious  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing, the  same  dark  thread  had  run  aero.ss  the  web; 
and  images  of  death  and  annihilation  came  to 
mingle  themselves  with  even  the  most  smiling 
scenes  through  which  love  and  enjoyment  led  me. 
My  very  passion  for  pleasure  but  deepened  these 
gloomy  thoughts.  For,  shut  out,  as  I  was  by  my 
creed,  from  a  future  life,  and  having  no  hope  beyond 
the  narrow  horizon  of  this,  every  minute  of  earthly 
delight  assumed,  in  ray  eyes,  a  mournful  precious- 
ness ;  and  pleasure,  like  the  flower  of  the  cemetery, 
grew  but  more  luxuriant  from  the  neighborhood 
of  death. 

This  very  night  ray  triumpi!,  ray  happiness,  had 
seemed  complete.  I  had  been  the  presiding  genius 
of  that  voluptuous  scene.  Both  my  ambition  and 
my  love  of  pleasure  had  drunk  deep  of  the  rich  cup 
for  which  they  thirsted.  Looked  up  to  as  I  was 
by  the  learned,  and  admired  and  loved  by  the 
beautiful  and  the  young,  I  had  seen,  in  every  eye 
th.at  met  mine,  either  the  acknowledgment  of  bright 
triumphs  already  won,  or  the  promise  of  others, 
still  brighter,  that  awaited  me.  Yet,  even  in  the 
midst  of  all  this,  the  same  dark  thoughts  h.ad  pre- 
sented themselves ; — the  perishabloness  of  myself 
and  all  around  me  had  recurred  every  instant  to 
my  mind.  Those  hands  I  had  pressed — those 
eyes,  in  which  I  had  seen  sparkling  a  spirit  of  light 
and  life  that  ought  never  to  die — those  voices,  that 
had  spoken  of  eternal  love — .all,  all  I  felt,  were  but 
a  mockery  of  the  moment,  and  would  leave  nothing 
eternal  but  the  silence  of  their  dust  I 

Oh,  were  it  not  for  this  sad  volc«, 
ftefihng  amidst  our  mirth  to  aay, 


Tliat  all,  in  which  we  most  rejoioe, 
Ere  night  mny  bo  the  cartli-worm's  prey; — 

But  for  llii.s  bitter— only  this — 

Fiill  as  the  world  Is  brimni'd  with  bIi3S 

And  cnpaljlo  as  feds  my  soul 

Of  draining  to  its  depths  llie  whole, 

I  should  turn  earth  to  heaven,  and  be, 

If  bliss  made  gods,  a  deity  I 

Such  was  the  description  I  gave  of  my  own  fce.inga 
in  one  of  those  wild,  passionate  songs,  to  which 
this  mi.xture  of  mirth  and  melancholy,  in  a  ."spirit  so 
buoyant,  naturally  gave  birth. 

And  seldom  h.ad  my  heart  so  fully  surrendered 
itself  to  this  .sort  of  vague  sadness  as  at  that  very 
moment,  when,  as  I  paced  thoughtfully  among  the 
fading  lights  and  flowers  of  the  b.-tnquet,  the  echo 
of  my  own  step  was  all  th.at  now  sounded,  where 
so  many  gay  forms  had  lately  been  revelling.  The 
moon  was  still  up,  the  morning  had  not  yet  glim- 
mered, and  the  calm  glories  of  the  night  still  rested 
on  all  around.  Unconscious  whither  my  pathway 
led,  I  continued  to  wander  along,  till  I,  at  length, 
found  myself  before  that  fair  statue  of  Venus,  with 
which  the  chisel  of  Alcamenes  had  embellished 
our  Garden; — that  image  of  deified  woman,  the 
only  idol  to  which  I  had  ever  yet  bent  the  knee. 
Leaning  ag.ainst  the  pedestal  of  the  statue,  I  raised 
my  eyes  to  heaven,  and  fixing  them  sadly  and  in- 
tently on  the  ever-burning  stars,  as  if  seeking  to 
read  the  mournful  secret  in  their  light,  asked, 
wherefore  was  it  that  Man  alone  must  fade  and 
perish,  while  they,  so  much  less  wonderful,  less 
godlike  than  he,  thus  still  lived  on  in  radiance  un- 
changeable and  for  ever!  "Oh,  that  there  were 
some  spell,  some  talisman,"  I  excl.aimed,  "  to  make 
the  spirit  th.at  burns  within  us  deathless  as  those 
stars,  and  open  to  it  a  career  like  theirs,  as  bright 
and  inextinguishable  throughout  all  time!" 

While  thus  indulging  in  wild  and  melancholy 
fancies,  I  felt  that  lassitude  which  earthly  pleasure, 
however  sweet,  still  leaves  behind,  come  insensibly 
over  me,  and  at  length  sunk  at  the  base  of  the 
statue  to  sleep. 

But  even  in  sleep,  the  same  fancies  continued  to 
haunt  me ;  and  a  dream,'  so  distinct  and  vivid  as  to 
leave  behind  it  the  impression  of  reality,  thus  pre- 
sented itself  to  my  mind.  I  found  myself  suddenly 
transported  to  a  wide  and  desolate  plain,  where 
nothing  appeared  to  breathe,  or  move,  or  live.  The 
very  sky  that  hung  above  it  looked  pale  and  ex- 
tinct, giving  the  idea,  not  of  darkness,  but  of  light 
that  had  become  dead; — and  had  that  whole  re- 
gion been  the  remains  of  some  older  world,  left 
broken  up  and  sunless,  it  could  not  have  presented 
an  aspect  more  quenched  and  desolate.  The  inly 
thing  that  bespoke  life,  throughout  this  melanc  loly 


256 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


waste,  was  a  small  spark  of  light,  that  at  first  glim- 
mered in  the  distance,  but,  at  length,  slowly  ap- 
proached the  bleak  spot  where  I  stood.  As  it 
drew  nearer,  I  could  see  that  its  small  but  steady 
trleam  came  from  a  taper  in  the  hand  of  an  ancient 
and  venerable  man,  who  now  stood,  like  a  pale 
messenger  from  the  grave,  before  me.  After  a  few 
moments  of  awful  silence,  during  which  he  looked 
St  me  with  a  sadness  that  thrilled  my  very  soul,  he 
said,  "  Thou,  who  seekest  eternal  life,  go  unto  the 
shores  of  the  dark  Nile — go  unto  the  shores  of  the 
dark  Nile,  and  thou  wilt  lind  the  eternal  life  thou 
set^kest !" 

No  sooner  had  he  uttered  tliese  words  than  the 
deathlike  hue  of  his  check  at  once  brightened  into 
a  smile  of  more  than  earthly  promise ;  while  the 
small  torch  he  held  in  his  hand  sent  forth  a  glow 
of  ladiance,  by  which  suddenly  the  whole  surface 
of  the  desert  was  illuminated ; — the  light  spreading 
even  to  the  distant  horizon's  edge,  along  vi'hose 
line  I  could  now  see  gardens,  palaces,  and  spires, 
all  a.'*  bright  as  the  rich  architecture  of  the  clouds 
at  sunset.  Sweet  music,  too,  came  floating  in  every 
direction  through  the  air,  and,  from  all  sides,  such 
varieties  of  enchantment  broke  upon  me,  that,  with, 
the  excess  alike  of  harmony  and  of  radiance,  I 
awoke. 

That  infidels  should  be  superstitious  is  an 
anomaly  neither  unusu.al  nor  strange.  A  belief  in 
superhuman  agency  seems  natural  and  necessary  to 
the  mind ;  and,  if  not  suflcred  to  flow  in  the  obvious 
channels,  it  will  find  a  vent  in  some  other.  Hence, 
many  who  have  doubted  the  existence  of  a  God, 
liave  ycl  implicitly  pl.aced  themselves  under  the 
patronage  of  Fate  or  the  stars.  Much  the  same  in- 
consistency  I  was  conscious  of  in  my  own  feelings. 
Though  rejecting  all  belief  in  a  Divine  Providence, 
I  had  yet  a  faith  in  dreams,  that  all  my  philosophy 
could  not  conquer.  Nor  was  experience  wanting 
to  confirm  me  in  my  delusion ;  for,  by  some  of 
those  accidental  coincidences,  which  make  the  for- 
tune of  sooths.iycrs  and  prophet.s,  dreams,  more 
than  once,  had  been  to  me 

Oracles,  truer  Tar  tlinn  oak. 
Or  dove,  or  tripod,  ever  spoke. 

It  was  not  wonderful,  therefore,  that  the  vision  of 
that  night — loucliing,  as  it  did,  a  chord  so  ready  to 
vibrate — should  li.ave  alTccted  me  with  more  than 
ordinary  power,  and  even  sunk  deeper  into  my 
memory  with  every  effort  I  made  to  forget  it.  In 
vain  did  I  mock  at  my  own  weakness; — such  solf- 
dcrision  Ih  Hcldoin  sincere.  In  vain  did  I  pursue 
my  acciiHlomed  pleasures.    Thoir  rest  was,  as  usual, 


for  ever  new- ;  but  still,  in  the  midst  of  all  my  en- 
joyment, came  the  cold  and  saddening  conscious, 
ness  of  mortality,  and,  with  it,  the  recollection  of 
that  visionary  promise,  to  which  my  fancy,  in  defi- 
ance of  reason,  still  continued  to  cling. 

At  times  indulging  in  reveries,  that  were  little 
else  than  a  continuation  of  my  dream,  I  even  con- 
templated the  possible  existence  of  some  mighty 
secret,  by  whicli  youth,  if  not  perpetuated,  might 
be  at  least  prolonged,  and  that  dreadful  vicinity  of 
death,  within  whose  circle  love  pines  and  pleasure 
sickens,  might  be  for  a  while  averted.  "  Who 
knows,"  I  would  ask,  "but  that  in  Egypt,  that  re- 
gion of  wonders,  where  Mystery  hath  yet  unfolded 
but  half  her  treasures — where  still  remain,  undeci- 
pliered,  upon  the  pillars  of  Scth,  so  many  written 
secrets  of  tlio  antediluvian  world — wlio  can  tell  but 
tliat  some  powerful  charm,  some  amulet,  may  tliere  lie 
hid,  whose  discovery,  as  this  phantom  hath  promised, 
but  awaits  my  coming — some  compound  of  the 
same  pure  atoms  that  form  the  essence  of  the  living 
stars,  and  whose  infusion  into  the  frame  of  mar. 
might  render  him  also  unfading  and  immortal !" 

Thus  fondly  did  I  sometimes  spccul.xte,  in  those 
vague  moods  of  mind,  when  the  life  of  excitement 
in  which  I  was  engaged,  acting  upon  a  warm  heart 
and  vivid  f;incy,  produced  an  intoxication  of  spirit, 
during  wliich  I  w.as  not  wliolly  myself  This  be- 
wilderment, too,  was  not  a  little  increased  by  the 
constant  struggle  I  experienced  between  my  own 
natural  feelings,  and  the  cold,  mortal  creed  of  my 
sect — in  endeavoring  to  escape  from  whoso  dead- 
ening bondage  I  but  broke  loose  into  the  realms  of 
fantasy  and  romance. 

Even  in  my  soberest  moments,  however,  that 
strange  vision  for  ever  haunted  me ;  and  every  efibrt 
I  made  to  chase  it  from  my  recollection  was  un- 
availing. The  deliberate  conclusion,  therefore,  to 
which  I  at  last  came,  was,  that  to  visit  Egypt  was 
now  my  only  resource ;  that,  without  seeing  that 
land  of  wonders,  I  could  not  rest,  nor,  until  con- 
vinced of  my  folly  by  disappointment,  bo  reasonable. 
Without  delay,  accordingly,  I  announced  to  my 
friends  of  the  Garden,  the  intention  I  had  formed 
to  p.ny  a  visit  to  the  land  of  Pyramids.  To  none 
of  them,  however,  did  I  dare  to  confess  tlie  vague, 
visionary  impulse  that  actuated  mo; — knowledge 
being  the  object  that  I  alleged,  while  Pleasure  wsis 
that  for  which  they  gave  me  credit.  The  interests 
of  the  School,  it  was  feared,  might  suffer  by  my  ab- 
sence ;  and  there  were  some  tenderer  lies,  wliioli 
had  Hiill  more  to  feu-  from  separation,  lint  fur  tho 
former  inconvenience  il  temporary  remedy  was  pro- 
vided ;  while  the  latter  a  skilful  distribution  of 
V0W8  and  si^'hs  alleviated.     Being  furnished   with 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


257 


recommendatory  letters  to  all  parts  of  Egypt.  I 
Bet  sail  ill  the  summer  of  the  year  257,  A.  r>.,  for 
Alexandria. 


CHAPTER   III. 

To  one,  who  so  well  knew  how  lo  extract  pleas- 
ure from  every  moment  on  land,  a  sea-voyage,  liow- 
ever  smooth  and  favorable,  appeared  the  least  agree- 
able mode  of  losing  time  that  could  be  devised. 
Often,  indeed,  did  my  imagination,  in  passing  some 
isle  of  those  sens,  people  it  with  fair  forms  and 
loving  hearts,  to  which  most  willingly  would  I  have 
paused  to  otTer  homage.  But  the  uind  blew  direct 
towards  the  land  of  Mystery;  and,  still  more,  I 
heai'd  a  voice  within  me,  whispering  for  ever,  "  On." 

As  we  approached  the  coast  of  Egypt,  our  course 
became  less  prosperous ;  and  we  had  a  specimen  of 
the  benevolence  of  the  divinities  of  the  Nile,  in  the 
shape  of  a  storm,  or  rather  whirlwind,  which  had 
nearly  sunk  our  vessel,  and  which  the  Egyptians  on 
board  declared  to  be  the  work  of  their  deity,  Ty- 
phon.  After  a  day  and  night  of  danger,  during 
which  we  were  driven  out  of  our  course  to  the 
eastward,  some  benigner  influence  prevailed  above  ; 
and,  at  length,  as  the  morning  freshly  broke,  we 
saw  the  beautiful  city  of  Alexandria  rising  from  the 
sea  with  its  proud  Palace  of  Kings,  its  portico  of 
'our  hundred  columns,  and  the  fair  Pillar  of  P.ll.ars,-' 
Towering  in  the  midst  to  heaven. 

After  passing  in  review  this  splendid  vision,  we 
ahot  rapidly  round  the  Rock  of  Pharos,  and,  in  a 
lew  minutes,  found  ourselves  in  the  harbor  of  Eu- 
nostus.  The  sun  h.ad  risen,  but  the  light  on  the 
Great  Tower  of  the  Rock  was  still  burning ;  and 
there  was  a  languor  in  the  first  waking  movements 
of  that  voluptuous  city — whose  houses  and  tem- 
ples lay  shining  in  silence  around  the  harboi' — that 
sufficiently  attested  the  festivities  of  the  pi-eceding 
night. 

We  were  soon  landed  on  the  quay;  and,  as  I 
walked,  through  a  line  of  palaces  and  shrines,  up 
the  street  which  leads  from  the  sea  to  the  Gate  of 
Canopus,  fresh  as  I  was  from  the  contemplation  of 
my  own  lovely  Athens,  I  yet  felt  a  glow  of  admira- 
tion at  the  scene  around  me,  which  its  novelty,  even 
more  than  its  magnificence,  inspired.  Nor  were 
the  luxuries  and  delights,  which  such  a  city  prom- 
ised, among  the  least  of  the  considerations  upon 
which  my  fancy  dwelt.  On  the  contrary,  every 
thing  around  me  seemed  prophetic  of  love  and 
pleasure.  The  very  forms  of  the  architecture,  to 
my  Epicurean  imagination,  appeared  to  call  up 
images  of  living  grace ;  and  even  the  dim  seclusion 
VOL.  ir. — 33 


of  the  temples  and  groves  spoke  only  of  tender 

mysteries  to  my  mind.  As  the  whole  bright  scene 
grew  animated  around  me,  I  felt  that  though  Egypt 
might  not  enable  me  lo  lengthen  life,  she  could 
teach  the  next  best  art — that  of  multiplying  its  en- 
joyments. 

The  population  of  Alexandria,'  at  this  period, 
consisted  of  the  moat  motley  miscellany  of  nations, 
religions,  and  sects,  that  have  ever  been  brought 
together  in  one  city.  Beside  the  school  of  the 
Grecian  Platonist  was  seen  the  oratory  of  the  cabal- 
istic Jew  ;  while  the  church  of  the  Christian  stood, 
undisturbed,  over  the  crypts  of  the  Egyptian  Iliero- 
phant.  Here,  the  adorer  of  Fire,  from  the  East, 
laughed  at  the  less  elegant  superstition  of  the  wor- 
shippers of  cats  from  the  West.  Here  Christianity, 
too,  h.ad  learned  to  emulate  the  pious  vagaries  of 
Paganism;  and  while,  on  one  side,  her  Ophite  pro- 
fessor was  seen  bending  his  knee  gravely  before  a 
serpent,  on  the  other,  a  Nicosian  Christian  was 
heard  contending,  with  no  less  gravity,  that  there 
could  be  no  chance  whatever  of  salvation  out  of  the 
pale  of  the  Greek  alphabet.  Still  worse,  the  un- 
charitableness  of  Christian  schism  was  already,  with 
equal  vigor,  distinguishing  itself;  and  I  heard  every- 
where, on  my  arrival,  of  the  fierce  rancor  and  hate 
with  which  the  Greek  and  Latin  churchmen  were 
then  persecuting  each  other,  because,  forsooth,  the 
one  fasted  on  the  seventh  day  of  the  week,  and  the 
others  fasted  upon  the  fourth  and  sixth ! 

To  none,  however,  of  these  different  creeds  and 
sects,  except  in  as  far  as  they  furnished  food  for 
ridicule,  had  I  time  to  pay  much  attention.  I  was 
now  in  the  most  luxurious  city  of  the  universe,  and 
accordingly  gave  way,  without  reserve,  to  the  vari- 
ous seductions  that  surrounded  me.  My  reputa- 
tion, both  as  a  philosopher  and  a  man  of  pleasure, 
had  preceded  my  coming ;  and  Alexandria,  the  sec- 
ond Athens  of  the  world,  welcomed  me  as  her 
own.  I  found  my  celebrity,  indeed,  act  as  a  talis- 
man, that  opened  all  hearts  and  doors  at  my  ap- 
proach. The  usual  novitiate  of  .acquaintance  was 
dispensed  with  in  my  favor,  iind  not  only  intima- 
cies, but  loves  and  friendships,  ripened  as  rapidly 
in  my  path,  as  vegetation  springs  up  where  the  Nile 
has  flowed.  The  dark  beauty  of  the  Egj'ptian  wo- 
men' possessed  a  novelty  in  my  eyes  thtit  enhanced 
its  other  charms ;  and  the  hue  left  by  the  sun  on 
their  rounded  cheeks  seemed  but  an  earnest  of  the 
genial  ardor  he  must  h.ave  kindled  in  their  hearts — 

Th*  imbrowniug  of  tlie  fruit,  tbnt  tells. 

How  rich  within  the  soul  of  sweetness  iwells. 

Some  weeks  h.ad  now  passed  in  such  constant 
and  over-changing  pleasures,  that  even  the  melan- 


258 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


choly  voice  deep  within  my  heart,  though  it  stDl 
spoke,  was  but  seldom  listened  to,  and  soon  died 
away  in  the  sound  of  the  siren  songs  that  surround- 
ed me.  At  length,  as  the  novelty  of  these  gay 
scenes  wore  off,  tlie  same  vague  and  gloomy  bo- 
dings  began  to  mingle  with  all  my  joys;  and  an 
incident  that  occurred,  at  this  time,  during  one  of 
niv  gavest  revels,  conduced  still  more  to  deepen 
Heir  gloom. 

The  celebration  of  the  annual  festival  of  Sera- 
pis  happened  to  take  place  during  my  stay ;  and  I 
was,  more  than  once,  induced  to  mingle  with  the 
gay  multitudes  that  flocked  to  the  shrine  of  Cano- 
pus  on  the  occasion.  Day  and  night,  as  long  as 
this  festival  lasted,  the  great  canal,  which  led  from 
Alexandria  to  Canopus,  was  covered  with  boats 
full  of  pilgrims  of  both  sexes,  all  hastening  to  avail 
themselves  of  this  pious  license,  which  lent  the  zest 
of  a  religious  sanction  to  pleasure,  and  gave  a  holy- 
day  to  the  follies  and  passions  of  earth,  in  honor  of 
heaven. 

I  was  returning,  one  lovely  night,  to  Alexandria. 
The  north  wind,  that  welcome  visiter,  had  cooled 
and  freshened  the  Jiir,  while  the  banks,  on  either 
side  of  the  stream,  sent  forth  from  groves  of  orange 
and  lienn.i,  the  most  delicious  odors.  As  I  had  left 
all  the  crowd  behind  me  at  Canopus,  there  w.as  not 
a  boat  to  be  seen  on  the  canal  but  my  own  ;  and  I 
was  just  yielding  to  the  thoughts  which  solitude  at 
such  an  hour  inspires,  when  my  reveries  were  sud- 
denly broken  by  the  sound  of  some  female  voices, 
coming  mingled  with  laughter  and  screams,  from 
the  garden  of  a  pavilion,  tliat  stood,  brilliantly  illu- 
minated, upon  the  bank  of  the  canal. 

In  rowing  nearer,  I  perceived  th.it  both  the  mirth 
and  the  alarm  had  been  caused  by  the  efforts  of 
some  playful  girls  to  reach  a  hedge  of  jasmine 
which  grew  near  the  water,  and  in  bending  towards 
which  they  had  nearly  fallen  into  the  stream.  Hast- 
ening to  proffer  my  assistance,  I  soon  recognised 
the  voice  of  one  of  my  fair  Alexandrian  friends ; 
and,  .'ipringing  on  the  bank,  was  surrounded  by  the 
whole  group,  who  insisted  on  my  joining  their  par- 
ty in  the  pavilion ;  and,  having  flung  around  me,  as 
fetters,  the  tendrils  of  jasmine  which  they  liad  just 
plucked, conducted  me,  no  unwilling  captive,  to  llie 
banquet-room. 

I  found  here  an  asHemblage  of  the  very  flower 
of  Alcxandrinn  society.  The  unexpectedness  of 
the  meeting  added  i.ew  zest  to  it  on  both  sides ; 
and  Kcldom  liad  I  ever  felt  more  enlivened  myself 
or  succeeded  Ijcttor  in  infusing  life  and  gayety  into 
otherH. 

Among  the  company  were  some  (Ircek  women, 
who,  ac£or«lin(;  to  the  fualuon  of  their  country,  wore 


veils ;  but,  as  usual,  rather  to  set  off  than  to  con- 
ceal their  beauty,  some  bright  gleams  of  which 
were  constantly  escaping  from  under  the  cloud. 
There  was,  however,  one  female,  who  particularly, 
attracted  my  attention,  on  whose  Iiead  was  a  chap- 
let  of  dark-colored  flowers,  and  who  sat  veiled  and 
silent  during  the  whole  of  the  banquet.  She  took 
no  share,  I  observed,  in  what  was  passing  around  ; 
the  viands  and  the  wine  went  by  her  untouched, 
nor  did  a  word  that  was  spoken  seem  addressed  to 
her  ear.  This  abstraction  from  a  scene  so  spark- 
ling with  g.-iyety,  though  apparently  unnoticed  by 
any  one  but  myself,  struck  me  as  mysterious  and 
str.inge.  I  inquired  of  my  fair  neighbor  the  cause 
of  it,  but  she  looked  grave,  and  w.is  silent. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  lyre  and  the  cup  went 
round  ;  and  a  young  maid  from  Athens,  as  if  in- 
spired by  the  presence  of  her  countrym.in,  took  her 
lute,  and  sung  to  it  some  of  the  songs  of  Greece, 
with  a  warmth  of  feeling  that  bore  me  back  to  the 
banks  of  Ilissus,  and,  even  in  the  bosom  of  pres- 
ent pleasure,  drew  a  sigh  from  my  heart  for  that 
which  had  passed  away.  It  was  daybreak  ere  our 
delighted  party  rose,  and  most  unwillingly  re-em- 
barked to  return  to  the  city. 

We  were  scarce  afloat,  when  it  was  discovered 
that  the  lute  of  the  young  Athenian  had  been  left 
behind ;  and,  with  a  heart  still  full  of  its  sweet 
sounds,  I  most  readily  sprang  on  shore  to  seek  it, 
I  hastened  at  once  to  the  banquet-room,  which  was 
now  dim  and  solitary,  except  that — there,  to  my 
utter  astonishment,  was  still  seated  th.it  silent  fig- 
ure which  had  awakened  so  much  my  curiosity  du- 
ring the  evening.  A  vague  feeling  of  awe  canu 
over  me,  as  I  now  slowly  approached  it.  There 
was  no  motion,  no  sound  of  breathing  in  that  form  , 
— not  a  leaf  of  the  dark  chaplet  upon  its  brow 
stirred.  By  the  light  of  a  dying  lamp  which  stood 
on  the  t.ible  before  the  figure,  I  raised,  with  a  hesi- 
tating hand,  the  veil,  and  saw — what  my  fancy  li.id 
already  anticipated — that  the  shape  underneath  w.is 
lifeless,  was  a  skeleton !  Startled  and  shocked,  I 
hurried  b.ick  with  the  lute  to  the  boat,  and  was 
almost  as  silent  as  that  shape  itself  dining  the 
remainder  of  the  voyage. 

This  custom  among  the  Egyptians  of  placing  a 
mummy,  or  .skeleton,  at  the  hanquet-tahle,  had 
been  for  some  time  disused,  except  at  particular 
ceremonies ;  and,  even  on  such  occasions,  it  had 
been  tlie  practice  of  the  luxurious  Alexandrians  to 
disguise  this  memorial  of  mortality  in  the  mannoi 
just  described.  Hut  to  me,  who  was  wholly  un 
prepared  for  such  a  spectacle,  it  gave  a  .shock  from 
which  my  imagination  did  not  speedily  recover. 
This  bilont  and  ghastly  witness  of  mirth  Boctpod  t» 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


269 


embody,  as  it  were,  the  shadow  in  my  own  heart. 
The  features  of  the  grave  were  thus  stamped  upon 
the  idea  that  had  long  liauntod  me,  and  this  picture 
of  what  I  was  lo  be  now  associated  itself  constant- 
ly willi  the  sunniest  aspect  of  wliat  I  teas. 

The  memory  of  tlic  dream  now  recurred  to  me 
more  lively  than  ever.  Tlie  bright,  assuring  smile 
of  that  venerable  Spirit,  and  his  words,  "  Go  to  the 
shores  of  the  dark  Nile,  and  thou  wilt  find  the  eter- 
n.al  life  thou  seekest,"  were  for  ever  present  to  my 
mind.  But  as  yet,  alas,  I  had  done  nothing  towards 
realizing  the  proud  promise.  Alexandria  was  not 
'^.?.VP'  • — 'lie  very  soil  on  which  it  now  stood  was 
not  i)i  e.xistenee,  when  already  Thebes  and  Mem- 
phis had  numbered  ages  of  glory. 

"  No,"  I  exclaimed ;  "  it  is  only  beneath  the  Pyr- 
amids of  Memphis,  or  in  the  mystic  halls  of  the 
Labyrinth,  those  holy  arcana  are  to  be  found,  of 
which  the  antediluvian  world  has  m.ade  Egypt  its 
heir,  and  among  which — blessed  thought! — the  key 
to  eternal  life  may  lie." 

Having  formed  my  determination,  I  took  leave 
of  ray  many  Alexandrian  friends,  and  departed  for 
Memphis. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Egypt  was,  perhaps,  of  all  others,  the  country 
most  calculated,  from  that  mixture  of  the  melan- 
choly and  the  voluptuous  which  marked  the  char- 
acter of  her  people,  her  religion,  and  her  scenery, 
to  affect  deeply  a  fancy  and  temperament  like  mine, 
and  keep  both  for  ever  tremblingly  alive.  Wherever 
I  turned,  I  beheld  the  desert  and  the  garden,  min- 
gling together  their  desolation  and  bloom.  I  saw 
the  love-bower  and  the  tomb  standing  side  by  side, 
as  if,  in  that  land,  Plc.isure  and  Death  kept  hourly 
watch  upon  each  other.  In  the  very  luxury  of  the 
climate  there  was  the  same  saddening  influence. 
The  monotonous  splendor  of  the  days,  the  solemn 
radiance  of  the  nights — all  tended  to  cherish  that 
ardent  melancholy,  the  offspring  of  passion  and  of 
thought,  which  had  been  so  long  the  familiar  in- 
mate of  my  soul. 

When  I  sailed  from  Alexandria,  the  inundation 
of  the  Nile  was  at  its  full.  The  whole  v.alley  of 
Egypt  l.iy  covered  by  its  flood ;  and,  an,  looking 
around  me,  I  saw  in  the  light  of  the  .setting  sun, 
shrines,  palaces,  and  monuments,  encircled  by  the 
waters,  I  could  almost  fancy  that  I  beheld  the  sink- 
ing island  of  Atalantis,  on  the  last  evening  its  tem- 
ples were  visible  ibove  the  wave.  Such  varieties, 
too,  of  animatioi)  is  presented  themselves  on  every 
side ! — 


While,  far  88  Bight  could  reach,  beneath  aa  clear 
Anrl  blue  a  lieaven  as  ever  bIcRsM  this  sphere. 
Gardens,  and  piiiar'd  streets,  and  porphyry  domes. 
And  hi^'h-btiiit  temples,  lit  to  be  tlie  homes 
Of  micjhty  Kods— and  pyr.Tmids,  whose  hour 
Outlasts  all  time,  above  the  waters  tower! 

Then,  too,  the  scenes  or  pomp  and  joy,  that  mnko 
One  theatre  of  tliis  vast  peopled  lake. 
Where  all  that  Love,  Keligiun,  Commerce  gives 
Of  life  and  motion,  ever  moves  and  lives. 
Here,  up  the  steps  of  temples,  from  the  wave 
Ascending,  in  procession  slow  and  grave, 
Priests,  in  white  garments,  go,  with  sacred  wanda 
And  silver  cytnb;ils  glr-aniing  in  tlieir  hands  : 
VVhile,  there,  rich  bark— fresh  from  llioso  sunny  tracts 
Far  off,  beyond  the  sounding  cataracts- 
Glide  with  their  precious  lading  to  the  sea, 
Plumes  of  bright  birds,  rhinoceros'  ivory, 
Gems  from  the  Isle  of  Merue,  and  those  grains 
Of  gold,  waah'd  down  by  Abyssinian  rains. 

Here,  where  the  waters  wind  into  a  bay 

Shadowy  and  cool,  some  pilgrims  on  their  way 

To  Sais  or  Bubastus,  among  beds 

Of  lotus-fiowers,  'that  close  above  their  heads, 

Push  their  light  barks,  and  hid,  as  in  a  tower. 

Sing,  talk,  or  sleep  away  the  sultry  hour ; 

While  haply,  not  far  o(f,  beneath  a  bank 

Of  blossoming  acacias,  many  a  prank 

Is  play'd  in  the  cool  current  by  a  train 

Of  laughing  nymphs,  lovely  as  she,  whose  chain 

Around  two  conquerors  of  the  world  was  cast, 

But,  for  a  third  too  feeble,  broke  at  last ! 

Enchanted  with  the  whole  scene,  I  lingered  de- 
lightedly on  my  voyage,  visiting  those  luxurious  and 
venerable  places,  whose  names  have  been  consecra- 
ted by  the  wonder  of  ages.  At  Sai's  I  was  present 
during  her  Festival  of  Lamps,  and  read,  by  the  blaza 
of  innumerable  lights,  those  sublime  words  on  the 
temple  of  Nei'tha :' — "  I  am  all  that  has  been,  that 
is,  and  that  will  be,  and  no  man  hath  ever  lifted  my 
veil."  I  wandered  among  the  prostrate  obelisks  of 
Heliopolis,"  and  saw,  not  without  a  sigh,  the  sun 
smiling  over  her  ruins,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  mass 
of  perishable  grandeur  that  had  once  called  itself, 
in  its  pride,  '•  The  City  of  the  Sun."  But  to  the 
Isle  of  the  Golden  Venus"  was,  I  own,  my  fondest 
pilgrimage ; — and  there,  as  I  rambled  through  ita 
shades,  where  bowers  are  the  only  temples,  I  feh 
how  far  more  worthy  to  form  the  shrine  of  a  Deity 
are  the  everiiving  stems  of  the  garden  and  the 
grove,  than  the  most  precious  columns  the  inani- 
mate quarry  can  supply. 

Everywhere  new  pleasures,  new  interests  await- 
ed me;  and  though  Melancholy  stood,  as  usual,  for 
ever  near,  her  shadow  fell  but  half-way  over  my 
vagrant  path,  lea\'ing  the  rest  but  more  weleomely 
brilliant  from  the  contrast.  To  relate  mv  various 
adventures  during  this  short  voyage,  would  only 
detain  me  from  events,  far,  far  more  woithy  of 
record.     Amidst  all  this  endless  varietv  of  attrao. 


260 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


tions,  the  great  object  of  my  journey  had  been  for- 
gotten ; — the  mysteries  of  this  land  of  the  sun  still 
remained,  to  me.  as  much  mysterious  as  ever,  and 
as  vet  I  had  been  initiated  in  nothing  but  its  pleas- 
ures. 

It  was  not  till  that  memorable  evening,  when  I 
first  stood  before  the  Pyramids  of  Memphis,  and 
beheld  tlicm  towering  aloft,  like  the  watch-towers 
of  Time,  from  whose  summit,  when  about  to  ex- 
pire, he  will  look  his  last — it  was  not  till  this  mo- 
ment that  tiie  great  secret  announced  in  my  dream 
again  rose,  in  all  its  inscrut.able  darkness  upon  my 
thoughts.  There  was  a  solemnity  in  the  sunshine, 
resting  upon  those  monuments — a  stillness,  as  of 
reverence,  in  the  air  that  breathed  around  them, 
which  seemed  to  steal,  like  the  music  of  past  times, 
into  my  heart.  I  thought  wh.it  myriads  of  the 
wise,  the  beautiful,  and  the  brave,  have  sunk  into 
dust  since  earth  first  saw  those  wonders  ;  and  in 
the  sadness  of  my  soul,  I  exclaimed, — "  Must  m.in 
alone,  then,  perish?  must  minds  and  hearts  be  an- 
nihilated, while  pyramids  endure?  Oh,  De.ith, 
De.ith !  even  upon  these  everlasting  tablets — the 
only  approach  to  immort.ility  that  kings  themselves 
could  purchase — thou  hast  written  our  doom  aw'ful- 
ly,  and  intelligibly,  sjiying,  '  There  is  for  man  no 
eternal  mansion,  but  the  grave !' " 

My  heart  sunk  at  the  thought ;  and,  for  the  mo- 
ment I  yielded  to  that  desol.ite  feeling,  which  over- 
spre.ids  the  soul  th.it  hath  no  light  from  the  future. 
But  again  the  buoy.incy  of  my  nature  prevailed,  and 
again,  tlie  willing  dupe  of  vain  dreams,  I  deluded 
mvseir  into  the  belief  of  all  tliat  my  heart  most 
wished,  with  that  happy  facility  whicli  cn.ables  im.a- 
gin.ition  to  stand  in  the  plaeo  of  happiness.  "  Yes," 
I  cried,  "  immortality  must  be  within  man's  reach  ; 
and,  as  wisdom  alone  is  worthy  of  such  a  blessing, 
to  the  wise  alone  must  the  secret  have  been  reveal, 
ed.  It  is  said,  that  deep  under  yonder  pyramid, 
has  hiin  for  ages  concealed  the  Table  of  Emerald,'" 
on  which  the  Thrice-Great  Hermes,  in  times  before 
the  flood,  engraved  the  secret  of  Alchemy,  which 
gives  gold  nt  will.  Why,  then,  may  not  the  migh- 
tier, the  more  god-like  secret,  that  gives  life  at  will, 
bo  recorded  there  also  ?  It  was  by  the  power  of 
gold,  of  endless  gold,  that  the  kings,  who  now 
repose  in  those  massy  strnctures,  scooped  earth  to 
\tn  very  centre,  and  raised  quarries  into  the  air,  to 
provide  for  themselves  toinl)s  that  might  oiitstnnd 
the  world.  Who  can  tell  but  that  the  gift  of  im- 
mortality was  also  theirs?  wlio  knows  but  that  they 
tlicmselves.  triumphant  over  decay,  still  live  ; — those 
mighty  mansions,  which  we  call  tombs,  being  rich 
and  everlasting  palaces,  within  whose  depths,  con- 
tctlnd  from  thin  withering  world,  they  »till  wander 


with  the  few  Elect  who  have  been  .sharers  of  their 
gift,  through  a  sunless,  but  ever  illuminated  ely 
slum  of  their  own  ?  Else,  wherefore  those  struc- 
tures? wherefore  that  subterranean  realm,  by  which 
the  whole  valley  of  Egypt  is  undermined  ?  Why 
else,  those  labyrinths,  which  none  of  earth  hath 
ever  beheld — which  none  of  heaven,  except  that 
God,  who  stands  with  finger  on  his  hushed  lip," 
hatli  ever  trodden  ?" 

While  thus  I  indulged  in  fond  dreams,  the  sun, 
already  half  sunk  beneath  the  horizon,  was  taking, 
calmly  and  gloriously,  his  last  look  of  the  Pyramids 
— as  he  h.id  done,  evening  after  evening  for  age-s 
till  they  had  grown  familiar  to  him  as  the  earth 
itself.  On  the  side  turned  to  his  ray  they  now  pre- 
sented a  front  of  dazzling  whiteness,'"  while,  on  the 
other,  their  great  shadows,  lengthening  away  to 
the  e.istward,  looked  like  the  first  steps  of  Night, 
hastening  to  envelope  the  hills  of  Araby  in  her 
shade. 

No  sooner  had  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun  disap- 
peared, than  on  every  house-top  in  Memphis,  gay, 
gilded  banners  were  seen  waving  .aloft,  to  proclaim 
his  setting — while,  .at  the  s.ime  moment,  a  full  burst 
of  harmony  was  heard  to  peal  from  all  the  temples 
along  the  shores. 

Startled  from  my  musing  by  these  sounds,  I  at 
once  recollected,  that,  on  that  very  evening,  the 
great  festiv.il  of  the  Moon  w.is  to  be  celebrated. 
On  a  little  island,  half-way  over  between  the  gar- 
dens of  Memphis  and  the  e.istern  shore,  stood  the 
temple  of  that  goddess, 

wlioso  beams 
Briiit?  tliD  swei't  time  of  nitilit-flowors  nnd  drcama. 
J\'t}t  tlio  cold  Dian  of  the  Nortti,  who  c)iaiii» 
In  vostnl  ico  tlie  current  of  yoinic:  veins  ; 
IJiit  slie,  w-tio  haunts  the  ffily,  Bubnstian'^  grove 
And  owns  she  sees,  ft-om  her  brlfflit  lioaven  above 
Notlling  on  eartit  to  inateh  tliat  lieaven,  but  love! 

Thus  did  I  exclaim,  in  the  words  of  one  of  ihcir 
ow'n  Egyptian  poets,  as,  antlcip.iting  the  various 
delights  of  the  festival,  I  c.ist  away  from  my  mind 
all  gloomy  thoughts;  and,  hastening  to  my  little 
bark,  in  which  I  now  lived  the  life  of  a  Nile-bird, 
on  the  waters,  steered  my  course  to  the  island-tem- 
ple of  the  Moon. 


CIt.VrTER  V, 

The  rising  of  Ihc  Moon,  slow  and  tnaje-;tic,  as  if 
conscious  oftlie  honors  that  awailoil  her  upon  earth, 
W.IS  welcomed  with  a  loud  acclaim  from  every  emi- 
nence, where  multitudes  stood  watching  fur  her  first 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


261 


light.  And  seldom  li.id  that  light  risen  on  .i  more 
beautiful  scene.  Tlie  eily  of  iMenipiii.s — still  grand, 
though  no  longer  the  unrivalled  Memphis  that  had 
borne  away  from  Thebes  the  crown  of  supremacy, 
and  worn  it  undisputed  through  ages — now,  soften- 
ed by  the  mild  moonlight  that  harmonized  with  her 
decline,  shone  forth  among  her  lakes,  her  pyramids, 
and  her  shrines,  like  one  of  those  dreams  of  human 
glory  that  must  ere  long  pass  away.  E/en  already 
ruin  was  visible  around  her.  The  sands  of  the 
Libyan  desert  were  gaining  upon  her  like  a  sea; 
and  there,  among  solitary  columns  and  sphinxes, 
already  half  sunk  from  siglit,  Time  seemed  to  stand 
waiting,  till  all  th.at  now  flourished  around  him 
should  fall  beneath  his  desolating  h.ind  like  the 
rest. 

On  the  waters  all  was  .gayety  and  life.  As  far 
18  eye  could  reach,  the  lights  of  innumerable 
joats  were  seen  studding,  like  rubies,  the  surface 
I  f  the  stream.  Vessels  of  every  kind — from  the 
light  coracle,"  built  for  shooting  down  the  cataracts, 
to  the  Large  yacht  that  glides  slowly  to  the  .sound 
of  (lutes — all  were  aflo.at  for  this  sacred  festival, 
filled  with  crowds  of  the  young  and  the  g.iy,  not 
only  from  Memphis  and  Babylon,  but  from  cities 
still  farther  removed  from  the  festal  scene. 

As  I  approached  the  island,  I  could  see,  glitter- 
ing through  the  trees  on  the  bank,  the  Lamps  of  the 
pilgrims  hiistening  to  the  ceremony.  Landing  in 
the  direction  which  those  lights  pointed  out,  I  soon 
joined  the  crowd ;  and,  passing  through  a  long  alley 
of  sphin.xes,  whose  sp.angling  marble  gleamed  out 
from  the  dark  sycamores  around  them,  reached  in  a 
short  time  the  grand  vestibule  of  the  temple,  where 
I  found  the  ceremonies  of  the  evening  .already  com- 
menced. 

In  this  vast  hall,  which  was  sun'ounded  by  a 
double  r.ange  of  columns,  and  lay  open  over-head  to 
the  stars  of  heaven,  I  saw  a  group  of  young  maid- 
ens, moving  in  a  sort  of  measured  step,  between 
walk  and  dance,  round  a  small  shrine,  upon  which 
stood  one  of  those  sacred  birds,'*  that,  on  account  of 
the  variegated  color  of  their  wings,  are  dedicated  to 
the  worship  of  the  moon.  The  vestibule  was  dimly 
lighted — there  being  but  one  lamp  of  naphtha  hung 
on  each  of  the  great  pillars  that  encircled  it.  But, 
having  taken  my  station  beside  one  of  those  pillars, 
I  had  a  clear  view  of  the  young  dancers,  as  in  suc- 
cession they  passed  me. 

The  drapery  of  all  was  white  as  snow  ;  and  e.ach 
wore  loosely,  beneath  the  bosom,  a  d.ark-blue  zone, 
or  bandelet,  studded,  like  the  skies  at  midnight, 
with  small  silver  stars.  Through  their  dark  locks 
was  wreathed  the  white  lily  of  the  Nile — that  sa- 
cred fJower  being  accounted  no  less  welcome  to 


the  moon,  than  the  golden  blossoms  of  the  he.an- 
dowcr'"  are  to  the  sun.  As  they  passed  under  tlie 
lamp,  a  gleam  of  light  flashed  from  their  bosoms, 
which,  I  could  perceive,  was  the  reflection  of  a  small 
mirror,  that,  in  the  manner  of  the  women  of  the 
East,  each  of  the  dancers  wore  bene.ath  her  left 
shoulder. 

There  w.as  no  music  to  regulate  their  steps  ;  but 
.as  they  gracefully  went  round  the  bird  on  tha 
shrine,  some  to  the  beat  of  the  Castanet,  some  to  the 
shrill  ring  of  a  sistrum" — which  they  held  uplifted 
in  the  attitude  of  their  own  divine  Isis — continued 
harmoniously  to  time  the  cadence  of  their  feet;  while 
others,  at  every  step,  shook  a  sm.all  chain  of  silver, 
whose  sound,  mingling  with  those  of  the  castanets 
and  sistrums,  produced  a  wild,  but  not  unpleasing 
harmony. 

They  seemed  all  lovely ;  but  there  was  one — 
whose  face  the  light  had  not  yet  reached,  so  down- 
cast sh6  held  it — who  attr.acted,  and,  at  length,  rivet- 
ed iiU  my  looks  and  thoughts.  I  know  not  why, 
but  there  was  a  something  in  those  half-seen  fe:i- 
tures — a  charm  in  ftie  very  sh.adow  th.at  hung  over 
their  imagined  beauty — which  took  my  fancy  more 
than  all  the  out-shining  loveliness  of  her  compan- 
ions. So  enchained  was  I  by  this  coy  mystery,  that 
her  alone,  of  all  the  group,  could  I  either  see  or 
think  of — her  alone  I  watched,  as,  with  the  same 
downcast  brow,  she  glided  gently  and  aerially  round 
the  alt.ar,  as  if  her  presence,  like  th.at  of  a  spirit,  was 
something  to  be  felt,  not  seen. 

Suddenly,  while  I  gazed,  the  loud  crash  of  a 
thousand  cymbals  was  hoard  ; — the  massy  gates  of 
the  Temple  flew  open,  as  if  by  magic,  and  a  flood  of 
radiance  from  the  illumin.ated  aisle  filled  the  whole 
vestibule ;  while,  at  the  same  instant,  as  if  the  light 
and  the  sounds  were  born  together,  a  peal  of  rich 
harmony  came  mingling  with  the  radiance. 

It  was  then — by  that  light,  which  shone  full  upon 
the  young  maiden's  features,  as,  starting  at  the 
sudden  blaze,  she  r.aised  her  eyes  to  the  portal,  and 
as  quickly  let  fall  their  lids  again — it  was  then  1 
beheld,  what  even  my  own  ardent  imagin.ation,  in 
its  most  vivid  dreams  of  beauty,  had  never  pictured. 
Not  Psyche  herself,  when  pausing  on  the  threshold 
of  heaven,  while  its  first  glories  fell  on  her  dazzled 
lids,  could  have  looked  more  purely  beautiful,  or 
blushed  with  a  more  innocfiit  shame.  Often  as  I 
had  felt  the  power  of  looks,  none  had  ever  entered 
into  my  soul  so  deeply.  It  was  a  new  feeling — a 
new  sense — coming  as  suddenly  upon  me  as  th.at 
r.adiance  into  the  vestibule,  a-id,  at  once,  filling  my 
whole  being ; — and  had  ihat  bright  vision  but  lin- 
gered another  moment  before  my  eyes,  I  should  in 
my  transport   have  wholly  forgotten  who   I  was 


262 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


and  where,  and  thrown  myself,  in  prostrate  adora- 
tion, at  her  feet. 

But  scarcely  had  that  gush  of  harmony  heen 
heard,  wlien  the  sacred  bird,  which  had,  till  now, 
oecn  standing  motionless  as  an  image,  spread  wide 
his  wings,  and  flew  into  the  Temple ;  while  his 
graceful  young  worshippers,  with  a  fleetness  like  his 
own,  followed — and  she  who  had  left  a  dream  in  my 
heart  never  to  be  forgotten,  vanished  along  with 
the  rest.  As  she  went  rapidly  past  the  pillar  against 
which  I  leaned,  the  ivy  that  encircled  it"  caught  in 
her  drapery,  and  disengaged  some  ornament,  which 
fell  to  the  ground.  It  was  the  small  mirror"  which 
I  had  seen  shining  on  her  bosom.  Hastily  and  trem- 
ulously I  picked  it  up,  and  hurried  to  restore  it; 
but  she  was  already  lost  to  my  eyes  in  the  crowd. 

In  vain  did  I  try  to  follow ; — the  .lisles  were 
already  filled,  and  numbers  of  eager  pilgrims  press- 
ed towards  the  portal ;  but  the  servants  of  the 
Temple  denied  all  further  entrance,  and  still,  as  I 
presented  myself,  their  white  wands  barred  the 
way.  Perplexed  and  irritated  amid  that  crowd  of 
face.s,  regarding  all  as  enemies  that  impeded  my 
progress,  I  stood  on  tiptoe,  gazing  into  the  busy 
aisles,  and  with  a  heart  beating  as  I  caught,  from 
time  to  time,  a  glimpse  of  some  spangled  zone,  or 
lotus  wreath,  which  led  me  to  foncy  that  I  had 
discovered  the  fair  object  of  my  search.  But  it  was 
all  ill  vain; — in  every  direction  files  of  sacred 
nymphs  were  moving,  but  nowhere  could  I  discov- 
sr  her  whom  alone  I  sought. 

In  this  state  of  breathless  agitation  did  I  stand 
for  some  time — bewildered  with  the  confusion  of 
faces  and  lights,  as  well  as  with  the  clouds  of  in- 
cense that  rolled  around  me — till,  fevered  and  im- 
patient, I  could  endure  it  no  longer.  Forcing  my 
way  out  of  the  vestibule  into  the  cool  air,  I  hurried 
back  through  the  alley  of  sphinxes  to  the  shore  and 
flung  myself  into  my  boat. 

There  lies,  to  the  north  of  Memphis,""  a  .'!olitaiy 
lake,  (which,  at  this  season  of  the  year,  mingles 
with  the  rest  of  the  waters,)  upon  whose  shores 
Btindsthe  Necropolis,  or  City  of  the  Dead — a  place 
of  melancholy  grandeur,  covered  over  with  shrines 
and  pyramids,  where  many  a  kingly  head,  proud 
even  in  death,  has  lain  awaiting  through  long  ages 
the  resurrection  of  its  glories.  Through  a  range 
of  sepulchral  grot.s  underneath,  the  humbler  deni- 
zens of  the  tomb  are  deposited — looluui,'  out  on 
each  successive  generation  that  visits  them,  with 
tlio  sninc  face  and  features"  they  woro  centuries 
npo  Every  plant  and  tree,  consecrated  to  de.nth, 
from  iho  n'.phiidel-(lower  to  the  mystic  plantain, 
lends  its  hWeclncss  or  shadow  to  this  place  of 
lomba:  Kod  the  only  noi'te  that  disturbs  itB  olcrnal 


calm,  is  the  low  humming  sound  of  the  priests  al 
prayer,  when  a  new  inhabitant  is  added  to  the  Si. 
lent  City. 

It  was  towards  this  place  of  death  that,  in  a 
mood  of  mind,  as  usual,  half  gloomy,  half  bright, 
I  now,  almost  unconsciously,  directed  my  bark. 
The  form  of  the  young  Priestess  was  continually 
before  me.  That  one  bright  look  of  hers,  the  very 
remembrance  of  which  was  worth  all  the  actual 
smiles  of  others,  never  for  a  moment  left  my  mind. 
Absorbed  in  such  thoughts,  I  continued  to  row 
on,  scarce  knowing  whither  I  went,  till,  at  length, 
startled  to  find  myself  within  the  shadow  of  the 
City  of  the  Dead,  I  looked  up,  and  beheld,  rising  in 
succession  before  me,  pyramid  beyond  pyramid," 
each  towering  more  loftily  than  the  other — while 
all  were  out-topped  in  grandeur  by  one,  upon  whose 
summit  the  bright  moon  rested  as  on  a  pedestal. 

Drawing  nearer  to  the  shore,  which  was  sufli- 
ciently  elevated  to  raise  this  silent  city  of  tombs 
above  the  level  of  the  inundation,  I  rested  my  oar, 
and  allowed  the  boat  to  rock  idly  upon  the  water; 
while,  in  the  mean  time,  my  thoughts,  left  equally 
without  direction,  were  allowed  to  fluctuate  as  idly. 
How  vague  and  various  were  the  dreams  that  then 
floated  through  my  mind — that  bright  vision  of  the 
temple  still  mingling  itself  with  all !  Soinetimet 
she  stood  before  me,  like  an  aerial  spirit,  as  purt 
as  if  that  element  of  music  and  light,  into  whici 
I  had  seen  her  vanish,  was  her  only  dwelling. 
Sometimes,  .animated  with  passion,  and  kindling 
into  a  creature  of  earth,  she  seemed  to  lean  towards 
me  with  looks  of  tenderness,  which  it  were  worth 
worlds,  but  for  one  instant,  to  inspire  ;  and  again — 
as  the  dark  fancies,  that  ever  haunted  me,  recurred 
— I  saw  her  cold,  parched,  and  blackening  amid  the 
gloom  of  those  eternal  sepulchres  before  me ! 

Turning  away,  with  a  shudder,  from  the  ceme- 
tery at  this  thought,  I  heard  the  sound  of  an  oar 
plying  swiftly  through  the  water,  and,  in  a  (vw  mo- 
ments, saw,  shooting  past  me  towards  the  shore,  a 
small  boat  in  which  sat  two  female  figures,  mufllcMl 
up  and  veiled.  Having  landed  them  not  far  i'roin 
the  spot  where,  under  the  shadow  of  a  tomb  on  the 
bank,  I  lay  concealed,  the  1  oat  again  departed, 
with  the  same  fleetness,  over  the  flood. 

Never  had  the  pro.spect  of  a  lively  adventure 
come  more  welcome  to  me  than  at  this  nioinent, 
when  niy  busy  fancy  was  eniiiloycd  in  weaving 
such  chains  for  my  heart,  as  threatened  a  hondage, 
of  all  others  the  most  diflioull  to  break.  To 
become  enamored  thus  of  a  creature  of  mv  own 
imagination,  was  the  worst,  bee^iuse  the  most  last- 
ing,  of  follies.  It  is  only  reality  that,  can  .'ilVord 
any  chance  of  dissolving  such  spells,  and  the  idol  1 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


263 


wns  now  creating  to  myself  must  for  ever  remain 
ideal.  Any  pursuit,  therefore,  tliat  seemed  likely 
to  divert  me  from  such  thouffhts — to  bring  back 
my  imagination  to  cartli  and  reality,  from  the 
vague  region  in  which  it  had  been  wandering,  was 
a  relief  far  too  seasonable  not  to  be  welcomed  with 
eagerness. 

I  had  watched  the  course  whicli  the  two  figures 
took,  and,  having  hastily  fastened  my  boat  to  the 
bank,  stepped  gently  on  shore,  and,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, followed  them.  The  windings  through  which 
they  led  were  intricate ;  but,  by  the  bright  light  of 
the  moon,  I  was  enabled  to  keep  their  forms  in 
view,  as,  with  rapid  step,  they  glided  among  the 
monuments.  At  length,  in  the  shade  of  a  small 
pyramid,  whose  peak  barely  surmounted  the  plane- 
trees  that  grew  nigh,  they  vanished  from  my  sight. 
I  hastened  to  the  spot,  but  there  was  not  a  sign  of 
life  around  ;  and,  had  my  creed  extended  to  another 
world,  I  might  have  fancied  these  forms  were  spirits, 
sent  down  from  thence  to  mock  me — so  instanta- 
neously had  they  disappeared.  I  searched  through 
the  neighboring  grove,  but  all  there  was  still  as 
death.  At  length,  in  examining  one  of  the  sides  of 
the  pyramid,  which,  for  a  few  feet  from  the  ground, 
was  furnished  with  steps,  1  found  midway  between 
peak  and  base,  a  part  of  its  surface,  which,  although 
presenting  to  the  eye  an  appearance  of  smoothness, 
gave  to  the  touch,  I  thought,  indications  of  a  con- 
cealed opening. 

After  a  variety  of  efforts  and  experiments,  I,  at 
■ast,  more  by  accident  than  skill,  pressed  the  spring 
that  commanded  this  hidden  aperture.  In  an  in- 
stant the  portal  slid  aside,  and  disclosed  a  narrow 
Btairway  within,  the  two  or  three  first  steps  of 
which  were  discernible  by  the  moonlight,  while 
the  rest  were  all  lost  in  utter  darkness.  Though 
it  was  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  persoiis  whom 
I  had  been  pursuing  would  liave  ventured  to  pass 
through  this  gloomy  opening,  yet  to  account  for 
their  disappearance  otherwise  was  still  more  diffi- 
cult. At  .all  events,  my  curiosity  was  now  too 
eager  in  the  chase  to  relinquish  it; — the  spirit  of 
adventure,  once  raised,  could  not  be  so  easily  laid. 
Accordingly,  having  sent  up  a  g.ay  prayer  to  that 
bliss-loving  Queen  whose  eye  alone  was  upon  me, 
I  passed  through  the  portal,  and  descended  into  the 
pyramid. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AT  the  end  of  the  stairway  I  found  myself  in  a 
fow,  narrow  passage,  through  which,  without  stoop- 


ing  almost  to  the  earth,  it  was  impossible  to  pro- 
ceed.  Though  leading  through  a  multiplicity  of 
dark  windings,  this  way  seemed  but  little  to  ad- 
vance my  progress — its  course,  I  perceived,  being 

chiefly  circular,  and  gathering,  at  every  turn,  but  a 
deeper  intensity  of  darkness. 

"  Can  .any  thing,"  thought  I,  "  of  human  kind, 
sojourn  here'" — and  had  scarcely  asked  my.self  the 
question,  when  the  path  opened  into  a  long  g.allcry, 
at  the  farthest  end  of  which  a  gleam  of  light  was 
visible.  This  welcome  glimmer  .appeared  to  issue 
from  some  cell  or  .alcove,  in  which  the  right-hand 
w.all  of  the  gallery  terminated,  and,  breathless  with 
expectation,  I  stole  gently  towards  it. 

Arrived  at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  a  scene  pre- 
sented itself  to  my  eyes,  for  which  my  fondest 
expectations  of  .adventure  could  not  have  prepared 
me.  The  place  from  which  the  light  proceeded 
was  a  small  ch.apel,  of  whose  interior,  from  the 
dark  recess  in  which  I  stood,  I  could  take,  unseen 
myself,  a  full  and  distinct  view.  Over  the  walls  of 
this  onatory  were  painted  some  of  those  v.arious 
symbols,  by  which  the  mystic  wisdom  of  the  Egyp- 
tians loves  to  sh.adow  out  the  History  of  the  Soul : 
the  winged  globe  with  a  serpent — the  riiys  descend- 
ing from  above  like  a  glory — and  the  Theban  bee- 
tle,°°  as  he  comes  forth  after  the  waters  have  p.assed 
away,  and  the  first  sunbeam  falls  on  his  regener- 
ated wings. 

In  the  middle  of  the  chapel,  on  a  low  altar  of 
granite,  l.ay  a  lifeless  fem.ale  form  enshrined  within  a 
ease  of  erystiil" — as  it  is  the  custom  to  preserve 
the  dead  in  Ethiopi.a — and  looking  as  freshly  beau- 
tiful as  if  the  soul  had  but  a  few  hours  departed. 
Among  the  emblems  of  death,''  on  the  front  of  the 
altar,  were  a  slender  lotus  branch  broken  in  two, 
and  a  small  bird  just  winging  its  flight  from  the 
spr.ay. 

To  these  memorials  of  the  dead,  however,  I 
paid  but  little  attention  ;  for  there  was  a  living 
object  there  upon  which  my  eyes  were  now  in- 
tently fixed. 

The  lamp,  by  which  the  whole  of  the  chapel  was 
illumin.ated,  was  placed  at  the  he.ad  of  the  pale 
image  in  the  shrine  ;  .and  between  its  light  and  me 
stood  a  fem.ale  form,  bending  over  the  monument, 
as  if  to  gaze  upon  the  silent  features  within.  The 
position  in  which  this  figure  was  placed,  intercept- 
ing a  strong  light,  .afforded  me,  at  first,  but  an  im- 
perfect and  shadowy  view  of  it.  Yet  even  at  this 
mere  outline  I  felt  my  heart  be.at  high — and  memo- 
ry  had  no  less  sh.are,  .as  it  proved,  in  this  feeling 
than  im.agination.  For,  on  the  head  changing  its 
position,  so  as  to  let  a  gleam  fall  upon  the  features, 
I  saw,  with  a  transport  which  had  almost  led  me  in 


264 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


betray  my  lurking-place,  that  it  was  she — the 
young  worshipper  of  Isis — the  same,  the  very  same, 
nhom  I  had  seen,  brightening  the  holy  place  where 
she  stood,  and  looking  like  an  inhabitant  of  some 
purer  world. 

Tlie  movement,  by  which  she  had  now  afforded 
me  an  opportunity  of  recognising  her,  was  made 
in  raising  from  the  slirine  a  small  cross''"  of  silver, 
which  lay  directly  over  the  bosom  of  the  lifeless 
figure.  Bringing  it  close  to  her  lips,  she  kissed  it 
with  a  religious  fervor ;  then,  turning  her  eyes 
mournfully  upwards,  held  them  fi.ved  with  a  degree 
of  inspired  earnestness,  as  if,  at  that  moment,  in 
direct  communion  with  Heaven,  they  saw  neither 
roof,  nor  any  other  earthly  barrier,  between  them 
and  the  skies. 

What  a  power  is  there  in  innocence  I  whose 
very  helplessness  is  its  safeguard — in  whose  pres- 
ence even  Passion  herself  stands  abiished,  and 
turns  worshipper  at  the  very  altar  which  lie  came  to 
despoil !  She,  who,  but  a  short  hour  before,  had 
presented  herself  to  my  imagination  as  something 
I  could  have  risked  immortality  to  win — she,  whom 
gladly,  from  the  floor  of  her  own  lighted  temple, 
in  the  very  face  of  its  proud  ministers,  I  would 
have  borne  away  in  triumph,  and  dared  all  punish- 
ments, divine  and  human,  to  make  her  mine — that 
very  creature  was  now  before  me,  as  if  thrown  by 
fate  itself  into  my  power — standing  there,  beautiful 
and  alone,  with  nothing  but  her  innocence  for  her 
guard!  Yet,  no — so  touching  was  the  purity  of 
the  whole  scene,  so  calm  and  .august  that  protec- 
tion which  the  dead  extended  over  the  living,  tliat 
every  earthly  feeling  was  forgotten  as  I  gazed,  and 
love  itself  became  e.\alted  into  reverence. 

But,  entranced  as  I  felt  in  witnessing  such  a 
scene,  thus  to  enjoy  it  by  stealth  seemed  to  me  a 
wrong,  a  sacrilege — and,  rather  than  let  her  eyes 
encounter  the  flash  of  mine,  or  disturb,  by  a  whis- 
per, that  s.ncred  silence,  in  which  Youth  and  Death 
held  communion  through  undying  Lovo,  I  would 
have  sufl'ercd  my  heart  to  break,  without  a  murmur, 
where  I  stood.  Gently,  as  if  life  itself  depended 
on  my  every  movement,  I  stole  away  from  that 
tranquil  and  holy  scene — leaving  it  still  holy  and 
tranquil  as  I  had  founil  it — and,  gliding  back 
through  the  same  passages  and  windings  by  which 
I  had  entered,  reached  again  I  he  narrow  stairway, 
and  rcascended  into  light. 

The  sun  had  just  risen,  and,  from  the  summit  of 
the  Arabian  hills,  was  pouring  down  his  beams  into 
that  vast  valley  of  waters — as  if  proud  of  last  night's 
nomage  to  bin  own  divine  Isis,  now  fading  away  in 
the  nuperior  splendor  of  her  Lord.  My  first  impulse 
*a»  lo  fly  nt  once  from  this  dangerous  »f  3l,  and  in 


new  loves  and  pleasures  seek  forgetfulness  of  the 
wondrous  scene  I  had  just  witnessed.  "  Once  "  1 
exclaimed,  "  out  of  the  circle  of  this  enchantment,  1 
know  too  well  my  own  susceptibility  to  new  im- 
pressions,  to  fee!  any  doubt  that  I  shall  soon  break 
the  spell  that  is  now  around  me." 

But  vain  were  all  my  efforts  and  resolves.  Even 
while  swearing  to  fly  that  spot,  I  found  my  steps 
still  lingering  fondly  round  the  pyramid — my  eyes 
still  turned  towards  the  portal  which  severed  this 
enchantress  from  the  world  of  the  living.  Hour 
after  hour  did  I  w.iuder  through  that  City  of  Si- 
lence, till,  alre.idy,  it  was  mid-day,  .and,  under  the 
sun's  meridian  eye,  the  mighty  pyramid  of  pyramids 
stood,  like  a  great  spirit,  shadowless."' 

Again  did  those  wild  and  p.assionate  feelings, 
which,  for  the  moment,  her  presence  had  subdued 
into  reverence,  return  to  take  possession  of  my  im- 
.agination  and  my  senses.  I  even  reproached  my- 
self for  the  awe  th.at  had  held  me  spell-bound 
before  her.  "  Wliat,"  thought  I,  "  would  my  com- 
panions of  the  Cirden  s.iy,  did  they  know  that  their 
chief — he  whose  path  Love  had  strewed  with 
trophies — was  now  pining  for  a  simple  Egyptian 
girl,  in  whose  presence  he  had  not  dared  to  utter  a 
single  .sigh,  and  who  had  vanquished  the  victor, 
without  even  knowing  her  triumph !" 

A  blush  came  over  my  cheek  .it  the  humiliating 
thought,  and  I  determined,  at  all  risks,  to  await  her 
coming.  That  she  should  be  an  inmate  of  those 
gloomy  caverns  seemed  inconceivable ;  nor  did 
there  appear  to  be  any  egress  out  of  their  depths 
but  by  the  pyramid.  Again,  therefore,  like  a  senti- 
nel of  the  dead,  did  I  p.ace  up  and  down  among 
tliose  tomlxs,  contrasting  mournfully  the  burning 
fever  in  my  own  veins  with  the  cold  quiet  of  those 
who  lay  .slumbering  around. 

At  length  the  intense  glow  of  the  sun  over  my 
he.ad,  and,  slill  more,  that  ever  restless  agitation  in 
my  heart,  became  too  much  for  even  -strength  like 
mine  to  endure.  Exhausted,  I  threw  myself  down 
at  the  base  of  the  pyramid — choosing  my  place 
directly  under  the  portal,  where,  even  should  slum- 
ber surprise  mo,  my  heart,  if  not  my  ear,  might 
still  keep  w.atch,  and  her  footstep,  light  .is  it  was, 
could  not  fail  to  awake  me. 

After  many  an  incffoctual  struggle  against  drow- 
siness, I  at  length  sunk  into  sleep — but  not  into 
forgetfulness.  The  same  image  slill  haunted  me,  in 
every  variety  of  shape,  with  which  imagination, 
assisted  by  memory,  could  invest  it.  Now,  like 
the  goddess  Nei'tha,  upon  her  throne  at  SaVs,  she 
seemed  to  sit,  with  the  veil  just  raised  from  that 
brow,  which  till  then,  no  niorl.al  had  ever  beiicld — 
and  now,  like  the  boauliliil  oncliuntross  Uliodop'^,  ] 


THE  EPICUKbA.N. 


265 


saw  her  rise  from  out  the  pyramid  in  which  she  had 
d'velt  for  age.% — 

"  Fiiir  Rhodope,-"  nfl  Btory  tells, 
Tiu!  t>right  uneiirllily  njnipli,  who  dwells 
*Mid  Bunlesa  fjold  and  juwulg  hid, 
The  Lruly  of  the  Pyramid  !" 

So  lonfj  had  my  sleep  continued,  that,  when  I 
aivoki',  I  found  tlie  moon  apfain  resplendent  above 
(he  horizon.  But  all  around  was  looking  tranquil 
and  lifeless  as  before  ;  nor  did  a  print  on  the  grass 
betray  that  any  foot  had  passed  there  since  my 
own.  Refreshed,  however,  by  my  long  rest,  and 
with  a  fancy  still  more  e.xeited  by  the  mystic  won- 
ders of  which  I  had  been  dreaming,  I  now  resolved 
to  revisit  the  chapel  in  the  pyramid,  and  put  an  end, 
if  possible,  to  this  strange  mysteiT  that  haunted  me. 

Having  learned,  from  the  experience  of  the  pre- 
ceding niglit,  the  inconvenience  of  encountering 
those  labyrinths  without  a  light,  I  now  hastened  to 
provide  myself  with  a  lamp  from  my  boat.  Track- 
ing my  way  back  with  some  difficulty  to  the  shore, 
I  there  found  not  only  my  lamp,  but  also  some 
dates  and  dried  fruits,  of  which  I  was  always  pro- 
vided with  store,  for  my  roving  life  upon  the 
waters,  and  which,  after  so  many  hours  of  absti- 
nence, were  now  a  most  welcome  and  necessary 
relief 

Thus  prepared,  I  again  ascended  the  pyramid, 
and  was  proceeding  to  search  out  the  secret  spring, 
when  a  loud,  dismal  noise  was  heard  at  a  distance, 
to  which  all  the  melancholy  echoes  of  the  cemetery 
gave  answer.  The  sound  came,  I  knew,  from  the 
Great  Temple  on  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and  was  the 
sort  of  shriek  which  its  gates — the  Gates  of  Obliv- 
ion" as  they  are  called — used  always  to  send  forth 
from  their  hinges,  when  opening  at  night,  to  receive 
the  newly-lnnded  dead. 

I  had,  more  than  once  before,  he;u'd  that  sound, 
and  always  with  sadness ;  but,  at  this  moment,  it 
thrilled  through  me  like  a  voice  of  ill  omen,  and 
I  almost  doubted  whether  I  should  not  abandon  my 
enterprise.  The  hesitation,  however,  was  but  mo- 
mentary ; — even  while  it  passed  through  my  mind,  I 
had  touched  the  spring  of  the  portal.  In  a  few 
seconds  more,  I  was  again  in  the  passage  beneath 
the  pyramid  :  and,  being  enabled  by  the  light  of 
my  lamp  to  follow  the  windings  more  rapidly,  soon 
found  myself  at  the  door  of  the  small  chapel  in  the 
gallery. 

I  entered,  still  awed,  though  there  was  now, 
alas,  naught  living  within.  The  young  Priestess  had 
vanished  like  a  spirit  into  the  darkness;  and  all 
the  rest  remained  as  I  had  left  it  on  the  preceding 
n'ght.  The  lamp  still  stood  burning  upon  the 
cryrtal  shrine  ;  the  cross  was  lying  when-  the  hands 
ii-bt.  ri.— 34 


of  the  young  mourner  had  placed  it,  and  the  cold 
image,  within  the  shrine,  wore  still  the  same  Iran- 
quit  look,  as  if  resigned  to  the  solitude  of  death — 
of  all  lone  things  the  lonelit-ft.  Remembering  the 
lips  that  I  had  seen  kiss  that  cross,  and  kindling 
with  the  recollection,  I  raised  it  passionately  to  my 
own  ; — but  the  dead  eyes,  I  thought,  met  mine, 
and,  awed  and  saddened  in  the  midst  of  my  aidi)r, 
I  ropl.iced  the  cross  upon  the  shrine. 

1  had  now  lost  every  clue  to  the  object  of  my 
])ursuit,  and,  with  all  that  sullen  satisfaction  which 
certainty,  even  when  unwelcome,  brings,  was  about 
to  retrace  my  steps  slowly  to  earth,  when,  as  I  held 
forth  my  lamp,  on  leaving  the  chapel,  I  perceived 
that  the  gallery,  instead  of  terminating  here,  took  a 
sudden  and  snake-like  bend  to  the  left,  which  had 
before  eluded  my  observation,  and  which  seemed 
to  give  promise  of  a  pathway  still  farther  into  those 
recesses.  Reanimated  by  this  discovery,  which 
opened  a  new  source  of  hope  to  my  heart,  I  cast, 
for  a  moment,  a  hesitating  look  at  my  lamp,  as  if 
to  inquire  whether  it  would  be  faithful  through 
the  gloom  I  was  about  to  encounter,  and  then, 
without  further  consideration,  rushed  eagerly  for- 
ward. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  path  led,  for  a  while,  through  the  same  sort 
of  naiTow  windings  as  those  which  I  had  before 
encountered  in  descending  the  stairway;  and  at 
length  opened,  in  a  similar  manner,  into  a  straight 
and  steep  gallery,  along  each  side  of  which  stood, 
closely  ranged  and  upright,  a  file  of  lifeless  bodies," 
wliose  glassy  eyes  appeared  to  glare  upon  me  pre- 
ternaturally  as  I  passed. 

Arrived  at  the  end  of  this  gallerv,  I  found  my 
hopes,  for  the  second  time,  vanish  ;  as  the  path,  it 
was  manifest,  extended  no  farther.  The  only  object 
I  was  able  to  discern,  by  the  glimmering  of  mv 
lamp,  which  now  burned,  every  minute,  fainter  and 
fainter,  was  the  mouth  of  a  huge  well,  that  lay 
gaping  before  me — a  reservoir  of  darkness,  black 
and  unfathomable.  It  now  crossed  my  memory 
that  I  had  once  heard  of  such  wells,  as  being  used 
occasionally  for  passages  by  the  priests.  Leaning 
down,  therefore,  over  the  edge,  I  examined  an.tiously 
all  within,  in  order  to  see  if  it  afforded  the  means 
of  effecting  a  descent  into  the  chasm  ;  but  the  sides, 
I  could  perceive,  were  hard  and  smooth  as  glass, 
being  varnished  all  over  with  that  sort  of  dark 
pitch,  which  the  Dead  Sea  throws  out  upon  its 
slimy  shore. 


266 


MOOEE'S  WOKK&. 


After  a  more  attentive  scrutiny,  however,  I  ob- 
served, at  the  depth  of  a  few  feet,  a  sort  of  iron 
step,  projecting  dimly  from  the  side,  and,  below  it, 
another,  which,  tliough  hardly  perceptible,  was  just 
sufficient  to  encourage  an  adventurous  foot  to  the 
trial.  Though  all  hope  of  tracing  the  young 
Priestess  was  now  at  an  end — it  being  impossible 
that  female  foot  should  have  ventured  on  this 
descent — yet,  as  I  had  engaged  so  far  in  the  adven- 
ture, and  there  was,  at  least,  a  mystery  to  be  un- 
ravelled, I  determined,  at  all  hazards,  to  explore 
the  chasm.  Placing  my  lamp,  therefore,  (which 
was  hollowed  at  the  bottom,  so  as  to  be  worn  like  a 
helmet,)  firmly  upon  my  head,  and  having  thus  both 
hands  at  liberty  for  e.\ertion,  I  set  my  foot  cautiously 
on  tlie  iron  step,  and  descended  into  the  well. 

I  found  the  same  footing,  at  regular  intervals,  to 
a  considerable  depth  ;  and  had  already  counted  near 
a  hundred  of  these  steps,  when  the  ladder  altogether 
ceased,  and  I  could  descend  no  farther.  In  vain 
did  I  stretcli  down  my  foot  in  search  of  support — 
the  hard  slippery  sides  were  all  that  it  encountered. 
At  length,  stooping  my  head,  so  as  to  let  the  light 
fall  below,  I  observed  an  opening  or  window  directly 
above  the  step  on  which  I  stood ;  and,  taking  for 
granted  that  the  way  must  lie  in  that  direction, 
contrived  to  clamber,  with  no  small  diflicully, 
through  the  aperture. 

I  now  found  myself  on  a  rude  and  narrow  stair- 
way, the  steps  of  which  were  cut  out  of  the  living 
rock,  and  wound  spirally  downward  in  the  same 
direction  as  the  well.  Almost  dizzy  with  the  do- 
scent,  which  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  end,  I,  at 
last,  reached  the  bottom,  where  a  pair  of  massy  iron 
gates  were  closed  directly  across  my  path,  as  if 
wholly  to  forbid  any  farther  progress.  Massy  and 
gigantic,  however,  as  they  were,  I  found,  to  my 
surprise,  that  the  hand  of  an  infant  might  have 
opened  them  with  ease — so  readily  did  their  stu- 
pendous folds  give  way  to  my  touch. 

"Light  aj»  ft  limo-bush,  that  reculvca 
Porno  waiideriitg  bird  nrnong  ils  IcAvcs.'* 

\o  sooner,  however,  had  I  passed  through,  than  the 
astounding  din,  with  which  the  gates  clashed  to- 
gether again,"  was  such  as  might  have  awakened 
death  itself.  It  seemed  as  if  every  echo"  through- 
out  that  vast,  subterranean  world,  from  the  Cata- 
combs of  .Alexandria  to  Tliebes's  Valley  of  Kings, 
liad  caught  up  and  repeated  the  thundering  sound. 
Startled  as  I  was  by  the  crash,  not  even  this 
supernatural  clangor  could  divert  my  attention  from 
Ihe  Rudden  light  that  now  broke  around  mo — soft, 
wnrm,  and  welcome,  as  are  >ho  star.i  of  his  own 
i'a\iii)  to  Ihe  ortR  of  the  marinfT  who  has  long 


been  wandering  through  the  cold  seas  of  the  North. 
Looldng  for  the  source  of  this  splendor,  I  saw, 
through  an  archvv.ay  opposite,  a  long  illuminated 
alley,  stretching  away  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
and  fenced,  on  one  side,  with  thickets  of  odoriferous 
shrubs;  while  along  the  other  extended  a  line  of 
lofty  arcades,  from  which  the  lights,  that  filled  the 
whole  area,  issued.  As  soon,  too,  .as  the  din  of  the 
deep  echoes  had  subsided,  there  stole  gradually  on 
my  ear  a  strain  of  choral  music,  which  appeared  to 
come  mellowed  and  sweetened  in  its  passage, 
through  many  a  spacious  hall  within  those  shining 
.arcades;  while  among  the  voices  I  could  distinguish 
some  female  tones,  which,  towering  high  and  clear 
above  all  the  rest,  formed  the  spire,  as  it  were,  into 
which  the  harmony  tapered  as  it  rose. 

So  excited  was  my  fiiney  by  this  sudden  en- 
chantment, that — though  never  had  I  caught  a 
sound  from  the  fair  Egyptian's  lips, — I  yet  pcr- 
suadod  myself  that  the  voice  I  now  heard  was  hers, 
sounding  highest  and  most  heavenly  of  all  that  choir, 
and  calling  to  me,  like  a  distant  spirit  from  it^ 
sphere.  Animated  by  this  thought,  I  flow  forwarc. 
to  the  archwiiy,  but  found,  to  my  mortification,  that 
it  was  guarded  by  a  trellis-work,  whose  bars,  though 
invisible  at  a  dist.ance,  resisted  all  my  efforts  to  force 
tliem. 

While  occupied  in  these  iucflVctual  struggles,  [ 
perceived,  to  the  left  of  the  ai'cliway,  a  dark  caver- 
nous opening,  which  seemed  to  lead  in  a  direction 
par.allel  to  the  lighted  arcades.  Notwithstanding, 
however,  my  impatience,  the  aspect  of  this  passage, 
as  I  looked  sliudderingly  into  it,  chilled  my  very 
blood.  It  was  not  so  much  darkness,  as  a  sort  of 
livid  and  ghastly  twilight,  from  which  a  damp,  like 
that  of  death-vaults,  exh.aled,  and  through  which,  if 
my  eyes  did  not  deceive  me,  pale,  ph.antom-liko 
shapes"  were,  .at  that  very  moment,  hovering. 

Looking  .anxiously  round,  to  discover  some  less 
formidable  outlet,  I  saw,  over  the  vast  folding-gates 
through  which  I  had  just  passed,  a  blue,  tremulous 
flame,  which,  after  playing  for  a  few  seconds  over 
the  dark  ground  of  the  pediment,  settled  gradu.ally 
into  characters  of  light,  and  formed  the  following 
words : — 

You,  who  would  try 

Yon  torribio  troci;. 
To  live,  or  to  (lie, 

But  nu'er  to  looli  buck  - 

You,  who  osplro 

To  bo  puriflod  there, 
lly  Iho  torrora  or  Firo, 

or  Water,  und  Air— 

V  danfier,  uud  pain, 

And  denth.  you  dcapiao, 
r>n— for  lutaln 

Illollctal  yn  I  ibnll  tiix: 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


267 


Rise  into  light 

With  tliat  Secret  Divine, 
Now  shruuded  from  Bight 

Ily  the  Veils  of  the  Shrine  I 
But  if 

Here  tiiu  letters  faded  ;i\vay  into  u  dead  blank,  more 
iiwi'ully  intelligible  than  the  most  eloquent  words. 

A  new  hope  now  flashed  across  me.  The  dream 
of  the  Garden,  wliieh  had  been  for  some  time 
nliiiost  forgotten,  returned  freshly  to  my  mind. 
"  Am  I,  then,"  I  exclaimed,  "  in  the  jiath  to  the 
promised  mystery  ?  and  shall  the  great  secret  of 
Eternal  Life  indeed  be  mine  ?" 

"Yes!"  seemed  to  answer  out  of  the  air,  that 
spirit-voiee,  which  still  was  heard  at  a  distance 
srowning  the  choir  with  its  single  sweetness.  I 
hailed  the  omen  with  transport.  Love  and  Immor- 
tality, both  beckoning  me  onward — who  would 
give  even  a  thought  to  fear,  with  two  such  bright 
hopes  in  prospect  ?  Having  invoked  .and  blessed 
that  unknown  enchantress,  whoso  steps  had  led  me 
to  this  abode  of  mystery  and  knowledge,  I  instantly 
plunged  into  the  chasm. 

Instead  of  that  vague,  spectral  twilight  whicli 
n.ad  at  first  met  my  eye,  I  now  found,  as  I  entered, 
a  thick  darkness,  which,  though  far  less  horrible, 
was,  at  this  moment,  still  more  disconcerting,  as 
my  lamp,  which  had  been,  for  some  time,  almost 
useless,  was  now  fast  expiring.  Resolved,  how- 
ever, to  make  the  most  of  its  last  gleam,  I  hastened, 
with  rapid  step,  through  this  gloomy  region,  which 
appeared  to  be  wider  and  more  open  to  the  air  than 
any  I  had  yet  passed.  Nor  was  it  long  before  the 
sudden  appearance  of  a  bright  blaze  in  the  distance 
announced  to  me  that  my  first  groat  Trial  was  at 
hand.  As  I  drew  nearer,  the  flames  before  me 
burst  high  and  wide  on  all  sides; — and  the  awful 
spectacle  that  then  presented  itself  was  such  as 
might  have  daunted  hearts  far  more  accustomed  to 
dangers  than  mine. 

There  lay  before  me,  extending  completely 
across  my  path,  a  thicket,  or  grove,  of  the  most 
combustible  trees  of  Egypt — tamarind,  pine,  and 
Arabian  balm  ;  while  around  their  stems  and 
branches  were  coiled  serpents  of  fire,"  which, 
twisting  themselves  rapidly  from  bough  to  bough, 
spread  the  contagion  of  their  own  wild-fire  as  they 
went,  and  involved  tree  after  tree  in  one  general 
olaze.  It  was,  indeed,  rapid  as  the  burning  o.f 
those  reed-beds  of  Ethiopi.a,'*  whose  light  is  often 
seen  brightening,  at  night,  the  distant  cataracts  of 
the  Nile. 

Through  the  middle  of  this  blazing  grove,  I 
eould  now  perceive  my  only  pathway  lay.  There 
was  not  a  moment,  therefore,  to  be  lost — for  the 


conflagration  gained  rapidly  on  either  side,  and  al- 
ready the  narrowing  path  between  was  strewed 
with  vivid  fire.  Casting  away  my  now  useless 
lamp,  and  holding  my  robe  as  some  slight  protec- 
tion over  my  head,  I  ventured,  with  trembling 
limbs,  into  the  blaze. 

Instantly,  as  if  my  |)resenee  had  given  new  life 
to  the  flames,  a  fresli  outbreak  of  eombu.stion  arose 
on  all  sides.  The  trees  clustered  into  a  bower  of 
fire  above  my  head,  while  the  serpents  that  hung 
hissing  from  the  red  branches  shot  sliowers  of 
sparkles  down  upon  me  as  I  passed.  Never  were 
decision  and  activity  of  more  avail: — one  minute 
later,  and  I  must  have  perished.  The  narrow  open- 
ing, of  which  I  had  so  promptly  availed  myself, 
clo.sed  instantly  behind  me ;  and  as  I  looked  back, 
to  contemplate  the  ordeal  which  I  had  passed,  I  saw 
that  the  whole  grove  was  already  one  mass  of  fire. 

Rejoiced  to  have  escaped  this  first  tri.al,  I  in- 
stantly  plucked  from  one  of  the  pine-trees  a  bough 
that  was  but  just  kindled,  and,  with  this  for  my 
only  guide,  hastened  breathlessly  forward.  I  had 
advanced  but  a  few  paces,  when  the  path  turned 
suddenly  off,  leaning  downwards,  .as  I  could  per- 
ceive by  the  glimmer  of  my  br.tnd,  into  a  more 
confined  region,  through  which  a  cliilling  air,  as  if 
from  some  neighboring  waters,  blew  over  my 
brow.  Nor  had  I  proceeded  far  in  this  course, 
when  the  sound  of  torrents°° — mixed,  as  I  thought, 
from  time  to  time,  with  shrill  wailings,  resembling 
the  cries  of  persons  in  danger  or  distress — fell 
mournfully  upon  my  ear.  At  every  step  the  noise 
of  the  dashing  waters  increased,  and  I  now  per- 
ceived that  I  had  entered  an  immense  rocky  cav- 
ern, through  the  middle  of  which,  headlong  as  a 
winter-torrent,  the  dark  flood,  to  whose  roar  I  h.ad 
been  listening,  poured  its  waters;  while  upon  its 
surface  floated  grim  spectre-like  shapes,  which,  a,s 
they  went  by,  sent  forth  those  dismal  shrieks  I  had 
heard — .as  if  in  fear  of  some  awful  precipice  towards 
whose  brink  tliey  were  hurrying. 

I  saw  plainly  that  .aci-oss  that  torrent  must  bo 
my  course.  It  w.as,  indeed,  fearful;  but  in  my 
courage  and  perseverance  now  lay  my  only  hope. 
What  awaited  me  on  the  opposite  .shore,  I  knew 
not;  for  all  there  was  immersed  in  impenetrable 
gloom,  nor  could  the  feeble  light  which  I  carried 
send  its  glimmer  half  so  far.  Dismissing,  however, 
all  thoughts  but  that  of  pressing  onw.ard,  I  sprung 
from  the  rock  on  which  I  stood  into  the  flood, 
trusting  that,  witli  my  right  hand,  I  should  be  able 
to  buffet  the  current,  while,  with  the  other,  as  long 
.as  a  gleam  of  my  brand  remained,  I  might  hold  it 
aloft  to  guide  me  safely  to  the  shore. 

Long,  formid.ible,  anj  almost  hopeless  was  the 


^68 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


etruggle  I  had  now  to  maintain;  and  more  than 
once,  overpowered  by  tlie  rush  of  the  wafers,  I  had 
given  myself  up,"  as  destined  to  follow  those  pale, 
death-like  apparitions,  that  still  went  past  me,  hur- 
rying  onward,  with  mournful  cries,  to  find  their 
doom  in  some  invisible  gulf  beyond. 

At  length,  just  as  my  strength  was  nearly  ex- 
hausted, and  the  last  remains  of  the  pine  branch 
were  dropping  from  my  hand,  I  saw,  outstretching 
towar(>j  me  into  the  water,  a  light  double  b.ahis- 
ti-ade,  with  a  flight  of  steps  between,  ascending, 
almost  perpendicularly,  from  the  wave,  till  they 
seemed  lost  in  a  dense  mass  of  clouds  above.  This 
glimpse — for  it  was  nothing  more,  as  my  light 
expired  in  giving  it — lent  new  spring  to  my 
courage.  Having  now  both  hands  at  liberty,  so 
desperate  were  my  efforts,  that,  after  a  few  min- 
utes' struggle,  I  felt  my  brow  strike  against  the 
stairway,  and,  in  an  instant,  my  feet  were  on  the 
step. 

Rejoiced  at  my  escape  from  that  perilous  flood, 
though  I  knew  not  whither  the  stairway  led,  I 
promptly  ascended  the  steps.  But  this  feeling  of 
confidence  was  of  short  duration.  I  had  not 
mounted  far,  when,  to  ray  horror,  I  perceived  that 
each  successive  step,  as  my  foot  left  it,  broke 
away  from  beneath  me,  leaving  me  in  mid-air,  with 
no  other  alternative  than  that  of  still  mounting 
by  the  same  momentary  footing,  and  with  the 
appalling  doubt  whether  it  would  even  endure  my 
tread. 

And  thus  did  1,  for  a  few  seconds,  continue  to 
ascend,  with  nothing  beneath  me  but  that  awful 
river,  in  which — so  tranquil  had  it  now  become — I 
could  hear  the  plash  of  the  falling  fragments,  as 
every  step  in  succession  gave  way  from  under  my 
feet.  It  was  a  most  fearful  moment — but  even  still 
worse  remained.  I  now  found  the  balustrade,  by 
which  I  had  held  during  my  ascent,  and  which  had 
hitherto  appeared  to  be  firm,  growing  tremulous  in 
my  hand,  while  the  step,  to  which  I  was  about  to 
trust  myself,  tottered  under  my  foot.  Just  then,  a 
momentary  flash,  as  if  of  lightning,  broke  around 
me  ;  and  I  saw,  hanging  out  of  the  clouds,  so  as  to 
be  barely  within  my  reach,  a  huge  brazen  ring. 
Instinctively  I  stretched  forth  my  arm  to  seize  it, 
and,  at  the  same  instant,  both  balustrade  and  steps 
gave  way  beneath  me,  and  I  was  left  swinging  by 
my  liiinds  in  the  dark  void,  As  if,  too,  this  massy 
ring,  which  I  grasped,  was  by  some  magic  power 
linked  wilh  nil  the  winds  in  heaven,  no  sooner  had 
I  seized  it  than,  like  the  Iniwhing  of  a  spring,  it 
Hccmcd  to  give  loose  to  every  variety  of  gusts  and 
tempests,  that  ever  Mrewed  the  seashore  with 
wreck"!  oi  dead  ;  and,  n»  I  swung  about,  the  sport 


of  this  elemental  strife,  every  new  burst  of  its  fury 
threatened  to  shiver  me,  like  a  sform-s.ail  to 
atoms  I 

Nor  was  even  this  the  worst ; — for,  still  holding,  1 
know  not  how,  by  the  ring,  I  felt  myself  caught  up, 
as  if  by  a  thousand  whirlwinds,  .and  then  round  and 
round,  like  a  stone-shot  in  a  sling,  continued  to  be 
whirled  in  the  midst  of  all  this  deafening  chaos,  til! 
my  brain  grew  dizzy,  my  recollection  became  con- 
fused, and  I  almost  fancied  myself  on  that  wheel  of 
the  infernal  world,  whose  rotations  Eternity-alone 
can  number! 

Human  strength  could  no  longer  sustain  such 
a  trial.  I  was  on  the  point,  at  last,  of  loosing  my 
hold,  when  suddenly  the  violence  of  the  storm 
moderated  ; — my  whirl  through  the  air  gr.adually 
ceased,  and  I  felt  the  ring  slowly  descend  with  me, 
fill — happy  as  a  shipwrecked  mariner  at  the  first 
touch  of  land — I  found  my  feet  once  moi'c  upon 
firm  ground. 

At  the  same  moment,  a  light  of  the  most  deh- 
cious  softness  filled  the  whole  air.  Music,  such  as 
is  heard  in  dreams,  came  floating  at  a  distance  ;  and 
as  my  eyes  gradually  recovered  their  powers  of 
vision,  a  scene  of  glory  was  revealed  to  them,  al- 
most  too  bright  for  imagin.ition,  and  yet  living  and 
real.  As  far  as  the  sight  could  reach,  enchanting 
gardens  were  seen,  opening  away  through  long 
tracts  of  light  and  verdure,  and  sparkling  every 
where  ViJith  fountains,  that  circulated,  like  streams 
of  life,  among  the  (lowers.  Not  a  charm  was  hero 
wanting,  that  the  fancy  of  poet  or  prophet,  in  their 
warmest  pictures  of  Elysium,  have  ever  yet  dreamed 
or  promised.  Vistas,  opening  into  scenes  of  indis- 
tinct gr.andeur — streams,  shining  out  at  intervals, 
in  their  shadowy  course — and  labyrinths  of  flowers 
leading,  by  mysterious  windings,  to  green,  spacious 
glades  full  of  splendor  and  repose.  Over  all  tliis, 
too,  there  fell  a  light,  from  some  unseen  source, 
resembling  nothing  that  illumines  our  upper  world 
— a  sort  of  golden  moonlight,  mingling  the  warm 
radiance  of  day  with  the  calm  and  melancholy  lustr* 
of  night. 

Nor  were  there  wanting  inhabilants  fur  lliis  sun- 
less Paradise.  Through  all  the  bright  gardens 
were  seen  wandering,  with  (he  serene  air  and  step 
of  happy  spirits,  groups  both  of  young  and  old,  of 
venerable  and  of  lovely  forms,  bearing,  most  of 
thorn,  the  Nile's  white  flowers  on  their  heads,  and 
branches  of  the  elernal  palm  in  their  hands;  while, 
over  the  verdant  turf,  fair  children  an<I  maidens 
went  dancing  In  acTial  music,  whose  snurci^  was, 
like  that  of  the  light,  invisible,  but  which  lillod  the 
whole  nir  with  its  mystic  sweetness. 

Exhausted  as  I  w.is  by  the  p.iinful  trials  I  had 


THE  EPICURE  AN. 


269 


undcriTcne,  no  sooner  did  I  perceive  those  fiiir 
groups  in  the  distance,  than  ray  weariness,  both 
of  frame  and  spirit,  was  forgotten.  A  thouglit 
crossed  me  that  slie,  whom  I  soufjht,  miglit  haply 
bo  amon^  them  ;  and  notwitlistanding  the  feeling 
of  awe,  with  which  that  unearthly  scene  inspired 
me,  I  was  about  to  fly,  on  the  instant,  to  ascertain 
my  hope.  But  while  in  the  act  of  making  the 
effort,  I  felt  my  robe  gently  pulled,  and  turning 
round,  beheld  an  aged  man  before  me,  whom,  by 
the  eacrcd  hue  of  his  garb,  I  knew  at  once  to  be  a 
Hieropliant.  Placing  a  branch  of  the  consecrated 
palm  in  my  hand,  ho  said,  in  a  solemn  voice,  "Aspi- 
rant of  tlie  Mysteries,  welcome  !" — then,  regarding 
me  for  a  few  seconds  with  grave  attention,  added, 
in  a  tone  of  courteousness  and  interest,  "  The  vic- 
tory over  the  body  hath  been  gained ! — Follow  me, 
young  Greek,  to  thy  resting-place." 

I  obeyed  the  command  in  silence — and  the 
Priest,  turning  away  from  the  scene  of  splendor, 
into  a  secluded  pathway,  where  the  light  gradually 
faded  as  we  advanced,  led  me  to  a  small  pavilion, 
by  the  side  of  a  whispering  stream,  where  the  very 
spirit  of  slumber  seemed  to  preside,  and  pointing 
silently  to  a  bed  of  dried  poppy-leaves,  left  me  to 
repose. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Though  the  sight  of  th.it  splendid  scene,  whose 
glories  opened  upon  me  like  a  momentary  glimpse 
into  another  world,  h.id,  for  an  instant,  reanimated 
my  strength  and  spirit,  yet,  so  completely  was  my 
whole  frame  subdued  by  fatigue,  that,  even  had  the 
form  of  the  young  Priestess  herself  then  stood 
before  me,  my  limbs  would  have  sunk  in  the  effort 
to  reach  her.  No  sooner  h.ad  I  fallen  on  my  leafy 
couch,  th.-vn  sleep,  like  a  sudden  death,  come  over 
me;  and  I  lay,  for  hours,  in  that  deep  and  motion- 
less re.st,  which  not  even  a  shadow  of  life  disturbs. 

On  awaking,  I  saw,  beside  me,  the  same  venera- 
ble personage  who  liad  welcomed  me  to  this 
subterranean  world  on  the  preceding  night.  At 
the  foot  of  my  couch  stood  a  statue,  of  Grecian 
workmanship,  representing  a  boy,  with  wings, 
seated  gracefully  on  a  lotus-flower,  and  hanng  the 
forefinger  of  his  right  hand  pressed  to  his  lips. 
This  action,  together  with  the  glory  round  his 
brows,  denoted,  as  I  already  know,  the  God  of 
Silence  and  I  ight.°° 

Impatient  to  know  what  further  trials  awaited 
me,  I  was  aoout  to  speak,  when  the  Priest  e.K- 
claimed,  anxiously.  "  Hush  I" — and  pointing  to  the 


statue  at  the  foot  of  the  couch,  said, — "  Let  the 
spell  of  that  Spirit  be  upon  thy  lips,  young  stranger, 
till  the  wisdom  of  thy  instructors  shall  think  fit  to 
remove  it.  Not  unaptly  doth  the  same  deity  pre- 
side over  Silence  and  Light;  since  it  is  only  out  of 
the  depth  of  contemplative  silence,  that  the  great 
light  of  the  soul.  Truth,  can  arise!" 

Little  used  to  the  language  of  dictation  or  in- 
struction, I  was  now  preparing  to  rise,  when  the 
Priest  again  restrained  me  ;  and,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, two  boys,  beautiful  as  the  young  Genii  of  the 
stars,  entered  the  pavilion.  They  were  habited  in 
long  g.arnients  of  the  purest  white,  and  bore  e.nch  a 
sm.all  golden  chalice  in  his  hand.''  Advancing 
towards  me,  they  stopped  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
couch,  and  one  of  them,  presenting  to  me  his  chal- 
ice of  gold,  said,  in  a  tone  between  singing  .and 
speaking, — 

"  Drink  of  this  cup — Osiris-o  sips 
Tlie  same  in  his  h:ills  below  ; 
And  the  same  he  Rives,  to  cool  the  lips 
Of  the  Deadii  who  downward  go. 

"  Drink  of  this  cup — the  water  within 
Is  fresh  from  Lethe's  stream  ; 
'Twill  make  the  past,  with  all  its  slD, 
And  all  its  pain  and  sorrows,  seniu 
Like  a  long-forgotten  dream  I 

"  Tho  pleasure,  whose  charms 
Are  steeped  in  woe  ; 
The  knowledge,  that  harms 
The  soul  to  know  ; 

"The  hope,  that,  bright 
As  the  lake  of  the  waste. 
Allures  the  sight, 
But  mocks  the  taste  ; 

''  The  love,  that  binds 
Its  innocent  wreath. 
Where  the  serpent  winds. 
In  venom,  beneath  ;— 

"  All  that,  of  evil  or  false,  by  Iheo 
Hath  ever  been  known  cr  seen. 
Shall  melt  away  in  this  cup,  and  ho 
Forgot,  as  it  never  had  been  I" 

Unwilling  to  t!irow  a  slight  on  this  strange  cere- 
mony, I  leaned  forward,  with  all  due  gravity,  and 
tasted  the  cup ;  which  I  had  no  sooner  done  thiin 
the  young  cup-bearer,  on  the  other  side,*'  invited 
my  attention  ;  and,  in  his  turn,  presenting  the 
chalice  which  he  held,  su.ng,  with  a  voice  still  sweet- 
er than  that  of  hiscomt'ni'.ion,  the  following  strain- — 

"  Drink  of  this  cup — when  Isis  led 

Her  boy,  of  ol ',  to  the  beaming  sky. 

She  mingled  a  draught  divine,J3  and  said 

*  Drink  of  thisct.p,  Ihou'It  never  die  I' 

"  Thus  do  I  say  and  sing  to  thee. 

Heir  of  that  b,.iinaless  heaven  on  high. 
Though  fruil,  ana  lall'n,  and  lost  thuu  b€, 
Drink  of  this  cup.  thou'lt  never  die  !** 


270 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


Well  as  I  had  hitherto  kept  my  philosophy  on 
its  guard  against  the  illusions  with  which,  I  knew, 
tliis  region  abounded,  the  young  cup-bearer  had 
licre  touched  a  spring  of  imagination,  over  which 
my  philosophy,  as  has  been  seen,  had  but  little 
control.  No  sooner  had  the  words,  "  thou  shalt 
never  die,"  struck  on  my  ear,  than  the  dream  of  the 
Garden  came  fully  to  my  mind;  and,  starting  half- 
way from  the  conch,  I  stretched  forth  my  hands  to 
the  cup.  But,  recollecting  myself  instantly,  and 
fearing  that  I  had  betrayed  to  others  a  weakness  fit 
onlv  for  my  own  secret  indulgence,  I  sunk  back 
again,  witli  a  smile  of  affected  indifference  on  my 
couch — while  the  young  minstrel,  but  little  inter- 
rupted by  my  movement,  still  continued  his  strain, 
of  which  1  heard  but  the  concluding  words: 

"  And  Memory,  too,  wUh  her  dreams  sliall  come, 
Dreams  of  a  former,  happier  day. 
When  Heaven  was  still  the  Spirit's  home. 
And  her  wings  had  not  yet  fallen  away; 

**Glimpses  of  glory,  ne'er  forgot. 

That  tell  like  gleams  on  a  smisct  sea. 
What  once  hath  been,  what  now  is  not, 
But,  oh  !  what  again  shall  brightly  be/' 

Though  the  assurancesof  immortality  contained 
in  these  verses  would  at  any  otiier  moment — vain 
and  visionary  as  I  thought  them — liavc  sent  my 
fancy  wandering  into  reveries  of  the  future,  the 
ciTort  of  self-control  I  had  just  made  enabled  me  to 
hear  them  with  indifference. 

Having  gone  through  the  form  of  tasting  his 
second  cup,  I  again  looked  anxiously  to  the  Hiero- 
phant,  to  ascertjiin  whether  I  might  be  permitted  to 
rise.  His  assent  having  been  given,  the  young 
pages  brought  to  my  conch  a  robe  and  tunic, 
whicli,  like  their  own,  were  of  linen  of  the  purest 
while ;  and  having  assisted  to  clothe  me  in  this 
finercd  garb,  they  then  placed  upon  my  head  a 
chaplet  of  myrtle,  in  which  the  symbol  of  Initiation, 
a  golden  grasshopper,"  was  seen  shining  out  frcjiu 
among  the  dark  leaves. 

Though  sleep  liad  done  much  (o  refresh  my 
frame,  Homcthing  more  was  still  wanting  to  restore 
its  strength ;  and  it  was  not  without  a  smile  at  my 
own  reveries  I  reflected,  how  much  more  welcome 
than  even  the  young  page's  cup  of  immortality  was 
the  unpretending,  liut  real,  repast  now  set  before 
me — fresh  fruits  from  the  Isle  of  (iardens"  in  the 
Nile,  the  delicate  flesh  of  the  desert  anteli)])!',  aiul 
wine  from  llie  Vineyard  of  the  Queens  at  Anlliylla," 
which  one  of  the  pngeH  fanned  with  a  palm-leaf,  to 
keep  it  cool. 

Having  done  justice  to  these  dainties,  it  was 
with  pleanure  1  heard  the  proposal  of  llie  I'riesI, 
Uirt  wo  ihould  walk  forth  together,  and  inedilatu 


among  the  scenes  without.  I  had  not  forgotten 
the  sp\endid  Elysium  that  last  night  welcomed  me 
— those  rich  gardens,  that  soft  unearthly  music  and 
light,  and,  above  all,  those  fair  forms  I  h.id  seen 
wandering  about — as  if,  in  the  very  midst  of  happi- 
ness, still  seeking  it.  The  hope,  which  had  then 
occurred  to  me,  that,  among  those  bright  groups 
might  haply  be  found  the  young  maiden  I  sought, 
now  returned  with  increased  strength.  I  had  little 
doubt  that  my  guide  was  leading  me  to  the  same 
Elysian  scene,  and  that  the  form,  so  fit  to  inhabit  it, 
would  again  appear  before  mv  eyes. 

But  fur  diffL'rent,  I  found,  was  the  region  to 
which  he  now  conducted  me ; — nor  could  the 
whole  world  have  produced  a  scene  more  gloomy, 
or  more  strange.  It  wore  the  appearance  of  a 
small,  solitary  valley,  enclosed,  on  every  side,  by 
rocks  which  seemed  to  rise,  almost  perpendicularly, 
till  they  reached  the  very  sky ; — for  it  was,  indeed, 
the  blue  sky  that  I  saw  shining  between  their  sum- 
mits, and  whose  light,  dimmed  thus  and  nearly  lost 
in  its  long  descent,  formed  the  melancholy  daylight 
of  this  nether  world."  Down  the  side  of  these  rocky 
walls  descended  a  cataract,  whose  source  was  upon 
earth,  and  on  whose  waters,  as  they  rolled  glassily 
over  the  edge  above,  a  gleam  of  radiance  rested, 
showing  how  brilliant  and  pure  was  the  sunshine 
they  had  left  behind.  F.'oni  thence,  gradually 
growing  darker,  and  frequently  broken  by  alternato 
chasms  and  projections,  the  stream  fell,  at  last,  in  a 
pale  and  thin  mist — the  phantom  of  what  it  had 
been  on  earth — into  a  small  lake  that  lay  at  tlie 
base  of  the  rock  to  receive  it. 

Nothing  was  ever  so  bleak  and  saddening  as 
the  appearance  of  this  lake.  The  usual  ornaments 
of  the  waters  of  Egypt  were  not  wanting  to  it: 
the  tall  lotus  here  uplifted  her  silvery  flowers,  and 
the  crimson  flamingo  flo.ited  over  the  tide.  But 
they  looked  not  the  same  as  in  the  world  above : — 
the  (lower  had  exchanged  its  whiteness  for  a  livid 
hue,  and  the  wings  of  the  bird  hung  heavy  and 
colorless.  Every  thing  wore  the  same  hall-living 
aspect;  and  the  only  sound^i  that  disturbed  the 
mournful  stillness  were  the  wailing  cry  of  a  heron 
among  the  .sedges,  and  that  din  of  the  falling 
waters,  in  Iheir  midway  struggle,  above. 

There  was,  indeed,  an  unearthly  sadness  in  the 
whole  scene,  of  which  no  heart,  however  light, 
could  resist  the  inlluence.  IVrceiving  how  much 
I  was  afl'ected  by  it,  "  Such  scenes,"  remarked  tho 
Priest,  "  arc  best  suited  to  that  solemn  complexion 
of  mind,  which  becomes  him  who  approaches 
Iho  Great  Mystery  of  futurhy.  Behold" — aiul,  in 
saving  thus  he  pointed  to  llie  opening  over  our 
heads,  through  which,  though  the  sun  hud  but  jual 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


271 


passed  liis  meridian,  I  could  perceive  a  star  or  two 
twinkling  in  the  heavens — "  in  the  same  manner  as 
from  tliis  gloomy  depth  we  can  see  those  fixed 
stars,"  which  are  invisible  now  to  the  dwellers  on 
the  bright  earth,  even  so,  to  the  sad  and  self-hnm- 
bled  spirit,  doth  many  a  mystery  of  heaven  reveal 
itself,  of  which  they,  who  walk  in  the  light  of  the 
proud  world,  know  not  I" 

He  now  led  me  towards  a  rustic  seat  or  alcove, 
beside  wliich  stood  an  image  of  that  dark  Deity,*" 
that  God  without  a  smile,  wlio  presides  over  the 
silent  kingdom  of  the  Dead."  The  same  livid  and 
lifeless  hue  was  upon  his  features,  that  hung  over 
every  thing  in  this  dim  valley,  and,  with  his  right 
hand,  he  pointed  directly  downwards,  to  denote  that 
his  melancholy  kingdom  lay  there.  A  plantain" — 
that  favorite  tree  of  the  genii  of  Death — stood 
beliind  the  statue,  and  spread  its  branches  over  the 
alcove,  in  which  the  Priest  now  seated  himself, 
and  made  a  sign  that  I  should  take  ray  place  by  his 
side. 

After  a  long  pause,  as  if  of  thought  and  prep- 
aration,— "  Nobly,"  said  he,  "  young  Greek,  hast 
thou  sustained  the  first  trials  of  Initiation.  What 
still  remains,  though  of  vital  import  to  the  soul, 
brings  with  it  neither  pain  nor  peril  to  the  body. 
Having  now  proved  and  chastened  thy  mortal 
frame  by  the  three  ordeals  of  Fire,  of  Water,  and  of 
Air,  the  next  task  to  whicli  we  are  called  is  the 
purification  of  thy  spirit — the  efliectual  cleansing  of 
that  inward  and  immort.al  part,  so  as  to  render  it 
fit  for  the  reception  of  the  last  luminous  roveal- 
ment,  when  the  Veils  of  the  Sanctuary  shall  be 
thrown  aside,  and  the  Great  Secret  of  Secrets  un- 
folded to  thy  view! — Towards  this  object,  the 
primary  and  most  important  step  is,  instruction. 
What  the  three  purifying  elements  thou  hast  passed 
through  have  done  for  thy  body,  instruction  will 
eft'ect  for " 

"  But  that  lovely  maiden  1''  I  exclaimed,  bursting 
from  my  silence,  having  fallen,  during  his  speech 
mto  a  deep  revery,  in  whieli  I  had  forgotten  him, 
myself,  the  Great  Secret,  every  thing — but  her. 

Startled  by  this  profane  interruption,  he  cast  a 
look  of  alarm  towards  the  statue,  as  if  fearful  lest 
the  God  should  have  heard  my  words.  Then, 
turning  to  me,  in  a  tone  of  mild  solemnity,  "  It  is 
but  too  plain,"  said  he,  "  that  thoughts  of  the  upper 
world,  and  of  its  vain,  shadowy  delights,  still 
engross  thee  far  too  much  to  allow  the  lessons  of 
Truth  to  sink  profitably  into  tliy  heart.  A  few 
hours  of  meditation  amid  this  solemn  scenerj' — of 
that  wholesome  meditation,  which  purifies,  by  sad- 
dening— may  haply  dispose  thee  to  receive,  with 
due  feelings  of  reverence,  the  holy  and  imperish- 


able knowledge  we  have  in  store  for  thee.  With 
this  hope  I  now  leave  thee  to  thy  own  tnoughts, 
and  to  that  God  before  whose  calm  and  mournful 
eye  all  the  vanities  of  the  world,  from  wiiicti  thou 
comest,  wither !" 

Thus  saying,  he  turned  slowly  away,  and  passing 
behind  the  statue,  towards  which  he  had  pointed 
during  the  last  sentence,  suddenly,  and  as  if  by  en- 
chantment, disappeared  from  my  sight. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Being  now  left  to  my  own  solitary  thoughts,  I 
was  fully  at  leisure  to  reflect,  wiih  some  degree  of 
coolness,  upon  the  inconveniences,  if  not  dangers, 
of  the  situation  into  which  my  lOve  of  adventure 
had  hurried  me.  However  prompt  my  imagination 
was  always  to  kindle,  in  its  ovvn  ideal  sphere,  1 
have  ever  found  that,  when  brought  into  contact 
with  reality,  it  as  suddenly  cooled; — like  those  me- 
teors, tliat  appear  to  be  .stars,  while  in  the  air,  bii 
the  moment  they  touch  earth  are  extinguished 
And  such  was  the  feeling  of  disenchantment  thai 
now  succeeded  to  the  wild  dreams  in  which  I  had 
been  indulging.  As  long  as  Fancy  had  the  field  ol 
the  future  to  herself,  even  immortality  did  not 
seem  too  distant  a  race  for  her.  But  when  human 
instruments  interposed,  the  illusion  all  vanished. 
From  mortal  lips  the  promise  of  immortality  seem- 
ed a  mockery,  and  even  imagination  had  no  wings 
that  could  carry  beyond  the  grave. 

Nor  was  this  dis.appointment  the  only  feeling 
that  pained  and  haunted  me  ; — the  imprudence  of 
the  step,  on  which  I  had  ventured,  now  appeared 
in  its  full  extent  before  my  eyes.  I  had  here 
thrown  myself  into  the  power  of  the  most  artful 
priesthood  in  the  world,  without  even  a  chance  of 
being  able  to  escape  from  their  toils,  or  to  resist 
any  machinations  with  which  they  might  beset  me. 
It  appeared  evident,  from  the  state  of  preparation 
in  which  I  had  found  all  that  wonderful  apparatus, 
by  which  the  terrors  and  splendors  of  Initiation  are 
produced,  that  my  descent  into  the  pyramid  was 
not  unexpected.  Numerous,  indeed,  and  active  as 
were  the  spies  of  the  Sacred  College  of  Memphis, 
it  could  little  be  doubted  that  all  my  movements, 
since  my  arrival,  had  been  watchfully  tracked ;  and 
the  many  hours  I  had  employed  in  wandering  and 
exploring  around  the  pyramid,  betrayed  a  curiosity 
and  spirit  of  adventure  wliich  might  well  suggest 
to  these  wily  priests  the  hope  of  inveigling  an  Epi- 
curean into  their  toils. 


272 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


I  was  well  aware  of  their  hatred  to  the  sect  of 
.vliich  I  was  Chief; — that  they  considered  the  Epicu- 
reans as,  next  to  the  Christians,  the  most  formidable 
enemies  of  their  craft  and  power.  "  How  thought- 
less, then,"  I  exclained,  "  to  lia^e  placed  myself  in 
a  situation,  where  I  am  equally  lielpless  against 
fraud  and  violence,  and  must  eitlier  pretend  to  be 
the  dupe  of  their  impostures,  or  else  submit  to 
become  the  victim  of  their  vengeance  !"  Of  these 
alternatives,  bitter  as  they  both  were,  the  latter 
appeared  by  far  the  more  welcome.  It  was  with  a 
blush  that  I  even  looked  back  upon  the  mockeries 
I  had  already  yielded  to ;  and  tlie  prospect  of  being 
put  through  still  further  ceremonials,  and  of  being 
tutored  and  preached  to  by  hypocrites  whom  I  so 
much  despised,  appeared  to  me,  in  my  present  mood 
of  mind,  a  trial  of  patience,  compiired  to  which  the 
flames  and  whirlwinds  I  had  already  encountered 
were  pastime. 

Often  and  impatiently  did  I  look  up,  between 
those  rocky  walls,  to  the  bright  sky  that  appeared 
to  rest  upon  their  summits,  as,  pacing  round  and 
round,  through  every  part  of  the  valley,  I  endeav- 
ored to  find  some  outlet  from  its  gloomy  precincts. 
But  vain  were  all  my  endeavors ; — that  rocky  bar- 
•ier,  which  seemed  to  end  but  in  heaven,  interposed 
teelf  everywhere.  Neither  did  the  image  of  the 
young  maiden  though  constantly  in  my  mind,  now 
bring  with  it  the  least  consolation  or  hope.  Of 
what  avail  was  it  that  she  perhaps  was  an  inhab- 
itant of  this  region,  if  I  could  neither  behold  her 
KH'.ile,  nor  catch  the  sound  of  her  voice — if,  while 
among  preaching  priests  I  wasted  away  my  hours, 
her  presence  was,  alas,  difl'using  its  enchantment 
e.jswhcre. 

At  Isngth,  exhausted,  I  lay  down  by  the  brink 
of  the  lake,  and  gave  myself  up  to  all  the  melan- 
choly of  my  fancy.  The  pale  semblance  of  day- 
light, which  had  hitherto  glimmered  around,  grew, 
every  moment,  more  dim  and  dismal.  Even  the 
rich  gleam,  at  the  summit  of  the  cascade,  had 
faded;  and  the  sunshine,  like  the  water,  exhausted 
in  its  descent,  had  now  dwindled  into  a  ghostly 
glimmer,  far  worse  than  darkness  Tlie  birds  upon 
the  lake,  as  if  about  to  die  with  the  dying  light, 
sunk  down  their  he.ads ;  and,  as  I  looked  to  the 
g'ntuc,  the  deepening  sh.adows  gave  sucli  an  cxpres- 
eion  to  its  mournful  features  a.H  chilled  my  very 
soul. 

The  thought  of  death,  ever  ready  to  present 
itself  to  my  imagination,  now  came,  willi  a  disheart- 
ening weight,  such  as  I  had  never  before  fell.  I 
nlmiiHt  f.incied  myself  already  in  the  ilark  vestibule 
of  the  jnivc — removed,  for  ever,  from  the  world 
«)>ovo.  and  with  nothing  but  Iho  blank  of  an  olerna) 


sleep  before  me.  It  had  happened,  I  knew,  fre- 
quently, th.at  the  visitants  of  this  mysterious  realm 
were,  after  their  descent  from  earth,  never  seen  or 
heard  of; — being  condemned,  for  some  failure  in 
their  hiitiatory  trials,  to  pine  away  their  lives  in 
those  dark  dungeons,  with  which,  as  we!!  as  with 
altars,  this  region  abounded.  Such,  I  shuddered  to 
think,  might  probably  bo  my  own  destiny  ;  and  so 
appalling  was  the  thought,  that  even  the  cour.age  by 
which  I  had  been  hitherto  sustained  died  within 
me,  and  I  was  already  giving  myselt  up  to  helpless- 
ness and  despau'. 

At  length,  after  some  hours  of  this  gloomy 
musing,  I  heard  a  rustling  in  the  secret  grove 
behind  the  statue;  and  soon  after,  the  sound  of 
the  Priest's  voice — more  welcome  than  I  had  ever 
thought  such  voice  could  be — brought  the  assu- 
rance that  I  was  not  yet  wholly  abandoned.  Find- 
ing his  way  to  me  through  the  gloom,  he  now  led 
me  to  the  same  spot,  on  which  we  had  parted  so 
many  hours  before;  and  addressing  me  in  a  voice 
that  retained  no  trace  of  displeasure,  be-spoke  my 
attention,  while  he  should  reveal  to  me  some  of 
those  divine  truths,  by  whose  infusion,  he  said, 
into  the  sou!  of  man,  its  purification  can  alone  be 
effected. 

The  valley  had  now  become  so  dark,  that  wo 
could  no  longer,  as  we  sat,  discern  each  other's 
faces.  There  was  a.  melancholy  in  the  voice  of  my 
instructor  th.at  well  .accorded  with  the  gloom  around 
us :  and,  saddened  and  subdued,  I  now  listened  with 
resignation,  if  not  with  interest,  to  those  sublime, 
but,  alas,  I  thought,  vain  tenets,  which,  with  all  the 
warmth  of  a  true  believer,  this  Hieroph.ant  expound- 
ed to  me. 

lie  spoke  of  the  pre-existence  of  the  soul" — of 
its  abode,  from  all  eternity,  in  a  pl.ace  of  splendor 
and  bliss,  of  which  whatever  we  have  most  beauti- 
ful in  our  conceptions  here  is  but  a  dim  transcript, 
a  clouded  remembrance.  In  the  blue  depths  of 
ether,  he  said,  lay  that  "Country  of  the  Soul," — its 
boundary  alone  visible  in  the  line  of  milky  light, 
which,  as  by  a  barrier  of  stars,  separates  it  from  the 
dark  earth.  "Oh,  realm  of  purity!  Homo  of  tho 
yet  nnfallen  Spirit! — where,  in  the  d.ays  of  her  first 
innocence,  she  wandered ;  ere  yet  her  beauty  was 
soiled  by  tho  touch  of  earth,  or  lier  resi>lendent 
wings  had  withered  away.  Mclhinks  I  see,"  ho 
cried,  "at  this  moment,  those  fiefds  of  radiance" — 
I  look  back,  through  tho  mists  of  life,  into  that 
luminous  world,  where  the  souls  that  have  never 
lost  their  high,  heavenly  rank,  still  soar  without  n 
stain,  .above  the  sh.adowless  stars,  and  there  dwell 
together  in  infinite  perfection  and  bliss!" 

As  ho  spoke  these  wordu,  a  burst  of  pure,  bril- 


THE  EPICUEEAN. 


273 


liant  light,"  like  a  sudden  opening  of  heaven,  broke 
through  the  valley;  and,  as  soon  as  my  eyes  were 
able  to  endure  the  splendor,  such  a  vision  of  glory 
and  loveliness  opened  upon  them,  ;is  look  even  my 
tikeptical  spirit  by  surprise,  and  made  it  yield,  at 
once,  to  (he  potency  of  the  spell; 

Suspended,  as  I  thought,  in  air,  and  occupying 
the  whole  of  the  opposite  region  of  the  valley,  there 
appeared  an  immense  orb  of  light,  within  wliich, 
through  a  haze  of  radiance,  I  could  see  distinctly 
fair  groups  of  young  fe'oale  spirits,  who,  in  silent, 
but  harmonious  movement,  like  thai  of  the  stars, 
wound  slowly  through  a  variety  of  fanciful  evolu- 
tions; seeming,  as  they  linked  and  unlinked  each 
other's  arms,  to  form  a  living  labyrinth  of  beauty 
and  gra«e.  Though  their  feet  appeared  to  glide 
along  a  field  of  light,  they  had  also  wings,  of  the 
most  brilliant  hue,  which  like  rainbows  over  water- 
falls, when  played  with  by  the  breeze,  reflected, 
every  moment,  a  new  variety  of  glory. 

As  I  stood,  gazing  with  wonder,  the  orb,  with 
all  its  ethereal  inmates,  began  gradually  to  recede 
iijtp  the  dark  void,  lessening,  as  it  went,  and  be- 
coming more  bright,  as  it  lessened; — till,  at  length, 
distant,  to  all  appearance,  as  a  retiring  comet,  this 
little  world  of  Spirits,  in  one  small  point  of  intense 
radiance,  shone  its  last  and  vanished.  "  Go,"  ex- 
claimed the  rapt  Priest,  "  ye  happy  souls,  of  whose 
dwelling  a  glimpse  is  thus  given  to  our  eyes, — go, 
wander  in  your  orb,  through  the  boundless  heaven, 
nor  ever  let  a  thought  of  this  perishable  world 
come  to  mingle  its  dross  with  your  divine  nature, 
or  allure  you  down  earthward  to  that  mortal  fall 
by  which  spirits,  no  less  bright  and  admirable,  have 
been  ruined!" 

A  pause  ensued,  during  which,  still  under  the 
influence  of  wonder,  I  sent  my  fancy  wandering 
after  the  inhabitants  of  that  orb — almost  wishing 
myself  creduieus  enough  to  believe  in  a  heaven, 
of  which  creatures,  so  much  like  those  I  had  wor- 
shipped on  earth,  were  inmates. 

At  length,  the  Priest,  with  a  mournful  sigh  at 
the  sad  contrast  he  was  about  to  draw  between  the 
happy  spirits  we  had  just  seen  and  the  fallen  ones 
of  earth,  resumed  again  his  melancholy  History 
of  the  Soul.  Tracing  it  gradually,  from  the  first 
moment  of  earthward  desire"  to  its  final  eclipse  in 
the  shadows  of  this  world,  he  dwelt  upon  every 
stage  of  its  darkening  descent,  with  a  pathos  that 
sent  sadness  into  the  very  depths  of  the  heart.  The 
first  downward  look  of  the  spirit  towards  earth — 
the  tremble  of  her  wings  on  the  edge  of  Heaven — 
the  giddy  slide,  at  length,  d.iwn  that  fatal  descent 
— and  the  Lethean  cup,  midway  in  the  sky,  of 
which  when  she  has  once  tasted.  Heaven  is  forgot 

vol,,  tl. — i^P' 


— through  ail  these  gradations  he  traced  mourn- 
fully  her  fall,  to  thjit  last  stage  of  darkness,  when 
wholly  immersed  in  this  world,  her  celestial  nature 
becomes  changed,  she  no  longer  can  rise  above 
earth,  nor  even  remember  her  former  home,  except 
by  glimpses  so  vague,  that,  at  length,  mistaking  for 
hope  what  is  only,  alas!  recollection,  she  believes 
tho.se  gleams  to  be  a  light  from  the  Future,  nut  the 
Past. 

"  To  retrieve  this  ruin  of  the  once-blessed  Soul 
— to  clear  away  from  around  her  the  clouds  of 
earth,  and,  restoring  her  lost  wings,"  facilitate  their 
return  to  Heaven — such,"  said  the  reverend  man, 
"is  the  great  task  of  our  religion,  and  such  the 
triumph  of  those  divine  Mysteries,  in  whose  inmost 
depths  the  life  and  essence  of  that  holy  religion  lie 
treasured.  However  sunk,  and  changed,  and  cloud- 
ed may  be  the  Spirit,  yet  as  long  as  a  single  trace 
of  her  original  light  remains,  there  is  still  hope 
that—" 

Here  the  voice  of  the  Priest  was  interrupted  by 
a  strain  of  mournful  music,  of  which  the  low,  dis- 
tant breathings  had  been,  for  some  minutes,  audible, 
but  which  now  gained  upon  the  ear  too  thrillingly 
to  let  it  listen  to  any  more  earthly  sound.  A  faint 
light,  too,  at  that  insta;it  broke  through  the  valley 
— and  I  could  perceive, nou  i"ar  from  the  spot  where 
we  sat,  a  female  figure,  veilea,  .;,'id  crouching  to 
earth,  as  if  subdued  by  sorrow,  or  .  ,ider  the  in- 
fluence of  shame. 

The  feeble  light,  by  which  I  saw  her,  v.;me 
from  a  pale,  moonlight  meteor  which  had  gradually 
formed  itself  in  the  air  as  the  music  approached, 
and  now  shed  over  the  rocks  and  the  lake  a  glim- 
mer as  cold  as  that  by  which  the  Dead,  in  their 
own  kingdom,  gaze  upon  each  other.  The  music, 
too,  which  appeared  to  rise  from  out  of  the  lake, 
full  of  the  breath  of  its  dark  waters,  spoke  a 
despondency  in  everj'  note  which  no  language  could 
express ; — and  as  I  listened  to  its  tones,  and  looked 
upon  that  fallen  Spirit,  (for  such,  the  holy  man 
whispered,  was  the  form  before  us,)  so  entirely  did 
the  illusion  of  the  scene  take  possession  of  me," 
that,  with  almost  painful  anxiety,  I  now  awaited 
the  result. 

Nor  had  I  gazed  long  before  that  form  rose 
slowly  from  its  drooping  position  ; — the  air  around 
it  grew  bright,  and  the  pale  meteor  overhead  as- 
sumed a  more  cheerful  and  living  light.  The  veil, 
which  had  before  shrouded  the  face  of  the  figure, 
became  every  minute  more  transparent,  and  the 
features,  one  by  one,  gradually  disclosed  themselves. 
Having  tremblingly  watched  the  progress  of  the 
apparition,  I  now  started  from  my  seat,  and  half 
exclaimed,  "  It  is  she  I"     In  another  minute,  thia 


274 


MOOKE'S  WORKS. 


veil  had,  like  a  thin  mist,  melted  away,  and  the 
yountr  priestess  of  the  Moon  stood,  for  the  tliird 
time,  revealed  before  my  eyes! 

To  rush  instantly  towards  lier  was  my  first  im- 
pulse— but  the  arm  of  the  Priest  held  me  firmly 
back.  The  fresh  light,  which  had  begun  to  flow  in 
from  all  sides,  collected  itself  in  a  flood  of  glory 
.iround  the  spot  where  she  stood.  Instead  of  melan- 
choly music,  stniins  of  the  most  exalted  rapture  were 
lieard ;  and  the  young  maiden,  buoyant  as  the  in- 
liabitants  of  the  fairy  orb,  amid  a  blaze  of  light  like 
that  which  fell  upon  her  in  the  Temple,  ascended 
slowly  into  the  .lir. 

"  Stay,  beautiful  vision,  stay !"  I  exclaimed,  as, 
breaking  from  the  hold  of  the  Priest,  I  flung  myself 
prostrate  on  the  ground — the  only  mode  by  wliich 
I  could  express  the  admiration,  even  to  worship, 
with  which  I  was  filled.  But  the  vanishing  spirit 
heard  me  not: — receding  into  the  darkness,  like 
that  orb,  whose  heavenward  track  she  seemed  to 
follow,  her  form  lessened  by  degrees  away,  till  she 
was  seen  no  more :  while,  gazing,  till  the  last 
luminous  speck  had  dis.ippeared,  I  allowed  myself 
unconsciously  to  be  led  away  by  my  reverend  guide, 
who,  placing  me  once  more  on  my  bed  of  poppy- 
Itaves,  left  me  there  to  such  repose  as  it  was  possi- 
Ue,  after  such  a  scene,  to  enjoy. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  apparition  with  which  I  had  been  blessed 
in  that  Valley  of  Visions — for  so  the  place  where  I 
had  witnessed  these  wonders  was  called — brought 
back  to  my  heart  all  the  hopes  and  fancier  in  which, 
during  my  descent  from  earth,  I  had  indulged.  I 
had  now  seen  once  more  tli.at  matchless  creature, 
who  had  been  my  guiding  star  into  this  mysterious 
realm  ;  and  that  she  was  destined  to  be,  in  .tome 
way,  connected  with  the  further  revelations  that 
awaited  me,  I  saw  no  reason  to  doubt.  There  wa.s 
a  sublimity,  too,  in  the  doctrines  of  my  reverend 
teacher,  and  even  a  hope  in  the  promises  of  immor- 
tility  held  out  by  hitn,  which,  in  H])ite  of  reason,  won 
insensibly  b<pth  upon  my  fancy  and  my  jiride. 

The  Future,  however,  was  now  but  of  secondary 
consideration  ; — the  Present,  and  that  deity  of  Iho 
Present,  woman,  were  the  objects  that  engrossed 
my  whole  soul.  It  was,  indeed,  for  the  s.-iko  of 
mich  beings  alone  that  I  considered  Innnorlality  dc- 
tiirabh',  nor  without  them,  would  elern.il  life  have 
iip|H-ari'd  111  ine  worth  a  single  prayer.  To  every 
riirther  trial  of  my  palinniM;  and  fnith,  I  now  made 


up  my  mind  to  submit  without  a  murmur.  Some 
kind  chance,  I  fondly  persu.aded  myself,  might  yet 
bring  me  nearer  to  the  object  of  my  adoration, 
and  enable  me  to  address,  as  mortal  woman,  one 
who  had  hitherto  been  to  me  but  as  a  vision,  a 
shade. 

The  period  of  my  probation,  however,  was  near- 
ly at  an  end.  Both  frame  and  spirit  had  now  stood 
the  trial ;  and  as  the  crowning  test  of  thu  purifica- 
tion of  the  latter  waslhat  power  of  seeing  into  the 
world  of  spirits,  with  which  I  had  proved  myself,  in 
the  Valley  of  Visions,  to  be  endowed,  there  now 
remained,  to  complete  by  Initiation,  but  this  one 
night  more,  when,  in  the  Temple  of  Isis,  and  in  the 
presence  of  her  unveiled  image,  the  last  grand  rev- 
elation of  the  Secret  of  Secrets  was  to  be  laid  open 
to  me. 

•  I  passed  the  morning  of  this  d;iy  in  company 
with  the  same  venerable  personage  who  had,  from 
the  first,  presided  over  the  ceremonies  of  the  in- 
struction ;  and  who,  to  inspire  me  with  due  rever- 
ence for  the  power  and  magnificence  of  his  religion, 
now  conducted  me  through  the  long  range  of  illu- 
minated galleries  and  shrines,  that  extend  under 
the  site  upon  which  Memphis  and  the  Pyramids 
stiind,  and  form  a  counterpart  under  ground  to  that 
mighty  city  of  temples  upon  earth. 

He  then  descended  with  me,  still  lower,  into 
those  winding  crypts,  where  lay  the  Seven  Tables 
of  stone,"*  found  by  Hermes  in  the  valley  of  He- 
bron. "  On  these  tables,"  said  he,  "  is  written  all 
the  knowledge  of  the  antediluvian  race — the  de- 
crees of  the  stars  from  the  beginning  of  time,  the 
annals  of  a  still  eiirlier  world,  and  all  the  marvellous 
secrets,  both  of  heaven  and  earth,  which  would  have 
been, 

*  I/ut  for  this  liey. 
Lost  iu  lliu  Uuiversol  Sea.' "  « 

Returning  to  the  regioji  from  which  wc  had  de- 
scended, we  next  visited,  iu  succession,  a  scries  of 
small  shrines  representing  the  various  objects  of 
adoration  throughout  Egypt,  and  thus  furnishing  to 
the  Priest  an  occasion  of  explaining  the  mysterious 
nature  of  animal  worship,  and  the  refined  doctrines 
of  theology  that  lay  veiled  under  its  forms.  Every 
shrine  was  con.secrated  to  a  particular  faith,  and 
contjiined  a  living  image  of  the  deity  which  it 
adored.  Beside  the  goat  of  Mendes,"  with  his  re. 
fulgent  star  upon  his  breast,  I  saw  the  crocodile,  as 
presented  to  the  eyes  of  \tn  idolater  at  Arsinoii,  with 
costly  gomH*°  in  its  loathsome  ears,  and  rich  brace- 
lets of  gold  encircling  its  feel.  Here,  floating 
tliriiugh  a  lank  in  the  centre  of  a  Icmpli',  the  sacrod 
carp  of  Lcpidolnni  siiowed  its  silvery  scales;  while, 
there,  the  Isiac  serpenlH"'  trailed  languidly  over  the 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


275 


altar,  with  that  sort  of  moveinpiit  which  is  thought 
most  favorable  to  the  a8i)iratioiis  of  their  votaries. 
In  one  of  the  small  chapels  we  found  a  beautiful 
child,  employed  in  feeding  and  watching  over  those 
golden  beetles,  which  are  adored  for  their  bright- 
ness, as  emblems  of  the  sun ;  while,  in  another, 
stood  a  sacred  ibis  upon  its  pedestal,  so  like,  in 
plumage  and  attitude,  to  the  bird  of  the  young 
Priestess,  that  most  gladly  would  I  have  knelt  down 
and  worshipped  it  for  her  sake. 

After  visiting  all  these  various  shrines,  and  hear- 
ing the  reflections  wliich  they  suggested,  I  was  next 
led  by  my  guide  to  the  Great  Hall  of  the  Zodiac, 
on  whose  ceiling  was  delineated,  in  bright  and  un- 
dying colors,  the  map  of  the  firmament,  as  it  ap- 
peared at  the  first  dawn  of  time.  Here,  in  pointing 
out  the  track  of  the  sun  among  the  spheres,  he 
spoke  of  the  analogy  that  exists  between  moral  and 
physical  darkness — of  the  sympathy  with  which  all 
spiritual  creatures  regard  the  sun,  so  as  to  sadden 
and  decline  when  he  sinks  into  his  wintry  hemi- 
sphere, and  to  rejoice  when  he  resumes  his  own 
empire  of  light.  Hence,  the  festivals  and  hymns, 
with  which  most  of  the  nations  of  the  earth  are 
wont  to  welcome  the  resurrection  of  his  orb  in 
spring,  4»s  an  emblem  and  pledge  of  the  reascent 
of  the  soul  to  heaven.  Hence,  the  songs  of  sorrow, 
the  mournful  ceremonies" — like  those  Mysteries 
of  the  Night,"  upon  the  Lake  of  Sais — in  which 
they  brood  over  its  autumnal  descent  into  the 
shades,  as  a  type  of  the  Spirit's  fall  into  this  world 
of  death. 

In  discourses  such  as  these  the  hours  passed 
away ;  and  though  there  was  nothing  in  the  light 
of  this  sunless  region  to  mark  to  the  eye  the  decline 
of  day,  my  own  feelings  told  me  that  the  night 
drew  near; — nor,  in  spite  of  my  incredulity,  could 
I  refrain  from  a  slight  flutter  of  hope,  as  that  prom- 
ised moment  of  revelation  drew  nigh,  when  the 
Mystery  of  Mysteries  was  to  be  made  all  my  own. 
This  consummation,  however,  was  less  near  than 
I  expected.  My  patience  had  still  further  trials 
to  encounter.  It  was  necessary,  I  now  found,  that, 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  night,  I  should  keep 
watch  in  the  Sanctuary  of  the  Temple,  alone  and 
in  utter  darkness — thus  preparing  myself,  by  medi- 
tation, for  the  awful  moment,  when  the  irradi.i- 
tion  from  behind  the  sacred  Veils  was  to  burst 
upon  me. 

At  the  appointed  hour,  we  left  the  Hall  of  the 
Zodi.ie,  .ind  proceeded  through  a  long  line  of  mar- 
ble galleries,  where  the  lamps  were  more  thinly 
scattered  as  we  advanced,  till,  at  length,  we  fqjind 
ourselves  in  total  darkness.  H  sre  the  Priest,  taking 
nie  by  the  hand,  and  leading    ne  down  a  Hight  of 


steps,  into  a  place  where  the  same  deep  gloom  pre- 
vailed, said,  with  a  voice  trembling,  as  if  from  excess 
of  awe, — "  Thou  art  now  within  the  Sanctuary  of 
our  goddess,  Isis,  and  the  veils,  that  conceal  her 
siicred  image,  are  before  thee !" 

After  exhorting  me  earnestly  to  lliat  train  of 
thought  which  best  accorded  with  the  spirit  of  the 
place  where  I  stood,  and,  above  all,  to  that  full  and 
unhesitating  faith,  with  which  alone,  he  said,  the 
manifestation  of  such  mysteries  should  be  approach- 
ed, the  holy  man  took  leave  of  me,  and  reascended 
the  steps; — while,  so  spell-bound  did  I  feel  by  that 
deep  darkness,  that  the  last  sound  of  his  footsteps 
died  upon  my  ear,  before  I  ventured  to  stir  a  limb 
from  the  position  in  which  he  had  left  me. 

The  prospect  of  the  long  watch  I  had  now  to 
look  forward  to  was  dreadful.  Even  danger  itself, 
if  in  an  active  form,  would  have  been  far  preferable 
to  this  sort  of  safe,  but  dull,  probation,  by  which 
patience  was  the  only  virtue  put  to  (he  proof. 
Having  ascertained  how  far  the  syiauc  around  me 
was  free  from  obstacles,  I  endeavored  to  beguile 
the  time  by  pacing  up  and  down  within  those  limits, 
till  I  became  tired  of  the  monotonous  echoes  of  mj 
own  tread.  Finding  my  way,  then,  to  what  I  felt 
to  be  a  massive  pillar,  and  leaning  wearily  against 
it,  I  surrendered  myself  to  a  train  of  thoughts  and 
feelings,  far  difi'erent  from  those  with  which  the 
good  Hierophaat  had  hoped  to  inspire  me. 

"  If  these  priests,"  thought  I,  "possess  really  the 
secret  of  life,  why  are  they  themselves  the  victims 
of  death  ?  why  sink  into  the  grave  with  the  cup  of 
immortality  in  their  hands  ?  But  no,  safe  boasters, 
the  eternity  they  so  lavishly  promise  is  reserved  for 
another,  a  future  world — that  ready  resource  of  all 
priestly  promises — that  depository  of  the  airy 
pledges  of  all  creeds.  Another  world! — alas! 
where  doth  it  lie  1  or,  what  spirit  hath  ever  come 
to  say  that  Life  is  there  ?" 

The  conclusion  at  which,  half  sadly,  half  pas- 
sionately, I  arrived,  was  that,  life  being  but  a  dream 
of  the  moment  never  to  come  again,  every  bliss  so 
vaguely  promised  for  hereafter  ought  to  be  secured 
by  the  wise  man  here.  And,  as  no  heaven  I  had 
ever  heard  of  from  these  visionary  priests  opened 
half  such  certainty  of  happiness  as  that  smile  which 
I  beheld  last  night — "Let  me,"  I  exclaimed,  impa- 
tiently, striking  the  massy  pillar  till  it  rung,  "  let 
me  but  make  that  beautiful  Priestess  my  own,  and 
I  here  willingly  exchange  for  her  every  chance  of 
immortality,  that  the  combined  wisdom  of  Egypt's 
Twelve  Temples  can  offer  me!" 

No  sooner  had  I  uttered  these  words,  than  a 
tremendous  peal,  like  that  of  thunder,"  rolled  over 
the  Sanctuary,  and  seemed  to  shake  its  very  walls 


276 


ilOORE'S  WORKS. 


On  every  side,  too,  a  succession  of  blue,  vivid 
flashes  pierced,  like  lances  of  light,  through  the 
gloom,  revealinn;  to  me,  at  intervals,  the  mighty 
dome  in  which  I  stood — its  ceiling  of  azure,  studded 
with  stars — its  colossal  columns,  towering  aloft, — 
and  those  dark,  awful  veils,  whose  massy  drapery 
hung  from  the  roof  to  the  floor,  covering  the  rich 
glories  of  the  Shrine  beneath  their  folds. 

So  weary  had  I  grown  of  my  tedious  watch, 
that  this  stormy  and  fitfnl  illumination,  during 
which  the  Sanctuary  siicuied  to  rock  to  its  base, 
was  by  no  means  an  unwelcome  interruption  of  the 
monotonous  trial  my  patience  had  to  suffer.  After 
a  short  interval,  however,  tlie  flashes  ceased ; — the 
sounds  died  away,  like  exh.austed  thunder,  through 
the  abyss,  and  darkness  and  silence,  like  that  of  the 
grave,  succeeded. 

Resting  my  back  once  more  against  the  pillar, 
■md  fixing  my  eyes  upon  that  side  of  the  Sanctuary 
from  which  the  promised  irradiation  was  to  burst, 
1  now  resolved  to  await  tlie  awful  moment  in 
patience.  Resigned,  and  almost  immovable,  I  had 
remained  thus  for  nearly  another  hour,  when  sud- 
denly along  the  edges  of  the  mighty  Veils,  I 
perceived  a  thin  rim  of  light,  as  if  from  some  bril- 
liant object  under  them  ; — resembling  that  border 
which  encircles  a  cloud  at  sunset,  when  the  rich 
radiance  from  behind  is  escaping  at  its  edges. 

This  indication  of  concealed  glories  grew  every 
instant  more  strong;  till,  at  last,  vividly  marked  as 
it  was  upon  the  darkness,  the  narrow  fringe  of  lustre 
almost  pained  the  eye — giving  promise  of  a  fulness 
of  splendor  too  bright  to  be  endured.  My  expec- 
tations were  now  wound  to  tlie  highest  pitch,  and 
all  the  skepticism,  into  which  I  had  been  cooling 
down  my  mind,  was  forgotten.  The  wonders  that 
Sad  been  presented  to  me  since  my  descent  from 
'arth — that  glimpse  into  Elysium  on  the  first  night 
r(  my  coming — those  visitants  from  the  land  of 
Spirits  in  the  mysterious  valley — all  led  me  to 
expecl,  in  this  last  and  brightest  revelation,  such 
visions  of  glory  and  knowledge  as  might  transcend 
even  fancy  itself,  nor  leave  a  doubt  that  they  be- 
liingi'd  Umh  Io  earth  than  heaven. 

While,  with  an  imagin.ation  thus  excited,  I  stood 
waiting  the  result,  an  increa.sed  gush  of  light  still 
more  awakened  my  atlcnlion ;  nnil  I  saw  with  an 
iiitensencss  of  interest,  which  made  my  heart  heat 
aloud,  one  of  the  corners  of  the  mightv  Veil  raised 
hIowIv  from  the  floor.  I  now  fell  that  the  fireat 
Secret,  whatever  it  might  be,  was  at  hand.  A 
vague  hope  even  crossed  my  mind — .so  wholly  had 
imagination  now  resumed  lier  onipire — that  the 
••ph^ndid  promise  of  mv  dream  wjih  on  the  very 
point  of  being  realized  ! 


With  surprise,  however,  and,  for  the  moment. 
with  some  disappointment,  I  perceived  that  the 
massy  corner  of  the  Veil  was  but  lifted  from  the 
ground  to  allow  a  femnle  figure  to  emerge  from 
under  it — and  then  fell  over  its  mystic  splendors  as 
utterly  d.ark  as  before.  By  the  strong  light,  too, 
th.at  issued  when  the  drapery  was  raised,  and  illu- 
minated the  profile  of  the  emerging  figure,  I  either 
saw,  or  ftmeied  that  I  saw,  the  s.ame  bright  features 
that  had  already  so  often  mocked  me  \\ith  their 
momentary  charm,  and  seemed  destined,  indeed,  to 
haunt  my  fancy  as  unavailingly  as  even  the  fond, 
vain  dreams  of  Immortality  itself 

Dazzled  as  I  had  been  by  that  short  gush  of 
splendor,  .and  distrusting  even  my  senses,  when 
under  the  influence  of  so  much  excitement,  I  had 
but  JHst  begun  to  question  myself  as  to  the  reality 
of  my  impression,  when  I  heard  the  sounds  of  light 
footsteps  approaching  me  through  the  gloom.  In 
a  second  or  two  more,  the  figure  stopped  before 
me,  and,  pl.acing  the  end  of  a  riband  gently  in  my 
h.and,  said,  in  a  tremulous  whisper,  "  Follow,  and  be 
silent." 

So  sudden  and  strange  was  the  adventure,  that 
for  a  moment,  I  hesivated — fearing  that  my  eyes 
might  possibly  have  been  deceived  as  to  the  object 
they  had  seen.  Casting  a  look  towards  the  Veil, 
which  seemed  bursting  with  its  luminous  secret,  I 
was  almost  doubting  to  which  of  the  two  chances 
I  should  submit  myself,  when  I  felt  the  riband  in 
my  hand  pulled  softly  at  the  other  extremity. 
This  movement,  like  a  touch  of  magic,  at  once 
decided  mo.  Without  any  further  deliberation,  I 
yielded  to  the  silent  summons,  and  following  my 
guide,  who  was  already  .at  some  distance  before 
me,  found  myself  led  up  the  same  flight  of  marble 
steps,  by  which  the  Priest  had  conducted  me  into 
the  Sanctuary.  Arrived  .at  their  summit,  I  felt  the 
pace  of  my  conductress  quicken,  and  giving  one 
more  look  to  the  Veiled  Shrine,  whose  glories  we 
left  burning  uselessly  behind  ns,  hastened  onward 
into  the  gloom,  fnll  of  confidence  in  the  belief,  that 
she,  who  now  held  the  other  end  of  that  clue,  was 
one  whom  I  wa.s  ready  to  follow  devotedly  through 
the  world. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

With  such  rapidity  was  I  hurried  along  by  my 
unseen  guide,  full  of  wonder  at  The  speed  with 
whi(j^  she  ventured  through  tliese  labyrinths,  thai 
I  had  but  little  time  left,  for  reflection  upon  the 
HtrangenesM  of  the  adventure  to  which  1  had  com. 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


277 


milted  myself.  My  knowledge  cf  the  charjic- 
ter  of  the  Memphiati  priests,  as  well  as  sotno 
fearful  rumors  that  had  reached  me,  concerning  the 
fate  that  often  attended  unbelievers  in  their  hands, 
awakened  a  momentary  suspieion  of  treachery  in 
my  niiiid.  But,  wlien  I  recalled  the  face  of  my 
guide,  as  I  had  seen  it  in  the  small  chapel,  with 
that  divine  look,  the  very  memory  of  which  brought 
purity  into  tlie  heart,  I  found  my  suspicions  all 
vanish,  and  felt  shame  at  having  harbored  them  but 
an  instant. 

Ib  the  mean  while,  our  rapid  course  continued 
without  any  interruption,  through  windings  even 
more  capriciously  intricate"''  than  any  I  had  yet 
passed,  and  whose  thick  gloom  seemed  never  to 
have  been  broken  by  a  single  glimmer  of  light. 
My  unseen  conductress  was  still  at  some  distance 
before  me,  and  the  slight  clue,  to  which  I  clung  as 
if  it  were  Destiny's  own  thread,  was  still  kept,  by 
the  speed  of  her  course,  at  full  stretch  between  us. 
At  length,  suddenly  stopping,  she  said,  in  a  breath- 
less whisper,  '■  Seat  thyself  here  ;"  and,  at  the  same 
moment,  led  me  by  the  hand  to  a  sort  of  low  car, 
in  which,  obeying  her  brief  command,  I  lost  not  a 
moment  in  placing  myself,  while  the  maiden,  no 
less  promptly,  took  her  seat  by  my  side. 

A  sudden  click,  like  the  touching  of  a  spring, 
was  then  lieard,  and  the  car— which,  as  I  had  felt 
in  entering  it,  leaned  half-way  over  a  steep  descent 
— on  being  let  loose  from  its  station,  shot  down, 
almost  perpendicularly,  into  the  darkness,  with  a 
rapidity  which,  at  first,  nearly  deprived  mo  of  breath. 
The  wheels  slid  smoothly  and  noiselessly  in 
grooves,  and  the  impetus,  which  the  car  acquired 
in  descending,  was  sufficient,  I  perceived,  to  carry 
it  up  an  eminence  that  succeeded — from  the  sum- 
rait  of  which  it  again  rushed  down  another  declivity, 
even  still  more  long  and  precipitous  than  the 
former.  In  this  manner  we  proceeded,  by  alternate 
falls  and  rises,  till,  at  length,  from  the  last  and 
steepest  elevation,  the  car  descended  upon  a  level 
of  deep  sand,  where,  after  running  for  a  few  yards, 
if  by  degrees  lost  its  motion,  and  stopped. 

Here  the  maiden,  alighting  again,  placed  the 
riband  in  my  hands — and  ag.'iiu  I  followed  her, 
though  with  more  slowness  and  difficulty  than 
before,  as  our  way  now  led  up  a  flight  of  damp  and 
time-worn  steps,  whose  ascent  .seemed  to  the  wea- 
ried .and  insecure  foot  interminable.  Perceiving 
with  what  languor  my  guide  advanced,  I  was  on  the 
point  of  making  an  efi'ort  to  assist  her  progress, 
when  the  creak  of  an  opening  door  above,  and  a 
faint  gleam  of  light  which,  at  the  same  moment, 
Kh(me  upon  her  figure,  .ajjprized  me  that  we  were  at 
last  arrived  within  reach  of  sunshine. 


Joyfully  I  followed  through  this  opening,  and,  by 
the  dim  light,  could  discern  that  we  were  now  in 
the  sanctuary  of  a  vast,  ruined  temple — having  en- 
tered by  a  secret  passage  under  the  pedestal,  upon 
which  an"~unage  of  the  idol  of  the  place  once  .stood. 
The  first  movement  of  the  young  maiden,  after 
clo.sing  again  the  portal  under  the  pedestal,  was, 
without  even  a  single  look  towards  me,  to  cast 
herself  down  upon  her  knees,  with  her  hands  clasp, 
ed  and  uplifted,  as  if  in  thanksgiving  or  prayer. 
But  she  was  unable,  evidently,  to  sustain  herself  in 
this  position ; — her  strength  could  hold  out  no 
longer.  Overcome  by  agitation  and  fatigue,  she 
sunk  senseless  upon  the  pavement. 

Bewildered  as  I  was  myself,  by  the  strange 
events  of  the  night,  I  .stood  for  some  minutes  look- 
ing upon  her  in  a  state  of  helplessness  and  alarm. 
But,  reminded,  by  my  own  feverish  sensations,  of  the 
reviving  effects  of  the  air,  I  raised  her  gently  in  my 
arms,  and  crossing  the  corridor  that  surrounded  the 
sanctuary,  found  my  way  to  the  outer  vestibule  of 
the  Temple.  Here,  shading  her  eyes  from  the  sun, 
I  placed  her,  reclining  upon  the  steps,  where  the 
cool  north-wind,  then  blowing  freshly  between  the 
pillars,  might  play,  with  free  draught,  over  her 
brow. 

It  was,  indeed — as  I  now  saw,  with  certainty — 
the  same  beautiful  and  mysterious  girl,  who  had 
been  the  cause  of  my  descent  into  that  subterra- 
nean  world,  and  who  now,  under  such  strange  and 
unaccountable  circumstances,  was  my  guide  back 
again  to  the  realms  of  day.  I  looked  around  to 
discover  where  we  were,  and  beheld  such  a  scene 
of  grandeur,  as,  could  my  eyes  have  been  then  at- 
tracted to  any  object  but  the  pale  form  reclining  ^t 
my  side,  might  well  have  induced  them  to  dwell  oi. 
its  splendid  beauties. 

I  was  now  standing,  I  found,  on  the  small  islano 
in  the  centre  of  Lake  Moeris  ;°°  and  that  sanctuary, 
where  we  had  just  emerged  frotrr  darkness,  formed 
part  of  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  temple,  wliich  was, 
(as  I  have  since  learned,)  in  the  grander  days 
of  Memphis,  a  place  of  pilgrimage  for  worshippers 
from  all  parts  of  Egypt.  The  fair  Lake,  itself,  out 
of  whose  waters  once  rose  i)avilions,  palaces,  and 
even  lofty  pyramids,  was  still,  though  divested 
of  many  of  these  wonders,  a  scene  of  interest  and 
splendor  such  as  the  whole  world  could  not  equal. 
While  the  shore  still  sparkled  with  mansions  and 
temples,  that  bore  testimony  to  the  luxury  of 
a  living  race, — the  voice  of  the  Past,  speaking  out 
of  unnumbered  ruins,  whose  summits,  here  and 
there,  rose  blackly  above  the  wave,"  told  of  times 
long  fled,  and  generations  long  swept  away,  before 
;  whose  giant  remains  all  the  glory  of  the  present 


278 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


iitood  humbled.  Over  the  southern  b.ink  of  the 
Ijike  hung  the  dark  relics  of  the  Labyrinth : — 
its  twelve  Royal  Palaces,  representing  the  man- 
sions of  the  Zodiac— its  thundering  portals'*  and 
constellated  halls,  h.-iving  left  nothing  now  behind 
but  a  few  frowning  ruins,  which,  contrasted  with 
the  soft  groves  of  acacia  and  olive  around  them 
seemed  to  rebuke  the  luxuriant  smiles  of  nature, 
and  threw  a  melancholy  grandeur  over  the  whole 
scene. 

The  effects  of  the  air,  in  reanim-iting  the  young 
Priestess,  were  less  speedy  than  I  had  expected  ; — ■ 
.ler  eyes  were  still  closed,  and  she  remained  pale 
and  insensible.  Alarmed,  I  now  rested  her  head 
'which  had  been,  for  some  time,  supported  by  my 
arm)  against  the  base  of  one  of  the  columns,  with 
my  cloak  for  its  pillow,  while  I  hastened  to  procure 
some  water  from  the  Lake.  The  temple  stood 
high,  and  the  descent  to  the  shore  w.as  precipitous. 
But,  my  Epicurean  habits  having  but  little  impaired 
my  activity,  I  soon  descended,  with  the  lightness  of 
a  desert  deer,  to  the  bottom.  Here,  plucking  from 
a  lofty  bean-tree,  whose  flowers  stood,  shining  like 
gold  above  the  water,  one  of  those  large  hollowed 
leaves  that  serve  as  cups"'  for  the  Hebes  of  the 
Nile,  I  filled  it  from  the  Lake,  and  hurried  back 
with  the  cool  draught  towards  the  Temple.  It  was 
not,  however,  without  some  difficulty  that  I  at  la.st 
succeeded  in  bearing  my  rustic  chalice  steadily  up 
the  steep ;  more  than  once  did  an  unlucky  slip  waste 
oil  its  contents,  and  as  often  did  I  return  impatient- 
ly to  refill  it. 

During  this  time,  the  young  m.aiden  was  fist 
recovering  her  animation  and  consciousness;  and, 
at  the  moment  when  I  appeared  above  the  edge  of 
the  steep,  was  just  rising  from  the  steps,  with  her 
hand  pressed  to  her  forehe.ad,  as  if  confusedly  re- 
calling the  recollection  of  what  had  occurred.  No 
sooner  did  she  observe  me,  than  a  .short  cry  of 
alarm  broke  from  her  lips.  Looking  an.xiou»ly 
round,  iis  though  she  sought  for  protection,  and 
lialf-audibly  uttering  the  words,  "  Where  is  he  ?" 
Khe  made  im  effort,  as  I  approached,  lo  retreat  into 
the  Temple. 

Already,  however,  I  was  By  her  side,  and  taking 
her  hand,  as  she  turned  away  from  me,  gently  in 
mine,  asked,  "  Whom  dost  thou  seek,  fair  I'ricst- 
eHs?" — thus,  for  the  first  time,  bi.-aking  the  silence 
she  had  ciijoine<l,  and  in  a  lone  that  might  have  re- 
nsHured  the  most  limid  spirit.  But  my  words  had 
no  effecl  in  calming  her  apprehension.  Trembling, 
and  with  her  eyes  still  .'iverled  towards  the  Temple, 
BJie  ciinlinned  in  a  voice  of  suppressed  alarm, — 
"  WhiTi?  can  he  be  ? — that  voiiemble  Athenian,  that 
philoHiipher,  wli  >  — " 


"  Here,  here,"  I  exclaimed,  anxiously,  interrupt, 
ing  her — "behold  him  still  by  thy  side — the  same, 
the  very  same,  who  saw  thee  steal  from  under  the 
Veils  of  the  Sanctuary,  whom  thou  hast  guided  by 
a  clue  through  those  labyrinths  btlow,  and  who 
now  only  waits  his  command  from  those  lips,  to  do- 
vote  himself  through  life  and  death  to  thy  service." 
As  I  spoke  these  words,  she  turned  slowly  round, 
and  looking  timidly  in  my  face,  while  her  own 
burned  with  blushes,  said,  in  a  tone  of  doubt  and 
wonder,  '•  Thou !"  and  then  hid  her  eyes  in  her 
hands. 

I  knew  not  how  to  interpret  a  reception  so  un- 
expected. That  some  mistake  or  disappointment 
had  occurred  was  evident ;  but  .so  inexplicable  did 
the  whole  adventure  appear  to  me,  that  it  was  in 
vain  to  think  of  unravelling  any  p.nrt  of  it.  Weak 
and  agitated,  she  now  tottered  to  the  steps  of  the 
Temple,  and  there  seating  herself,  with  her  fore- 
head against  the .  cold  marble,  seemed  for  some 
moments  absorbed  in  the  most  anxious  thought; 
while  silent  and  watchful  I  awaited  her  decision, 
though,  at  the  same  time,  with  a  feeling  which  the 
result  proved  to  be  prophetic — that  my  destiny  wiis, 
from  thenceforth,  linked  inseparably  with  liers. 

The  inward  struggle  by  which  she  was  agitated, 
though  violent,  was  not  of  long  continuance. 
Starting  suddenly  from  her  seat,  with  a  look  of 
terror  towards  the  Temple,  as  if  the  fear  of  imme- 
diate pursuit  had  alone  decided  her,  she  pointed 
eagerly  tow.ards  the  East,  and  exclaimed  "  To  the 
Nile,  without  del.ay !" — cl.asping  her  hands,  after 
she  had  thus  spoken,  with  the  mo.st  suppliant  fervor, 
as  if  to  soften  the  abruptness  of  the  mand.ate  she 
had  given,  and  appealing  to  me  at  the  same  time, 
with  a  look  that  would  have  taught  Stoics  them- 
selves tenderness. 

I  lost  not  a  moment  in  obeying  the  welcome 
command.  With  a  thousand  wild  hopes  naturally 
crowding  upon  my  fancy,  at  the  tliouglits  of  a  voy- 
age, under  such  auspices,  f  lioscended  rapidly  to  the 
slioro,  and  hailing  one  of  those  boats,  that  ply  upon 
the  Lake  for  hire,  arranged  speedily  for  a  pas.sage 
down  the  canal  to  the  Nile.  Having  learned,  too, 
from  the  boatman,  a  more  easy  path  up  the  rock,  I 
hastened  back  to  the  Temi)le  for  my  fn'r  eliarge  ; 
aiul,  without  a  word  or  look,  th.it  could  nlarni.even 
hv  its  liindnesH,  or  disturb  the  innocent  conlidcnco 
which  she  now  evidently  reposed  in  nic  led  Iut 
down  by  the  winding  path  to  the  boat. 

Every  thing  around  looked  sunny  and  smiling  as 
we  emlmrked.  The  morning  was  In  Its  first  fresh- 
ness,  and  the  path  of  the  breeze  might  clearly  bo 
traced  over  the  Ijike,  iw  it  went  wakening  up  (he 
waters  from   their  sleep  of   the   night.     The  gay, 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


279 


golden- wingod  birds  lliat,  liiiunt  tliese  sliore-s,  were, 
ill  every  diroclion,  skiiiimiiiij  along  the  Lake  ;  while, 
witli  a  graver  conseiounness  of  beauty,  the  swan 
and  I  he  pelican  were  seen  dressing  their  white 
plumajfe  in  the  mirror  of  its  wave.  To  add  to  the 
liveliness  of  the  scene,  there  came,  at  intervals,  on 
the  breeze,  a  sweet  tinkling  of  musiual  instruments 
from  boats  at  a  distance,  employed  tlius  early  in 
pursuing  the  fish  of  these  waters,"  that  allow 
themselves  to  be  decoyed  into  the  nets  by  music. 

The  vessel  I  had  selected  for  our  voyage  was 
one  of  those  pleasure-boats  or  yachts" — so  much 
in  use  among  tiie  luxurious  navigators  of  the  Nile 
— in  the  centre  of  which  rises  a  pavilion  of  cedar 
or  Cyprus  wood,  adorned  richly  on  the  outside,  with 
religious  emblems,  and  gayly  fitted  up,  within,  for 
feasting  and  repose.  To  the  door  of  this  pavilion 
I  now  led  my  companion,  and,  after  a  few  words  of 
kindness — tempered  cautiously  with  as  much  reserve 
as  the  deep  tenderness  of  my  feeling  towards  her 
would  admit — left  her  to  court  that  restoring  rest, 
which  the  agitation  of  her  spirits  so  much  required. 

For  myself,  though  repose  was  hardly  less  ne- 
cessary to  me,  the  state  of  ferment  in  which  I  had 
been  so  long  kept,  appeared  to  render  it  hopeless. 
Having  thrown  myself  on  the  deck  of  the  vessel, 
under  an  awning  which  the  -sailors  had  raised  for 
me,  I  continued,  for  some  hours,  in  a  sort  of  vague 
day-dream — sometimes  passing  in  review  the  scenes 
of  that  subterranean  drama,  and  sometimes,  with 
my  eyes  fixed  in  drowsy  vacancy,  receiving  passive- 
ly the  impressions  of  the  bright  scenery  through 
which  we  passed. 

The  banks  of  the  canal  were  then  luxuriantly 
wooded.  Under  the  tufts  of  the  light  and  towering 
palm  wery  seen  ihe  orange  and  the  citron,  inter- 
lacing their  boughs  ;  while,  here  and  there,  huge 
tamarisks  thickened  the  shade,  and,  at  the  very 
edge  of  the  bank,  the  willow  of  Babylon  stood 
bending  its  graceful  branches  into  the  water.  Oc- 
casionally, out  of  the  depth  of  these  groves,  there 
shone  a  small,  temple  or  pleasure-house;  while, 
now  and  then,  an  opening  in  their  line  of  foliage 
allowed  the  eye  to  wander  over  extensive  fields,  all 
covered  with  beds  of  those  pale  sweet  roses,"  for 
which  this  district  of  Egypt  is  so  celebrated. 

The  activity  of  the  morning  hour  was  visible  in 
every  direction.  Plights  of  doves  and  lapwings 
were  fluttering  among  the  leaves ;  and  the  white 
heron,  which  had  been  roosting  all  night  in  some 
date-tree,  now  stood  sunning,  its  wings  upon  the 
green  bank,  or  floated,  like  living  silver,  over  the 
flood.  The  flowers,  too,  both  of  land  and  water, 
looked  all  just  fi-eshly  awakened; — and,  most  of  all, 
the  superb  lotus,  which,  having  risen  along  with  the 


sun  from  the  wave,  was  now  holding  up  her  chalicn 
for  a  full  draught  of  his  light. 

Sucli  were  the  scenes  that  now  successively  pre- 
sented themselves,  and  mingled  with  the  vague  rev- 
eries  that  floated  through  my  mind,  as  our  boat, 
with  its  high,  capacious  sail,  swept  along  the  Hood. 
Though  the  occurrences  of  the  last  few  days  could 
not  but  appear  to  me  one  continued  series  of  won- 
ders, yet  by  far  the  greatest  marvel  of  all  was,  that 
she,  whose  first  look  had  sent  wildfire  into  my  heart 
— whom  I  had  thought  of  ever  since  with  a  restles.s- 
ness  of  passion,  that  would  have  dared  all  danger 
and  wrong  to  obtain  its  object — she  was  now  at 
this  moment  resting  sacredly  within  that  pavilion,* 
while  guarding  her,  even  from  myself,  I  lay  motion- 
less at  its  threshold. 

Meanwhile,  the  sun  had  reached  his  meridian 
height.  The  busy  hum  of  the  morning  had  died 
gradually  away,  and  all  around  was  sleeping  in  the 
hot  stillness  of  noon.  •  The  Nile-goose,  having  fold- 
ed up  her  splendid  wings,  was  lying  motionless  on 
the  shadow  of  the  sycamores  in  the  water.  Even 
the  nimble  lizards  upon  the  bank"  appeared  to 
move  less  nimbly,  as  the  light  fell  on  their  gold 
and  azure  hues.  Overcome  as  I  was  with  watch- 
ing, and  weary  with  th6ught,  it  was  not  long  before 
I  yielded  to  the  becalming  influence  of  the  hour. 
Looking  fixedly  at  the  pavilion — as  if  once  more  to 
assure  myself  that  I  was  in  no  dream  or  trance,  but 
that  the  young  Egyptian  was  really  there — I  felt 
my  eyes  close  as  I  gazed,  and  in  a  few  minutes  sunk 
into  a  profound  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

It  was  by  the  canal  through  which  we  now- 
sailed,"  that,  in  the  more  prosperous  days  of  Mem- 
phis, the  commerce  of  Upper  Egypt  and  Nubia  was 
transported  to  her  magnificent  Lake,  and  from 
thence,  having  paid  tribute  to  the  queen  of  cities, 
was  poured  forth  .igain,  through  the  Nile,  into  the 
ocean.  The  course  of  this  canal  to  the  river  was 
not  direct,  but  ascending  in  a  southeasterly  direc- 
tion towards  the  Said ;  and  in  calms,  or  with  ad- 
verse winds,  the  passage  was  tedious.  But  as  the 
breeze  was  now  blowing  freshly  from  the  north, 
there  was  every  prospect  of  our  reaching  the  river 
before  nightfall.  Rapidly,  too,  as  our  galley  sw-ept 
along  the  flood,  its  motion  was  so  smooth- as  to  be 
hardly  felt ;  and  the  quiet  gurgle  of  the  waters,  and 
the  drowsy  song  of  the  boatman  at  the  prow,  were 
the  only  sounds  that  disturbed  the  deep  siiencc 
which  prevailed. 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


The  sun,  indeed,  had  nearly  sunk  behind  the 
Libyan  hills,  before  the  sleep,  into  which  these 
sounds  had  contributed  to  lull  me,  was  broken ;  and 
{he  first  object  on  which  my  eyes  rested,  in  waking, 
was  that  fair  young  Priestess — seated  within  a  porch 
which  shaded  the  door  of  the  pavilion,  and  bending 
intently  over  a  small  volume  that  lay  unrolled  on 
her  lap. 

Her  face  was  but  halt-turned  towards  me;  and 
as  she,  once  or  twice,  raised  her  eyes  to  the  warm 
sky,  whose  light  fell,  softened  through  the  trellis, 
over  her  cheek,  I  found  all  those  feelings  of  rever- 
ence, which  she  had  inspired  me  with  in  the  chapel, 
•return.  There  was  even  a  purer  and  holier  charm 
around  her  countenance,  thus  seen  by  the  natural 
light  of  day,  than  in  those  dim  and  unhallowed  re- 
gions below.  She  was  now  looking,  too,  direct  to 
the  glorious  sky,  and  her  pure  eyes  and  that  lieaven, 
RO  worthy  of  each  other,  met. 

After  contemplating  her  for  a  few  moments,  with 
little  less  than  adoration,  I  rose  gently  from  my 
resting-place,  and  approached  the  pavilion.  But 
the  mere  movement  had  startled  her  from  her  devo- 
tion, and,  blushing  and  confused,  she  covered  the 
volume  with  the  folds  of  her  robe. 

In  the  art  of  winning  upon  female  confidence,  I 
had  long,  of  course,  been  schooled ;  and,  now  that 
to  the  lessons  of  gallantry  the  inspiration  of  love 
waa  added,  my  ambition  to  please  and  to  interest 
could  hardly  fail,  it  may  be  supposed,  of  success. 
I  soon  found,  however,  how  much  less  fluent  is  the 
heart  than  the  fancy,  and  how  very  different  may  be 
Ihc  operations  of  making  love  and  feeling  it.  In 
the  few  words  of  greeting  no'v  exchanged  between 
US,  it  was  evident  that  the  gay,  the  enterprising 
Epicurean  was  little  less  embarrassed  than  the 
secluded  Priestess  ; — and,  after  one  or  two  ineffec- 
tual efforts  to  converse,  the  eyes  of  both  turned 
bashfully  away,  and  we  relapsed  into  silence. 

From  this  situation — the  result  of  timidity  on 
one  side,  and  of  a  feeling  altogether  new  on  the 
other — we  were,  at  lcngth,relieved,  after  an  interval 
of  estrangement,  by  the  boatmen  announcing  that 
the  Nile  was  in  sight.  The  countenance  of  the 
young  Egyptian  brightened  at  this  intelligence; 
and  the  smile  with  which  1  congratulated  her  upon 
the  speed  of  our  voyage  was  responded  to  by 
another  from  her,  so  full  of  gratitude,  that  already 
nn  instinctive  sympathy  seemed  established  be- 
tween us. 

VVn  were  now  on  the  point  of  entering  that 
sucrcd  rivcr.of  whoso  sweet  waters  the  e.\il  drinks 
in  his  <lrcnin(i — for  a  draught  of  whose  Hood  (he 
royal  il.iughlerM  of  the  I'tolemie.s,"  when  far  away, 
on  rorM;;n  thrones,  ha-  e  !>"<■'   •"luwii  l<>  sij^h  in  the 


midst  of  their  splendor.  As  our  boat,  with  slackened 
saU,  was  gliding  into  the  current,  an  inquiry  from 
the  boatmen,  whether  tliey  should  anchor  for  the 
night  in  the  Nile,  first  reminded  me  of  the  ignorance 
in  which  I  still  remained,  with  respect  to  the  motive 
or  destination  of  our  voyage.  Embarrassed  by  their 
question,  I  directed  my  eyes  towards  the  Priestess, 
whom  I  saw  waiting  for  my  answer  with  a  look  of 
anxiety,  which  this  silent  reference  to  her  wishes 
at  once  dispelled.  Unfolding  eagerly  the  volume 
with  which  I  had  seen  her  so  much  occupied,  she 
took  from  between  its  folds  a  small  leaf  of  papyrus, 
on  which  there  appeared  to  be  some  faint  lines  of 
drawing,  and  after  looking  upon  it  thoughtfully  for 
a  few  moments,  placed  it,  with  an  agiliited  hand, 
in  mine. 

In  the  me.in  time,  the  boatmen  had  taken  in  their 
sail,  and  the  yacht  drove  slowly  down  the  river 
with  the  current ;  while,  by  a  light  which  had  been 
kindled  at  sunset  on  the  deck,  I  stood  examining 
the  leaf  that  the  Priestess  had  given  me — Iter  dark 
eyes  fixed  anxiously  on  my  countenance  all  the 
vi'hile.  The  lines  traced  upon  the  papyrus  were  so 
faint  as  to  be  almost  inrisible,  and  I  was  for  some 
time  wholly  unable  to  form  a  conjecture  as  to  their 
import.  At  length,  however,  I  succeeded  in  making 
out  that  they,  were  a  sort  of  map,  or  outlines — 
traced  slightly  and  unsteadily  with  a  Memphian 
reed — of  a  part  of  that  mountainous  ridge  by  which 
Upper  Egypt  is  bounded  to  the  east,  together  with 
the  names,  or  rather  emblems,  of  the  chief  towns 
in  its  immediate  neighborhood. 

It  was  thither,  I  now  saw  clearly,  that  the  young 
Priestess  wished  to  pursue  her  course.  Without 
further  delay,  therefore,  I  ordered  the  boatmen  to 
set  our  yacht  before  the  wind,  and  ascend  the  cur- 
rent. My  command  was  promjilly  obeyed :  the 
white  sail  again  rose  into  the  region  of  the  breeze, 
and  the  satisfaction  that  beamed  in  every  feature 
of  the  fair  Egyptian  showed  that  the  quickness 
with  which  I  had  .ittended  to  her  wishes  was  not 
unfelt  by  her.  The  moon  had  now  risen ;  and 
tliongh  the  current  was  against  us,  the  Etesian 
wind  of  the  season  blew  strongly  up  the  river,  ana 
we  were  soon  floating  before  il,  through  the  rich 
plains  and  groves  of  the  Said. 

The  love  with  which  this  simple  girl  had  inspired 
me,  was  partly,  perhaps,  from  the  mystic  .scenes 
and  situations  in  which  I  had  seen  her,  not  un- 
mingled  with  a  tinge  of  su]ierslitiiius  awe,  under 
the  influence  of  which  I  felt  the  natural  buoyancy 
of  my  spirit  repressed.  The  low  words  th.it  had 
passed  between  us  on  the  subject  of  our  route  had 
somewhat  loosened  this  spell  ;  ami  what  I  wanted 
of  vivacity  and  nuiliduncv  was  more  than  eoinpeii' 


THE  EPlCUliKAN. 


281 


■ated  by  tlie  tone  of  deep  sensibility  which  love  had 
awakened  in  their  place. 

We  had  not  proceeded  fur,  before  the  glittering 
of  lights  at  a  distance,  and  the  shootinc-iip  of  fire- 
works, at  intervals,  into  the  air,  apprized  us  that 
we  were  then  approaching  one  of  those  night-fairs, 
or  marts,  which  it  is  the  custom,  at  this  season,  to 
liold  upon  the  Nile.  To  me  the  scene  was  familiar ; 
hut  to  my  young  companion  it  was  evidently  a  new 
world;  and  the  mixture  of  alarm  and  delight  with 
which  she  gazed,  from  under  her  veil,  upon  the  busy 
scene  into  which  we  now  sailed,  gave  .-m  air  of  in- 
nocence to  her  beauty,  which  still  more  heightened 
its  every  charm. 

It  was  one  of  the  widest  parts  of  the  river  ;  and 
the  whole  surface,  from  one  bank  to  the  other,  was 
covered  with  bo.its.  Along  the  banks  of  a  green 
island,  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  lay  anchored 
the  galleys  of  the  principal  traders — large  floating 
bazaars,  bearing  each  the  name  of  its  owner,'" 
emblazoned  in  letters  of  flame,  upon  the  stern. 
Over  their  decks  were  spread  out,  in  gay  confusion, 
the  products  of  the  loom  and  needle  of  Egypt — 
rich  carpets  of  Memphis,  and  likewise  those  varie- 
gated veils,  for  which  the  female  embroiderers  of 
the  Nile  are  so  celebrated,  and  to  which  the  name 
of  Cleopatra  lends  a  traditional  charm.  In  each  of 
the  other  galleys  was  exhibited  some  branch  of 
Egyptian  workmanship — vases  of  the  fragrant 
porcelain  of  On — cups  of  that  frail  crystal,"  whose 
hues  change  like  those  of  the  pigeon's  plumage — 
enamelled  amulets  graven  with  the  head  of  Anubis, 
and  necklaces  and  bracelets  of  the  black  beans  of 
Abyssinia.'" 

While  Commerce  w  as  thus  displaying  her  various 
luxuries  in  one  quarter,  in  every  other,  the  spirit 
of  Pleasure,  all  its  countless  shapes,  swarmed  over 
the  waters.  Nor  was  the  festivity  confined  to  the 
river  alone  ;  as  along  the  banks  of  the  island,  and  on 
the  shores,  illuminated  mansions  were  seen  glitter- 
ing through  the  trees,  from  whence  sounds  of  music 
and  merriment  came.  In  some  of  the  boats  were 
bands  of  minstrels,  who,  from  time  to  time,  an- 
swered each  other,  like  echoes,  across  the  wave ; 
and  the  notes  of  the  lyre,  the  flageolet,  and  the 
sweet  lotus-wood  flute,'"  were  heard,  in  the  pauses 
of  revelry,  dying  along  the  waters. 

Meanwhile,  from  other  boats  stationed  in  the 
least  lighted  places,  the  workers  of  fire  sent  forth 
their  wonders  into  the  air.  Bursting  out  suddenly 
from  time  to  time,  as  if  in  the  very  exuberance  of 
joy,  these  sallies  of  flame  appeared  to  reach  the 
sky,  and  there,  breaking  into  a  shower  of  sparkles, 
shed  such  a  splendor  around,  as  brightened  even, 
the  white  Arabian  hills— making  them  shine  as 
VOL.  n. — 36 


doth  the  brow  of  Mount  .'^tlas  at  night,"  when  the 
fire  from  his  own  bosom  is  playing  around  its 
snows. 

The  opportunity  this  mart  afforded  us,  of  pro- 
viding ourselves  with  some  less  remarkable  habili- 
ments than  those  in  which  we  had  escaped  from 
th;;t  nether  workh  was  too  seasonable  not  to  be 
gladly  taken  advantage  of  by  both.  For  myself, 
the  strange  mystic  garb  which  I  wore  was  sufli- 
ciently  concealed  by  my  Grecian  mantle,  which  I 
had  fortunately  thrown  round  me  on  the  night  of 
my  watch.  But  the  thin  veil  of  my  companion 
w.is  a  far  less  efficient  disguise.  She  had,  indeed,  . 
flung  away  the  golden  beetles  from  her  hair ;  but 
the  .sacred  robe  of  her  order  was  still  too  visible, 
and  the  stars  of  the  bandelet  shone  brightly  through 
her  veil. 

Most  gladly,  therefore,  did  she  avail  herself  of 
this  opportunity  of  a  change ;  and,  as  she  took 
from  out  a  casket — which,  with  the  volume  I  had 
seen  her  reading,  appeared  to  be  her  only  treasure 
— a  Bmall  jewel,  to  give  in  exchange  for  the  simple 
garment  she  had  chosen,  there  fell  out,  at  the  same 
time,  the  very  cross  of  silver  which  I  had  seen  her 
kiss,  as  may  be  remembered,  in  the  monumental 
chapel,  and  which  was  afterwards  pressed  to  my 
own  lips.  This  link  between  us,  (for  such  it 
now  appeared  to  my  imagination,)  called  up  again 
in  my  heart  all  the  burning  feelings  of  that  mo- 
ment ; — and,  had  I  not  abruptly  turned  away,  my 
agitation  would  have  but  too  plainly  betrayed  it- 
self. 

The  object,  for  which  we  had  delayed  in  this 
gay  scene,  having  been  accomplished,  the  sail  was 
again  spread,  and  we  proceeded  on  our  course  up 
the  river.  The  sounds  and  the  lights  we  had  left 
behind  died  gradually  away,  iind  we  now  floated 
along  in  moonlight  and  silence  once  more.  Sweet 
dews,  worthy  of  being  called  "  the  tears  of  Isis,"" 
fell  refreshingly  through  the  air,  and  every  plant 
and  flower  sent  its  fragrance  to  meet  them.  The 
wind,  just  strong  enough  to  bear  us  smoothly 
against  the  current,  scarce  stirred  the  shadow  of 
the  tamarisks  on  the  water.  As  the  inhabitants 
from  all  quarters  were  collected  at  the  night-fair, 
the  Nile  was  more  than  usually  still  and  solitary. 
Such  a  silence,  indeed,  prevailed,  that,  as  we  glided 
near  the  shore,  we  could  hear  the  rustling  of  the 
acacias,'"  as  the  chameleons  ran  up  their  stems.  It 
was,  altogether,  such  a  night  as  only  the  climate  of 
Egypt  can  boast,  when  the  whole  scene  around 
lies  lulled  in  that  sort  of  bright  tranquillity,  which 
may  be  im.agined  to  light  the  slumbers  of  those 
happy  spirits,  who  are  said  to  rest  in  the  Valley  of 
the  Moon,''  r  ii  their  vvav  to  heaven. 


282 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


By  such  a  light,  and  at  such  an  hour,  seated,  side 
hy  side,  on  the  deck  cf  that  bark,  did  we  pursue 
our  course  up  the  lonely  Nile — each  a  mystery  to 
the  other — our  thoughts,  our  objects,  our  very 
oames  a  secret; — separated,  too,  till  now,  by  desti- 
nies so  different ;  the  one,  a  gay  voluptuary  of  the 
Garden  of  Athens ;  the  other,  a  secluded  Priestess 
of  the  Temples  of  Memphis; — and  the  only  rela- 
tion yet  established  between  us  bein^j  that  danger- 
ous one  of  love,  passionate  love,  on  one  side,  and 
the  most  feminine  and  confiding  dependence  on 
the  other. 

The  passing  adventuie  of  the  night-fair  had  not 
only  dispelled  a  little  our  mutual  reserve,  but  had 
luckily  furnished  us  with  a  subject  on  which  we 
could  converse  without  embarrassment.  From 
this  topic  I  took  care  to  lead  her,  without  any  in- 
terruption, to  others — being  fearful  lest  our  former 
silence  should  return,  and  the  music  of  her  voice 
again  be  lost  to  me.  It  was  only,  indeed,  by  thus 
indirectly  unburdening  my  heart  that  I  was  enabled 
to  avoid  the  disclo.sure  of  all  I  thought  and  felt ; 
and  the  restless  rapidity  with  which  I  flew  from 
subject  to  subject  was  but  an  effort  to  escape 
from  the  only  one  in  which  my  heart  was  really 
interested. 

"  How  bright  and  happy,"  said  I — pointing  up 
to  Sothis,  the  fair  Star  of  the  Waters,"  which  was 
just  then  shining  brilliantly  over  our  heads — "  How 
bright  and  happy  this  world  ought  to  be,  if,  as  your 
Egypti.m  sages  assert,  yon  pure  and  beautiful  lu- 
minary was  its  birth-star !" "  Then,  still  leaning 
back,  and  letting  my  eyes  wander  over  the  firma- 
ment, as  if  seeking  to  disengage  them  from  the 
fascination  which  they  dreaded — "  To  the  study," 
I  exclaimed,  "  for  ages,  of  skies  like  this,  may  the 
pensive  and  mystic  character  of  your  nation  be 
traced.  That  mi.xture  of  pride  and  melancholy 
which  naturally  arises  at  the  sight  of  those  eternal 
lights  shining  out  of  darkness: — thai  sublime,  but 
•maddened,  anticipation  of  a  Future,  which  stalls 
sometimes  over  the  soul  in  the  silence  of  such  an 
hour,  when,  though  Death  appears  to  reign  in  the 
deep  stillness  of  earth,  there  are  yet  those  beacons 
of  Immortality  burning  in  the  sky." 

Pausing,  iLs  I  uttered  the  word  "  immortality," 
with  a  sigh  to  think  how  little  my  heart  echoed  to 
ray  lips,  I  looked  In  the  face  of  my  con)panlon, 
.and  saw  that  It  had  lighted  up,  as  I  spoke,  into  a 
glow  of  holy  animation,  such  as  Faith  alone  gives ; 
— such  as  Hope,  herself  wears,  when  she  Is  dream- 
liij;  of  heaven.  Touched  by  the  contnisl,  and  ga- 
zing up<in  her  wilh  mournful  IcMdernoss,  I  found 
Miy  .•imiM  half  opened,  to  clasp  her  lo  my  hoarl, 
wlilK-   the   words   dli.i    away  Inaudihiv   upon   mv 


lips, — "Thou,  too,  beattiful  maiden!  must  thon, 
too,  die  forever  ?" 

My  self-command,  I  felt,  had  nearly  deserted 
me.  Rising  abruptly  from  my  seat,  I  walked  to 
the  middle  of  the  deck,  and  stood,  for  some  mo- 
nient.s,  unconsciously  gazing  upon  one  of  those 
fires,  which — according  to  the  custom  of  all  who 
travel  by  night  on  the  Nile — our  boatmen  had 
kindled,  to  scarce  away  the  crocodiles  from  the 
vessel.  But  it  was  in  vain  that  I  endeavored  to 
Compose  my  spirit.  Every  eflTart  I  made  but  more 
deeply  convinced  me,  that,  till  the  mystery  which 
hung  round  that  maiden  should  be  solvsd — till  the 
secret,  with  which  my  own  bosom  labored,  should 
be  disclosed — it  was  fruitless  to  attempt  even  a 
semblance  of  tranquillity. 

My  resolution  was  therefore  taken  ; — lo  lay  open, 
at  once,  the  feelings  of  my  own  heart,  as  far  as 
such  revealment  might  be  hazarded,  without  start- 
ling the  timid  innocence  of  my  companion.  Thus 
resolved,  I  resumed  ray  seat,  with  more  composure, 
by  her  side ;  and  taking  from  my  bosom  the  small 
mirror  which  she  had  dropped  in  the  Temple,  and 
which  I  had  ever  since  worn  suspended  round  my 
neck,  presented  it  with  a  trembling  hand  to  her 
view.  The  boatmen  had  just  kindled  one  of  their 
night-fires  near  us,  and  its  light,  as  she  leaned  for- 
ward  to  look  at  the  mirror,  fell  upon  her  face. 

The  quick  blush  of  surprise  with  which  she 
recognised  it  to  be  hers,  and  her  look  of  bashful 
yet  eager  inquiry,  in  raising  her  eyes  to  mine,  were 
appeals  to  which  I  was  not,  of  course,  tardy  in  an- 
swering. Beginning  with  the  first  moment  when 
I  saw  her  in  the  Temple,  and  passing  hastily,  but 
with  words  that  burned  as  they  went,  over  the  im- 
pression which  she  had  then  left  upon  my  heart 
and  fancy,  I  proceeded  to  describe  the  particulars 
of  my  descent  into  the  pyramid — my  surprise  and 
adoration  at  the  door  of  the  chapel — my  encounter 
with  the  Trials  of  Initiation,  so  mysteriously  pre- 
pared fur  me,  and  all  the  various  visionary  wonders 
I  had  witnessed  in  that  region,  till  the  moment 
when  I  had  seen  her  steahng  from  under  Ihe  Veils 
to  approach  me. 

Though,  in  detailing  these  events,  I  li;id  said 
but  little  of  the  feelings  they  had  awakened  In  me 
— though  my  lips  had  sent  h:ick  many  a  scnienee, 
unuttered,  there  was  still  enough  that  could  neither 
be  subdued  nor  disguised,  and  which,  like  that 
light  from  under  the  veils  of  her  own  Isis,  glowed 
through  every  word  that  I  spoke.  When  I  tohi 
of  Ihe  scene  in  Ihe  chapel — of  Ihe  sileiil  interview 
which  I  had  witnessed  between  Ihe  ilead  and  the 
Hying — the  maiden  leaned  down  her  head  and  wept, 
H-  from  a  heart  full  of  lears.     Il  xeenu'd  a  pleasure 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


283 


to  lier,  however,  to  listen ;  and,  when  she  looked 
at  me  a£;;iin,  there  was  an  earnest  and  affectionate 
cordinlily  in  her  eyes,  as  if  the  knowledge  of  my 
having  been  present  at  that  mournful  st^ene  had 
opened  a  new  source  of  sympathy  and  intelligence 
between  us.  So  neighboring  are  the  fountains  of 
Love  and  of  Sorrow,  and  so  imperceptibly  do  they 
often  nifngle  their  streams. 

Litfle,  indeed,  as  I  was  guided  by  art  or  design, 
ill  my  manner  and  conduct  towards  this  innocent 
girl,  not  all  the  most  cxpcrienecd  gallantry  of  the 
G.-irden  could  have  dictated  a  policy  half  so  seduc- 
tive as  that  whicli  my  new  master,  Love,  now  taught 
me.  The  same  ardor  which,  if  shown  at  once,  and 
without  reserve,  might  probably  Iiavc  startled  a 
heart  so  little  prepnred  for  it,  being  now  cheeked 
and  softened  by  the  timidity  of  real  love,  won  its 
way  without  alarm,  and,  when  most  diffident  of 
success,  was  then  most  surely  on  its  way  to  triumph. 
Like  one  whose  .slumbers  are  gradually  broken  by 
sweet  music,  the  maiden's  heart  was  awakened 
without  being  disturbed.  She  followed  the  course 
of  the  charm,  unconscious  whitlier  it  led,  nor  was 
even  aware  of  the  flame  she  had  lighted  in  another's 
bosoin,  till  startled  by  the  reflection  of  it  glimmer- 
ing in  her  own. 

Impatient  as  I  was  to  appe.il  to  her  generosity 
and  sympathy,  for  a  similar  proof  of  confidence  to 
that  which  1  had  just  given,  the  night  was  now  too 
far  adv.anced  for  me  to  impose  upon  her  such  a  task. 
After  exchanging  a  few  words,  in  which,  though 
little  met  the  ear,  there  was,  on  both  sides,  a  tone 
and  manner  that  spoke  t^ir  more  than  language,  we 
took  a  lingering  leave  of  each  other  for  the  night, 
with  every  prospect,  I  fondly  hoped,  of  being  still 
together  in  our  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

It  was  so  near  the  dawn  of  day  when  we  parted 
that  we  found  the  snn  sinking  westward  when  we 
rejoined  each  other.  The  smile,  so  frankly  cordial, 
with  which  she  met  me,  might  have  been  taken  for 
the  greeting  of  a  long-mellowed  friendship,  did  not 
the  blush  and  the  cast-down  eyelid  that  followed 
betrav  symptoms  of  a  feeling  newer  and  less  calm. 
For  myself,  lightened  as  I  was,  in  some  degree,  by 
the  avowal  which  I  had  made,  I  was  yet  too  con- 
scious of  the  new  aspect  thus  given  to  our  inter- 
course, not  to  feel  some  little  alarm  at  the  prospect 
of  retnrninglf)  the  theme.  We  were  both,  therefore, 
alike  willing  to  allow  our  attention  to  be  diverted, 
by  the   variety  of  str.ange  objects  that  presented 


themselves  on  tl.e  way,  from  a  subject  that  evident- 
ly both  were  alike  unwilling  to  approach. 

The  river  was  now  all  stirring  with  commerce 
and  life.  Every  instant  we  met  with  boats  descend- 
ing the  current,  so  wholly  independent  of  aid  from 
sail  or  oar,  that  tlie  mariners  sat  idly  on  the  deck 
as  they  shot  along,  either  singing  or  playing  upon 
their  double-reeded  pipes.  The  greater  number  of 
these  boats  came  laden  with  those  large  emeralds, 
from  the  mine  in  the  desert,  whose  colors,  it  is 
said,  are  brightest  at  the  full  of  the  moon;  while 
some  brought  cargoes  of  frankincense  from  the 
acacia  groves  near  the  Red  Sea.  On  the  decks  of  • 
others,  that  had  been,  as  we  learned,  to  the  Golden 
Mountains'"'  beyond  Syene,  were  heajied  blocks  and 
fragments  of  that  sweet-smelling  wood,"  which  is 
yearly  washed  down,  by  the  Green  Nile  of  Nubia, 
at  the  season  of  the  floods. 

Our  companions  up  the  stream  were  far  less  nu- 
merous. Occasionally  a  boat,  returning  lightened 
from  the  fair  of  last  night,  shot  rapidly  past  us, 
with  those  high  sails  that  catch  every  breeze  from 
over  the  hills ; — while,  now  and  then,  we  overtook 
one  of  those  barges  full  of  bees,"  that  are  sent  at 
this  season  to  colonize  the  gardens  of  the  south, 
and  take  advantage  of  the  first  flowers  after  the 
inundation  has  passed  away. 

For  a  short  time,  this  constant  v.ariety  of  objects 
enabled  us  to  divert  so  far  our  conversation  as  to 
keep  it  from  lighting  upon  the  one,  sole  subject, 
round  which  it  constantly  hovered.  But  the  effort, 
as  might  be  expected,  was  not  long  successful. 
As  evening  advanced,  the  whole  scene  became 
more  solitary.  We  less  frequently  ventured  to 
look  upon  each  other,  and  our  intervals  of  silence 
grew  more  long. 

It  was  near  sunset,  when,  in  passing  a  small 
temple  on  the  shore,  whose  porticoes  were  now 
full  of  the  evening  light,  we  saw  issuing  from  a 
thicket  of  acanthus  near  if,  a  train  of  young  maid- 
ens gracefully  linked  together  in  the  dance  bv 
stems  of  the  lotus  held  at  arms'  length  between 
them.  Their  tresses  were  also  WTeathed  with  this  . 
g.ay  emblem  of  the  season,  and  in  such  profusion 
were  its  white  flowers  twisted  around  their  waists 
.and  arms,"  that  they  might  have  been  taken,  as 
they  lightly  bounded  along  the  b.ank,  for  Nymphs 
of  the  Nile,  then  freshly  risen  from  their  bright 
gardens  inder  the  wave. 

After  looking  for  a  few  minutes  at  this  sacred 
dance,  the  maiden  turned  away  her  eyes,  with  a 
look  of  pain,  as  if  the  remembrances  it  recalled 
were  of  no  welcome  nature.  This  moipentary  re- 
trospect, this  glimpse  into  the  p-ast,  appeared  to 
offer  a  sort  of  clue  to  the  secret  for  which  [  pant- 


284 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


ed ; — and  accordingly  I  proceeded,  as  gradually 
and  delicately  as  my  impatience  would  all'-w,  to 
avail  myself  of  the  opening.  Her  own  fralitness, 
however,  relieved  me  from  the  embarrassment  of 
much  questioning.  She  appeared  even  to  feel 
that  the  confidence  1  sought  was  due  to  me ;  and 
beyond  the  natural  hesitation  of  maidenly  modesty, 
not  a  shade  of  reserve  or  evasion  appeared. 

To  .attempt  to  repeat,  in  her  own  touching  words, 
■  the  simple  story  which  she  now  related  to  me, 
would  be  like  endeavoring  to  note  down  some 
unpremeditated  strain  of  music,  with  all  those 
fugitive  gnices,  those  felicities  of  the  moment, 
which  no  art  can  restore,  as  they  first  met  the  ear. 
From  a  feeling,  too,  of  humility,  she  had  omitted  in 
her  short  narrative  several  particulars  relating  to 
herself,  which  I  afterwards  learned ; — while  others, 
not  less  important,  she  but  slightly  passed  over, 
from  a  fear  of  ofiending  the  prejudices  of  her  hea- 
then hearer. 

I  shall,  therefore,  give  her  story,  not  as  she,  her- 
self, sketched  it,  but  as  it  was  afterwards  filled  up 
by  a  pious  and  venerable  hand — far,  far  more 
worthy  than  mine  of  being  associated  with  the 
memory  of  such  purity. 


STORY    OF    ALETHK. 

"  The  mother  of  this  maiden  was  the  beautiful 
Theora  of  Alexandria,  who,  though  a  native  of  that 
city,  was  descended  from  Grecian  parents.  When 
very  young,  Theora  was  one  of  the  seven  maidens 
selected  to  note  down  the  discourses  of  the  elo- 
quent Origen,  who,  at  that  period,  presided  over 
the  School  of  .Mexandria,  and  was  in  all  the  fulness 
of  his  fame  both  among  Pagans  and  Christians. 
Endowed  richly  with  the  learning  of  both  creeds, 
lie  brought  the  natural  light  of  philosophy  to  illus- 
tmte  the  mysteries  of  faiih,  and  was  then  only 
proud  of  his  knowledge  of  the  wisdom  ol'tliis  world, 
when  he  found  it  minister  nsel'nlly  to  llio  triumph 
of  divine  truth. 

"  Although  he  li.'id  conrlod  in  vain  llic  crown  of 
martyrdom,  it  was  held,  through  his  whole  life,  sus- 
pended over  Ills  head ;  and,  in  more  than  one  per- 
secution, ho  had  shown  himself  cheerfully  ready  to 
die  fur  that  holy  faith  which  he  lived  but  to  testify 
and  uphold.  On  one  of  these  occaMions,  his  tor- 
mentors, having  habited  him  like  an  K.gyplian  pricHt 
placed  him  upon  lln^  steps  of  the  'I'eniplc  of  Serapis, 
and  ccitiiiiianded  that  he  should,  in  the  manner  of 
the  I'agan  ministers,  present  palni-brniii:hes  to  the 
nnillilnde  who  went  up  into  the  shrinf-.  But  the 
coorajfeouM   ('hrislinii    disappoinlcd    tl  eir    views. 


Holding  forth  the  branches  with  an  unshrinking 
hand,  he  cried  aloud, '  Come  hither,  and  take  the 
branch, — not  of  an  Idol  Temple,  but  of  Christ.' 

"  So  indefatigable  was  this  learned  Father  in  his 
studies,  th-at,  wliile  composing  his  Commentary  on 
the  Scriptures,""  he  was  attended  by  seven  scribes 
or  notaries,  who  relieved  e.ich  other  in  recording 
the  dictates  of  his  eloquent  tongue  ;  while  the  same 
number  of  young  females,  selected  for  the  beauty 
of  their  penmanship,  were  employed  in  arranging 
and  transcribing  the  precious  leaves. 

"  Among  the  scribes  so  selected,  was  the  fair 
young  Theora,  whose  parents,  though  .att.ached  to 
the  Pagan  worship,  were  not  unwilling  to  profit  by 
the  .accomplishments  of  their  daughter,  thus  occu. 
pied  in  a  task,  which  they  looked  on  as  purel;' 
mechanical.  To  the  maid  herself,  however,  her 
employment  brought  far  other  feelings  and  conse- 
quences. She  read  anxiously  as  she  wrote,  and  the 
divine  truths,  so  eloquently  illustrated,  found  their 
way,  by  degrees,  from  the  page  to  her  heart.  Deeply, 
too,  as  the  written  words  afl'ected  her,  the  discourses 
from  the  lips  of  the  great  teacher  himself  which 
she  had  frequent  opportunities  of  hearing,  sunk 
still  more  deeply  into  her  mind.  There  was,  at  once 
a  sublimity  and  gentleness  in  his  views  of  religion, 
which,  to  the  tender  hearts  and  lively  imaginations 
of  women,  never  failed  to  appeal  with  convincing 
power.  Accordingly,  the  list  of  his  female  pnpils 
was  numerous  ;  and  the  names  of  Barbara,  Juliana, 
Herais,  and  others,  bear  honorable  testimony  to  his 
inlluence  over  th.it  sex. 

"  To  Theora  the  feeling,  with  which  his  discourses 
inspireil  her,  was  like  a  new  soul — a  consciousness 
of  spiritual  existence,  never  before  felt.  I!y  the 
eloquence  of  the  comment  she  was  awakened  into 
admiration  of  the  text ;  and  when,  by  the  kindness 
of  a  Catechumen  of  the  school,  who  had  been  struck 
by  her  innocent  zeal,  she,  for  the  first  time,  became 
possessor  of  a  copy  of  the  Scriptures,  she  could  not 
sleep  for  thinking  of  her  sacred  treasure.  With  a 
mixture  of  pleasure  and  fo;u'  she  hid  it  froni  all  eyes, 
and  was  like  one  wlm  had  received  a  divine  guest 
under  her  roof,  and  fell  fearful  of  betraying  its  di- 
vinity to  the  world. 

"A  heart  ho  awake  would  have  been  with  ease 
secured  to  the  faith,  had  her  opportunities  of  hearini; 
the  sacred  word  continued.  But  circnmstanceo 
arose  to  ileprivc  her  of  this  advantage.  The  mild 
Origen.  long  harassed  and  Ihwarled  in  his  labors  l)y 
the  tyranny  of  Uenietrius,  llishii|)  of  .\h'xanilria, 
wiM  obliged  to  relinqnisli  his  school  mid  lly  from 
ligypU  'I'he  occupation  of  the  f.dr  'cribe  was, 
therefore,  Ht  mend:  her  intercourse  with  the  foU 
lowers  oftlie  new  fiith  ceased  ;  and  the  grouin|;  en 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


235 


thnsiasin  of  lier  heart  gave  way  to  more  worldly 
impressions. 

'•  Among  other  earthly  feelings,  love  conduced 
not  a  little  to  wean  her  thoughts  from  the  true  re- 
ligion. While  still  very  young,  she  became  the  wife 
of  a  Greek  adventurer,  who  had  come  to  Egypt  as 
a  purchaser  of  that  rich  tapestry,"  in  whieli  the 
needles  of  Persia  are  rivalled  by  the  looms  of  the 
Nile.  Having  taken  his  young  bride  to  Memphis, 
which  was  still  the  great  mart  of  this  merchandise, 
he  there,  in  the  midst  of  his  speculations,  died — 
leaving  his  widow  on  the  point  of  becoming  a 
mother,  while,  as  yet,  but  in  her  nineteenth  year. 

"  For  single  and  unprotected  females,  it  has 
been,  at  all  times,  a  favorite  resource,  to  seek  for 
employment  in  the  service  of  some  of  those  great 
temples  by  which  so  large  a  portion  of  the  wealth 
and  power  of  Egypt  is  absorbed.  In  most  of  these 
institutions  there  exists  an  order  of  Priestesses, 
"vhich,  though  not  hereditary,  like  that  of  the 
Priests,  is  provided  for  by  ample  endowments, 
and  confers  that  dignity  and  station,  with  which, 
in  a  government  so  theocratic,  Religion  is  sure  to 
invest  even  her  humblest  handmaids.  Prom  the 
general  policy  of  the  Sacred  College  of  Memphis, 
we  may  take  for  granted,  that  an  accomplished 
female,  like  Theora,  found  but  little  difficulty  in 
being  elected  one  of  the  Prieste.sses  of  Isis ;  and  it 
was  in  the  service  of  the  subterranean  shrines  that 
her  ministry  chiefly  lay. 

"  Here,  a  month  or  two  after  her  admission,  she 
gave  birth  to  Alethe,  who  first  opened  her  eyes 
among  the  unholy  pomps  and  specious  miracles  of 
this  mysterious  region.  Though  Theora,  as  we 
have  seen,  had  been  diverted  by  other  feelings  from 
her  first  enthusiasm  for  the  Christian  faith,  she  had 
never  wholly  forgot  the  impressio])  then  made  upon 
her.  The  sacred  volume,  which  the  pious  Cate- 
chumen had  given  her,  was  still  treasured  with 
rati  ;  and,  though  she  seldom  opened  its  pages, 
tliere  was  always  an  idea  of  sanctity  associated 
with  it  in  her  memory,  and  often  would  she  sit  to 
look  upon  it  with  reverential  pleasure,  recalling 
the  happiness  she  had  felt  when  it  was  first  made 
her  own. 

"The  leisure  of  her  new  retreat,  and  the  lone 
melancholy  of  widowhood,  led  her  still  more  fre- 
quently to  indulge  in  such  thouglits,  and  to  recur 
to  those  consoling  truths  which  she  had  heard  in 
the  school  of  Alexandria.  She  now  began  to  pe- 
ruse eagerly  the  sacred  volume,  drinking  deep  of 
the  fountain  of  which  she  before  but  tasted,  and 
feeling — what  thousands  of  mourners,  since  her, 
have  felt — that  (Christianity  is  tlie  true  and  only 
religion  of  the  sorrowful. 


1 


"  This  study  of  her  secret  hours  became  still 
rr»  'e  dear  to  her,  as  well  from  the  peril  with  which, 
at  that  period,  it  wa.s  attended,  as  from  the  neces- 
sity she  felt  herself  under  of  concealing  from  those 
around  her  the  precious  light  that  had  been  thus 
kindled  in  her  own  heart.  Too  timid  to  encounter 
the  fierce  persecution  which  awaited  all  who  were 
suspected  of  a  leaning  to  Christianity,  she  continued 
to  officiate  in  the  pomps  and  ceremonies  of  th<?Tem- 
ple  ; — though,  often,  with  such  remi>rse  of  soul,  that 
she  would  pause,  in  the  midst  of  the  rites,  and  ])ray 
inwardly  to  God,  that  he  would  forgive  this  prof- 
anation of  his  Si)irit. 

"In  the  mean  time  her  daughter,  the  young 
Alethe,  grew  up  still  lovelier  than  herself,  and  add- 
ed, every  hour,  both  to  her  happiness  and  her 
fears.  When  arrived  at  a  sufficient  age,  she  was 
taught,  like  the  other  children  of  the  Priestesses, 
to  take  a  share  in  the  service  and  ceremonies  of  the 
shrines.  The  duty  of  some  of  these  young  servi- 
tors'" was  to  look  after  the  flowers  for  the  altar ; — 
of  others,  to  take  care  that  the  sacred  vases  were 
filled  every  day  with  fresh  water  from  the  Nile. 
The  task  of  some  was  to  preserve,  in  perfect  polish, 
those  silver  images  of  the  Moon  which  the  priests 
carried  in  processions ;  while  others  were,  as  we 
have  seen,  employed  in  feeding  the  consecrated 
animals,  and  in  keeping  their  plumes  and  scales 
bright  for  the  admiring  eyes  of  their  worshippers. 

"  The  office  allotted  to  Alethe — the  most  honor- 
able of  these  minor  ministries — was  to  wait  upon 
the  sacred  birds  of  the  Moon,  to  feed  them  daily 
with  those  eggs  from  the  Nile  which  they  loved, 
and  provide  for  their  use  that  purest  water,  which 
alone  these  delicate  birds  will  touch.  This  em- 
ployment was  the  delight  of  her  childish  hours; 
and  that  ibis,  which  Alciphron  (the  Epicnrean)  saw 
her  dance  round  in  the  Temple,  was,  of  all  the 
sacred  flock,  her  especial  favorite,  and  had  been 
daily  fondled  and  fed  by  her  from  infancy. 

"Music,  as  being  one  of  the  chief  spells  of  this 
enchanted  region,  was  an  .accomplishment  required 
of  .all  its  ministrants ;  and  the  harp,  the  lyre,  .and 
the  s.aered  flute,  sounded  nowhere  so  sweetly  as 
through  these  subterranean  gardens.  The  chief 
object,  indeed,  in  the  education  oftlie  youth  of  the 
Temple,  was  to  fit  them,  by  every  grace  of  art  and 
nature,  to  give  eft'ect  to  the  illnsion  of  those  shows 
and  phantasms,  in  which  the  entire  charm  and  secret 
of  Initiiition  lay. 

"  Among  the  me.ans  employed  to  support  the 
old  system  of  superstition,  ag.ainst  the  infidelity 
.and,  still  more,  the  new  Faith  that  men.aeed  it,  was 
an  increased  display  of  splendor  and  marvels  in 
those  mysteries  for  which  Egypt  has  so  long  been 


286 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


celebrated.  Of  these  ceremonies  so  many  imita- 
tions had,  under  various  names  multiplied  through- 
out Europe,  that  at  length  the  parent  superstition 
ran  a  risk  of  being  eclipsed  by  its  progeny ;  and,  in 
order  still  to  rank  as  the  first  Priestliood  in  tlie 
world,  it  became  necessary  for  those  of  Egypt  to 
remain  still  the  best  impostors. 

"  Accordingly,  every  contrivance  that  art  could 
devise,  or  labor  execute — every  resource  that  the 
wonderful  knowledge  of  tlie  Priests,  in  pyrotechny, 
mechanics,  and  dioptrics,  could  command — was 
brought  into  action  to  heighten  the  effect  of  their 
mysteries,  and  give  an  air  of  enchantment  to  every 
thing  connected  with  them. 

"Tlie  final  scene  of  beatification — the  Elysium, 
into  which  the  Initiate  was  received — formed,  of 
course,  the  leading  .nttr-action  of  these  ceremonies; 
and  to  render  it  captivating  alike  to  the  senses  of 
the  man  of  pleasure,  and  the  imagination  of  the 
spiritualist,  was  the  great  object  to  wliich  the  at- 
tention of  the  Sacred  College  was  devoted.  By 
the  influence  of  the  Priests  of  Memphis  over  those 
of  the  other  Temples  they  had  succeeded  in  extend- 
ing their  subterranean  frontier,  both  to  the  north 
and  south,  so  as  to  include,  within  tlieir  ever-lighted 
Paradise,  some  of  the  gardens  excavated  for  the 
use  of  the  other  Twelve  Shrines. 

"The  beauty  of  the  young  Alethe,  the  touching 
sweetness  of  her  voice,  and  the  sensibility  that 
breathed  throughout  her  every  look  and  movement, 
rendered  her  a  powerful  auxiliary  in  such  appeals 
lo  the  imagination.  She  had  been,  accordingly,  in 
her  very  childhood,  selected  from  among  her  fair 
companions,  as  the  most  worthy  representJitive  of 
spiritual  loveliness,  in  those  pictures  of  Elysium — 
those  scenes  of  another  world — by  which  not  only 
the  fancy,  but  the  reason,  of  the  excited  Aspirants 
was  dazzled. 

"To  the  innocent  child  herself  IhcBe  shows 
Were  pastime.  But  to  Tlieom,  who  knew  too  well 
the  imposition  to  which  tjiey  were  subservient,  this 
profanation  of  all  that  she  loved  was  a  perpetual 
i-f  iirce  of  horror  and  remorse.  Often  would  she 
— when  Aletho_ stood  smiling  before  her,  arrayed, 
perliap.s,  lis  a  spirit  of  the  Elysian  world — turn 
awny,  with  a  shudder,  from  the  happy  child,  almost 
fancying  she  saw  already  the  shadows  of  sin  de- 
scending over  that  innocent  brow,  as  she  gazed 
upon  it. 

"  As  the  intellect  of  the  young  maid  became 
more  active  and  ln(piiring,  the  apprehensions  and 
diniunlties  of  the  mother  iticroa.scd.  Afraid  to 
roinmunicnio  her  own  precious  secret,  lest  she 
ulioiijd  involve  licr  child  in  the  dangers  that  on- 
con<|i.'WNe(l  it,  she  yot  felt  it  to  be  no  less  a  cruelly 


than  a  crime  to  leave  her  wholly  immersed  in  the 
darkness  of  Paganism.  In  this  dilemma,  the  only 
resource  that  remained  to  her  was  to  select,  and 
disengage  from  the  dross  that  surrounded  them, 
those  pure  particles  of  truth  which  lie  at  the 
bottom  of  all  religions ; — those  feelings,  rather 
than  doctrines,  of  which  God  has  never  left  his 
creatures  destitute,  and  which,  in  all  ages,  have 
furnished,  to  those  who  sought  after  it,  some  clue 
to  his  glory. 

"  The  unity  and  perfect  goodness  of  the  Creator ; 
the  fall  of  the  hum.an  soul  into  corruption,  its  sfrurr- 
gles  with  the  darkness  of  this  world,  and  its  final 
redemption  and  reascent  to  the  source  of  all  spirit; 
— these  natural  solutions  of  the  problem  of  our  exist- 
ence, these  elementary  grounds  of  all  religion  and 
virtue,  which  Theora  had  heard  illustrated  by  her 
Christian  teacher,  lay  also,  she  knew,  veiled  under, 
the  theology  of  Egypt;  and  to  impress  them,  in 
their  abstract  purity,  upon  the  mind  of  her  suscej)- 
tible  pupil,  was,  in  default  of  more  heavenly  lights, 
her  sole  ambition  and  care. 

"  It  was  generally  their  habit,  after  devoting 
their  mornings  to  the  service  of  the  Temple,  to 
pass  their  evenings  and  nights  in  one  of  those  small 
mansions  above  ground,  allotted,  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  Sacred  College,  to  some  of  the  most 
favored  Priestesses.  Here,  out  of  the  reach  of 
those  gross  superstitions,  which  pursued  them,  at 
every  step,  below,  she  endeavored  to  inform,  as  far 
as  she  could  venture,  the  mind  of  her  beloved  girl ; 
and  found  it  lean  as  natur.ally  and  instinctively  to 
truth,  as  plants  long  shut  up  in  darkness  will, 
when  light  is  let  in  upon  them,  incline  themselves 
to  its  rays. 

"  Frequently,  as  they  sat  together  on  the  terrjico 
at  night,  .admiring  that  glorious  assembly  of  stars, 
whose  beauty  first  misled  mankind  into  idolatry, 
she  would  explain  to  the  young  listener  by  what 
gradations  of  error  it  was  that  the  worship,  thus 
transferred  from  the  Creator  to  the  creature,  sunk 
still  lower  and  lower  in  the  .scale  of  being,  till 
man,  at  length,  ))rcsunied  to  deify  man,  and  by  the 
most  monstrous  of  inveisions,  heaven  was  made 
the  mere  mirror  of  earth,  rellecting  back  all  its 
most  earthly  features. 

"Even  in  the  Temple  itself,  the  anxious  nuitlu,r 
would  endeavcM'  to  interpose  her  purer  lessdiis 
among  the  idolatrous  ceremonies  in  which  they 
were  engaged.  When  the  favorite  ibis  nl'  Alethe 
took  its  stjilioii  upon  the  shrine,  and  the  young 
maiden  was  "seen  approaching,  with  :ill  the  gravity 
of  worship,  the  very  bird  which  slio  hud  played 
with  but  an  hour  before — when  the  acacia-bough. 
which  she  herself  had   plucked,  seemed  to  acijuu- 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


287 


a  sudder  sacredness  in  lier  eyes,  as  soon  as  the 
priest  ha  1  breathed  upon  it — on  all  such  occasions 
Tlieora,  (hough  with  fear  and  trembliiif^,  would 
venture  to  suggest  to  the  youthful  worshipper  the 
distinction  that  should  be  drawn  between  the  senai- 
ble  object  of  adoration,  and  that  spiritual,  unseen 
Deity,  of  which  it  was  but  the  remembrancer  or 
type. 

"  With  sorrow,  however,  she  soon  discovered 
that,  in  thus  but  partially  letting  in  light  upon  a 
nii)id  far  too  ardent  to  rest  satisfied  with  such  glim- 
merings, she  but  bewildered  the  lieart  which  she 
meant  to  guide,  and  cut  down  the  feeble  hope 
around  which  its  faith  twined,  without  substituting 
any  other  support  in  its  place.  As  the  beauty,  too, 
of  Alethe  began  to  attract  all  eyes,  new  fears  crowd- 
ed upon  the  mother's  heart ; — fears,  in  which  she 
was  but  too  nuu;h  justified  by  the  characters  of 
some  of  those  around  her. 

"  In  this  sacred  abode,  as  may  easily  be  con- 
ceived, morality  did  not  always  go  hand  in  hand 
with  religion.  The  hypocritical  and  ambitious  Or- 
cus,  who  was,  at  this  period.  High  Priest  of  Mem- 
pliis,  was  a  man,  in  every  respect,  qualified  to  pre- 
side over  a  system  of  such  splendid  fraud.  He  had 
reached  that  eflective  time  of  life,  when  enough  of 
the  warmth  and  vigor  of  youth  remains  to  give  an- 
imation to  the  counsels  of  age.  But,  in  his  instance, 
youth  had  left  only  the  baser  passions  behind,  while 
age  but  brought  with  it  a  more  refined  maturity  of 
mischief  The  advantages  of  a  faith  appealing  al- 
most wholly  to  the  senses,  were  well  understood 
by  him  ;  nor  had  he  failed  either  to  discover  that,  in 
order  to  render  religion  subservient  to  his  own  in- 
terests, he  must  shape  it  adroitly  to  the  interests 
and  passions  of  others. 

"  The  state  of  anxiety  and  remorse  in  which  the 
mind  of  the  hapless  Theora  was  kept  by  the  scenes, 
however  artfully  veiled,  which  she  daily  witnessed 
around  her,  became  at  length  intolerable.  No  perils 
that  the  cause  of  truth  could  bring  with  it  would  be 
half  so  dreadful  as  this  endurance  of  sinfulness  and 
deceit.  Her  child  was,  as  yet,  piu'e  and  innocent; 
but,  without  that  sentinel  of  the  soul,  Religion,  how 
long  might  she  continue  so? 

"This  thought  at  once  decided  her:  all  other 
fears  vanished  before  it.  She  resolved  instantly  to 
lay  open  to  Aletlie  the  whole  secret  of  her  soul ;  to 
make  this  child,  who  was  her  only  hope  on  earth, 
the  sharer  of  all  her  hopes  in  heaven,  and  then  fly 
with  her,  as  soon  as  possible,  from  this  unhallowed 
spot,  to  the  fjir  desert — to  the  mountains — to  any 
place,  however  desolate,  where  God  and  the  con- 
Hciousness  of  innocence  might  be  with  tliem. 

"The  promptitude  «ith  which  her  young  pupil 


caught  from  her  the  divine  truths  was  even  beyond 
what  she  expected.  It  wan  like  the  lighting  of  one 
torcli  .at  another,  so  prepared  was  Alethe's  mind  for 
the  illumination.  Amply,  indeed,  was  the  anxious 
mother  now  repaid  for  all  her  misery,  by  this  per- 
fect communion  of  love  and  faith,  and  by  the  delight 
with  which  she  saw  her  beloved  child — like  the 
young  antelope,  when  first  led  by  her  dam  to  the 
well — drink  thirstily  by  lier  side,  at  the  source  of 
all  life  and  truth. 

"  But  such  happiness  was  got  long  to  last.  The 
anxieties  that  Thcrora  had  sulTered  began  to  prey 
upon  her  health.  She  felt  her  strength  daily  de- 
cline ;  and  the  thoughts  of  leaving,  alone  and  un- 
guarded in  the  world,  that  treasure  which  she  had 
just  devoted  to  Heaven,  gave  her  a  feeling  of  despair 
which  but  hastened  the  ebb  of  life.  Had  she  put 
in  practice  her  resolution  of  flying  from  this  place, 
her  child  ruight  have  been  now  beyond  the  reach  of 
all  she  dreaded,  and  in  the  solitude  of  the  desert 
would  have  found  at  least  safety  from  wrong.  But 
the  very  happiness  sh^e  had  felt  in  her  new  task  di- 
verted her  from  this  project : — and  it  was  now  too 
late,  for  she  was  already  dying. 

"She  still  continued,  however,  to  conceal  the 
state  of  her  health  from  the  tender  and  sanguine 
girl,  who,  though  observing  the  traces  of  disease  or 
her  mother's  cheek,  little  knew  that  they  were  the 
hastening  footsteps  of  death,  nor  even  thought  oi 
the  possibility  of  ever  losing  what  was  so  dear  tr 
her.  Too  soon,  however,  the  moment  of  separa- 
tion  arrived;  and  while  the  anguish  and  dismay  of 
Alethe  wei'e  in  proportion  to  the  security  in  which 
she  h.ad  indulged,  Theora,  too,  felt,  with  bitter  re- 
gret, that  she  had  sacrificed  to  her  fond  consideration 
much  precious  time,  and  that  there  now  remained 
but  a  few  brief  and  painful  moments,  for  the  com- 
munication of  all  those  wishes  and  instructions  on 
which  the  future  destiny  of  the  young  orphan  de- 
pended. 

"  She  h.ad,  indeed,  time  for  little  more  than  to 
phace  the  sacred  volume  solemnly  in  her  hands;  to 
implore  that  she  would,  at  all  risks,  fly  from  this 
unholy  place ;  and,  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the 
mountains  of  the  Said,  to  name,  with  her  last 
breath,  the  venerable  man,  to  whom,  under  Heaven, 
she  looked  for  the  protection  .and  salvation  of  her 
child. 

"  The  first  violence  of  feeling  to  which  Aletlie 
gave  way  was  succeeded  by  a  fixed  _nd  tearless 
grief,  which  rendered  her  insensible,  for  some  time, 
to  the  dangers  of  her  situation.  Her  sole  comfort 
consisted  in  visiting  that  monumental  chapel  where 
the  beautiful  remains  of  Theiu-a  lay.  There,  niglu 
after  night,  in  contemplation  of  those  placid  fea- 


288 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


tures,  and  in  prayers  for  the  peace  of  the  departed 
spirit,  did  she  pass  her  lonely  and — ^however  sad 
they  were — happiest  liours.  Though  the  mystic 
emblems  that  decorated  that  chapel  were  but  ill- 
suited  to  the  s!  amber  of  a  Christian,  there  was  one 
among  them,  the  Cross,  which,  by  a  remarkable 
coincidence,  is  an  emblem  alike  common  to  the 
Gentile  and  the  Christian — being,  to  the  former,  a 
shadowy  type  of  that  immortality,  of  which,  to  the 
latter,  it  is  a  substantial  and  assuring  pledge. 

"  Nightly,  upon  tliis  cross,  which  she  had  often 
Been  her  lost  mother  kiss,  did  she  breathe  forth  a 
solemn  and  heartfelt  vow,  never  to  abandon  the 
foith  which  that  departed  spirit  had  bequeathed  to 
her.  To  such  enthusiasm,  indeed,  did  her  heart  at 
such  moments  rise,  that,  but  for  the  last  injunctions 
from  tliose  pallid  lips,  she  would,  at  once,  have 
nvuucd  liL-r  perilous  secret,  and  boldly  pronounced 
the  words,  '  I  am  a  Christian,'  among  those  benights 
ed  shrines ! 

"  But  the  will  of  her,  to  whom  she  owed  more 
than  life,  was  to  be  obeyed.  To  escape  from  this 
haunt  of  superstition  must  now,  she  felt,  be  her 
first  object ;  and,  in  planning  the  means  of  effecting 
it,  her  mind,  day  and  night,  was  employed.  It  was 
with  a  loathing  not  to  be  concealed,  that  she  now 
found  herself  compelled  to  resume  her  idolatrous 
services  at  the  shrine.  To  some  of  the  offices  of 
Theora  she  succeeded,  as  is  the  custom,  by  inher- 
itance ;  and  in  tlie  performance  of  these  tasks — 
sanctified  as  they  were  in  her  eyes  by  the  pure 
spirit  she  had  seen  engaged  in  them — there  was  a 
sort  of  melancholy  pleasure  in  which  lier  sorrow 
found  relief  But  the  part  she  was  again  forced  to 
take,  in  the  scenic  shows  of  the  Mysteries,  brought 
with  it  a  sense  of  degradation  and  wrong  which  she 
could  no  longer  endure. 

"Already  had  she  formed,  in  her  own  mind,  a 
plan  of  escape,  in  which  her  .-icquaintance  with  all 
the  windings  of  this  mystic  realm  gave  her  confi- 
dence, when  the  solemn  reception  of  .Mciphron,  as 
an  Initiate,  took  place. 

"  From  the  first  moment  of  the  landing  of  that 
philosopher  at  Alexandria,  he  had  become  an  object 
of  suspicion  and  watchfulness  to  the  inquisitorial 
Orcus,  whom  philosophy,  in  any  shape,  naturally 
!  larmed,  but  to  whom  the  sect  over  which  the 
young  Alheni.'in  presided  WMsparlicuiarly  obnoxious. 
The  accomplishmentH  of  Alciphron,  his  popularity, 
wherever  he  went,  and  the  bold  freedom  with  which 
lie  indulged  his  wit  at  the  expense  of  religion,  were 
ull  f.iithfully  reported  to  the  High  Priest  by  his 
•ipii's,  iind  awakened  in  his  mind  no  kindly  feelings 
towards  the  Htrun);er.  In  dealing  with  an  infidel, 
•  ucii   a  piTHiiiiage  :h  OrcuB  uould   know   iiu  other 


alternative  but  that  of  either  converting  or  destroy 
ing  him :   and  though  his  spite,  as  a  man,  would 
have  been  more  gratified  by  the  latter  proceeding, 
his  pride,  as  a  priest,  led  him  to  prefer  the  triumph 
of  the  former. 

'•  The  first  descent  of  the  Epicurean  into  the 
pyramid  became  .speedily  known,  and  the  alarm  was 
immediately  given  to  the  priests  below.  As  soon 
as  tliey  had  discovered  that  the  young  philosopher 
of  Athens  was  the  intruder,  and  that  he  not  only 
still  continued  to  linger  round  the  pyramid,  but 
was  observed  to  look  often  and  wistfully  towards 
the  portal,  it  was  concluded  that  his  curiosity  would 
impel  him  to  try  a  second  descent;  and  Orcus, 
blessing  the  good  chance  which  h.ad  thus  brought 
the  wild  bird  into  his  net,  resolved  not  to  suffer  an 
opportunity  so  precious  to  be  w.isted. 

"  Instantly  the  whole  of  that  wonderful  machi- 
nery, by  «'liich  the  phantasms  and  illusions  of  Initia- 
tion are  produced,  were  put  in  active  preparation 
throughout  that  subterranean  realm ;  and  the  in- 
creased stir  and  vigilance  awakened  among  its  in- 
mates, by  this  more  than  ordinary  di-splay  of  the 
resources  of  priestcraft,  rendered  the  accomplish- 
ment of  Alethe's  purpose,  at  such  a  moment,  pecu- 
liarly ditiicult.  Wholly  ignorant  of  the  important 
share  which  il  liad  been  her  own  fortune  to  take  in 
attracting  the  young  philosopher  down  to  this  re- 
gion, she  heard  of  him  vaguely,  as  the  Chief  of  a 
great  Grecian  sect,  who  had  been  led,  by  either 
curiosity  or  accident,  to  expose  himself  to  the  first 
trials  of  Initiation  ;  .and  whom  the  priest-s,  she  could 
see,  were  endeavoring  to  ensnare  in  their  toils,  by 
every  art  and  lure  with  which  their  dark  science  had 
gifted  them. 

"  To  her  mind,  the  ini:ige  of  a  philosopher,  such 
as  Alciphron  had  been  represented  to  her,  camo  as- 
sociated with  ideas  of  age  and  reverence;  and,  more 
than  once,  the  possibility  of  his  being  made  Instru- 
mental to  her  deliverance  Hashed  a  hope  .ncross  bet 
heart  in  which  she  could  not  refrain  from  indulging. 
Often  had  she  been  told  by  Theora  of  the  many 
Gentile  sages,  who  had  laid  their  wisdom  down 
humbly  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross ;  and  though  this 
Initiate,  she  feared,  could  hardly  be  among  the 
nund)er,  yet  the  rumors  which  she  had  gathered 
from  the  servants  of  the  Temple  of  his  undisguised 
contempt  for  the  errors  of  Heathenism,  led  her  to 
hope  .she  migli't  find  tolerance,  if  not  sympathy,  in 
her  appeal  to  him. 

"  Nor  WHS  it  .solely  with  n  view  to  her  own  chanco 
of  deliverance  that  she  thus  coinu-cted  him  in  hei  ' 
tlunighls  with  the  plan  which  she  meililaled.     The 
look    of   pronil   and    Helf-gralnlating   in.dire,   with 
which  the  Higli  friest  hi  I  [uenlioned  llii.s  'Inlidel, 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


289 


as  ill!  styled  him,  when  giving  iicr  instructions  in 
the  scene  she  was  to  act  before  tlie  jjliilosoplicr  in 
tlic  valley,  too  phiinly  informed  lier  of  the  dark 
destiny  that  hung  over  him.  She  knew  how  many 
were  the  hapless  candidates  for  Initiation  who  had 
been  doomed  to  a  durance  worse  than  that  of  the 
grave,  for  but  a  word,  a  whisper,  breathed  against 
the  sacred  absurdities  that  they  witnessed ;  and  it 
was  evident  to  her  that  the  venerable  Greek  (for 
such  her  fancy  represented  Alciphron)  was  no  less 
interested  in  escaping  from  the  snares  and  perils 
tf  this  region  than  herself. 

"  Her  own  resolution  was,  at  all  events,  fixed. 
That  visionary  scene,  in  which  slic  li.ad  .appeared 
before  Alciphron — little  knowing  liow  ardent  were 
the  heart  and  imagin.ation  over  which  her  beauty, 
at  that  moment,  exercised  its  influence — was,  she 
solemnly  resolved,  the  very  last  unholy  service 
that  superstition  or  impo.sture  should  ever  com- 
n»"nd  of  her. 

••  On  the  following  night  the  Aspirant  w.as  to 
w.atch  in  tlie  Great  Temple  of  Isis.  Such  an  op- 
portunity of  appro.acIiing  and  addressing  him  might 
never  come  again.  Should  he,  from  compassion 
for  her  situation,  or  a  sense  of  the  danger  of  his 
own,  consent  to  lend  his  aid  to  her  flight,  most 
-'adly  would  she  accept  it — well  assured  that  no 
danger  or  tre.ncliery  she  might  risk  could  be  half  so 
odious  and  fearful  as  those  wliich  she  left  behind. 
Sliould  he,  on  the  contrary,  reject  tlie  proposal, 
her  determination  w.as  equally  fixed — to  trust  to 
that  God  whose  eye  watches  over  the  innocent,  and 
go  forth  alone. 

"  To  reach  the  island  in  Lake  Moeris  was  her 
first  great  object ;  and  there  occurred  fortunately, 
at  this  lime,  a  mode  of  efiecting  her  purpose,  by 
which  both  the  difficulty  and  dangers  of  the  attempt 
would  be  much  diminished.  The  d.ay  of  the  annu,al 
visit.ation  of  the  High  Priest  to  the  Pl.ace  of  Weep- 
ing"'— as  that  island  in  the  centre  of  the  Lake  is 
called — was  now  fast  approaching;  and  Aiethe 
knew  th.at  the  self-moving  car,  by  which  the  High 
Priest  and  one  of  the  Hieropli.ants  are  conveyed 
down  to  the  chambers  under  the  Lake,  stood  then 
w.aitiiig  in  readiness.  By  availing  herself  of  this 
expedient,  she  would  gain  the  double  advantage 
both  of  facilitating  her  own  flight,  and  retarding 
the  speed  of  her  pursuers. 

"  Having  paid  a  l.ast  visit  to  the  tomb  of  her  be- 
loved mother,  and  wept  there,  long  and  p.ission.ately, 
till  her  heart  almost  failed  in  the  struggle — having 
paused,  too,  to  give  a  kiss  to  her  favorite  ibis, 
which,  although  too  much  a  Christian  to  worship, 
she  was  still  child  enough  to  love — she  went  early, 
with  a  trembling  step,  to  the  Sanctuary,  and  there 
VOL.  11. — 37 


hid  herself  in  one  of  the  recessci  of  the  Shrine. 
Her  intention  was  to  steal  out  from  thence  to 
Alciphron,  while  it  was  yet  dark,  and  before  th* 
illumination  of  the  great  Statue  behind  the  Veils 
li.ad  begun.  But  her  fears  del.ayed  her  till  it  was 
almost  too  late ; — already  was  the  image  lighted 
up,  iind  still  she  remained  trembling  in  her  hiding, 
place. 

"  In  a  few  minutes  more  the  mighty  Veils  would 
h.ave  been  withdrawn,  and  the  glories  of  that  scene 
of  enchantment  laid  open — when,  at  length,  sum- 
moning all  her  courage,  and  taking  .advantage  of  a 
momentary  absence  of  those  employed  in  preparing 
this  splendid  mockery,  she  stole  from  under  the 
Veil,  and  found  her  w.ay,  through  the  gloom,  to 
the  Epicurean.  There  was  then  no  time  for  ex- 
planation ; — she  had  but  to  trust  to  the  simple 
words,  'Follow,  and  be  silent;'  and  the  implicit 
readiness  with  which  .she  found  them  obeyed  filled 
her  with  no  less  surprise  than  the  philosopher  him- 
self had  felt  in  hearing  them. 

"In  a  second  or  two  they  were  on  their  way 
through  the  subterranean  windings,  leaving  the 
ministers  of  Isis  to  w,aste  their  .splendors  on  vacan- 
cy, through  a  long  series  of  miracles  and  visions 
which  they  now  exhibited — unconscious  that  he, 
whom  they  were  taking  such  pains  to  dazzle,  was 
alre.ady,  under  the  guidance  of  the  young  Christian, 
far  removed  beyond  the  re.ach  of  their  deceiving 
spells." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Such  was  the  singular  story,  of  which  this  inno^ 
cent  girl  now  g.ave  me,  in  her  own  touching  lan- 
guage, the  outline. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  as  she  finished  hei 
narrative.  Fearful  of  encountering  the  expression 
of  those  feelings  with  which,  she  could  not  but  ob- 
serve, I  was  aflectcd  by  her  recital,  scarcely  h.ad  sho 
concluded  the  last  sentence,  when,  rising  .abruptly 
from  her  se.at,  she  hurried  into  the  pavilion,  leaving 
me  with  the  words  fast  crowding  for  utterance  to 
my  lips. 

Oppressed  by  the  various  emotions  thus  sent 
back  upon  my  heart,  I  lay  down  on  the  deck  in  a 
st.ate  of  agitation,  that  defied  even  the  most  distan; 
approaches  of  sleep.  While  every  word  she  h.ad 
uttered,  every  feeling  she  expressed,  but  ministered 
new  fuel  to  th.at  fl.ame  which  consumed  me,  and  to 
describe  which,  passion  is  far  too  weak  a  word, 
there  was  also  much  of  her  recital  that  disheart- 
ened and  alarmed  me.     To  find  a  Christian  thus 


290 


MOOEE'S  WORKS 


under  the  garb  of  a  Memphian  Priestess,  was  a 
discover)'  that,  had  my  heart  been  less  deeply  in- 
terested, would  but  have  more  powerfully  stimula- 
ted my  imagination  and  pride.  But,  when  I  recol- 
lected the  austerity  of  the  faith  she  had  embraced 

the  tender  and  sacred  tie  associated  with  It  in 

her  memory,  and  the  devotion  of  woman's  heart  to 
objects  thus  consecrated — her  very  perfections  but 
widened  the  distance  between  us,  and  all  that  most 
kindled  my  passion  at  the  same  time  chilled  my 
hopes. 

Were  we  to  be  left  to  each  other,  as  on  this 
silent  river,  in  such  undisturbed  communion  of 
thoughts  and  feelings,  I  know  too  well,  I  thought, 
both  her  sex's  nature  and  my  own,  to  feel  a  doubt 
that  love  would  ultimately  triumph.  But  the 
severity  of  tlie  guardianship  to  which  I  must  resign 
her — that  of  some  monk  of  the  desert,  some  stern 
Solitary — the  influence  such  a  monitor  would  gain 
over  her  mind — and  tlie  horror  with  which,  ere 
long,  he  might  teach  her  to  regard  the  reprobate 
infidel  upon  whom  she  now  smiled — in  all  this 
prospect  I  saw  nothing  but  despair.  After  a  few 
short  hours,  my  dream  of  happiness  would  be  at 
an  end,  and  sucli  a  dark  chasm  must  then  open 
between  our  fates,  as  would  dissever  them,  wide 
as  earth  from  heaven,  asunder. 

It  was  true,  she  was  now  wholly  in  my  power. 
I  feared  no  witnesses  but  those  of  earth,  and  the 
solitude  of  the  desert  was  at  hand.  But  tliough  I 
acknowledged  not  a  heaven,  I  worshipped  her  wlio 
was,  to  me,  its  typo  and  substitute.  If,  at  any 
moment,  a  single  thought  of  wrong  or  deceit, 
towards  one  so  sacred  arose  in  my  mind,  one  look 
from  her  innocent  eyes  averted  the  sacrilege.  Even 
passion  itself  felt  a  holy  fear  in  her  presence — like 
the  flame  trembling  in  the  breeze  of  the  sanctuary 
— and  Love,  pure  l..ove,  stood  in  place  of  Religion. 

As  long  as  I  knew  not  her  story,  I  could  in- 
dulge, at  le.asf,  in  dreams  of  tlie  future.  But,  now 
— wh.'it  expectation,  wliat  prospect  remained  ?  My 
single  chance  of  happiness  lay  in  the  hope,  liow- 
ever  delusive,  of  being  able  to  divert  her  thoughts 
from  the  fatal  project  she  meditated ;  of  weaning 
her,  by  persuasion  and  argument,  from  that  austere 
faith,  which  I  had  before  hated  and  now  feared ; 
and  of  atUichiiig  her,  jierhaps,  alone  and  unlinked 
n«  she  was  in  the  world,  to  my  own  fortunes  for 
ever! 

In  tl.3  agitation  of  these  thoughts,  I  h.id  staricd 
from  my  resting  place,  and  continued  to  pace  up 
and  down,  under  a  hnriiing  sun,  till,  exhausted  both 
by  tlicHght  and  feeling,  I  Riiiik  down,  amid  that 
blaze  of  light,  into  a  sleep,  which  to  my  fevered 
bmin  nMtnod  a  sleep  ufflrc. 


On  awaking,  I  found  the  veil  of  Alethe  laid 
cai-efully  over  my  brow ;  while  she,  herself,  sat 
near  me,  under  the  shadow  of  the  sail,  looking 
anxiously  upon  that  leaf,  which  her  mother  had 
given  her,  and  employed  apparently  in  comparing 
its  outlines  with  the  course  of  the  river,  as  well  as 
with  the  forms  of  the  rocky  hills  by  which  we  were 
passing.  She  looked  pale  and  troubled,  and  rose 
eagerly  to  meet  me,  as  if  she  had  long  and  impa 
tiently  waited  for  my  waking. 

Her  heart,  it  was  plain,  h.ad  been  disturbed  from 
its  security,  and  was  beginning  to  take  alarm  at  its 
own  feelings.  But,  though  vaguely  conscious  of 
the  peril  to  which  she  was  exposed,  her  reliance, 
as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  increased  with  her  danger, 
and  upon  me,  far  more  than  on  herself,  did  she 
seem  to  depend  for  saving  her.  To  reach,  .as  soon 
as  possible,  her  asylum  in  the  desert,  was  now  tho 
urgent  object  of  her  entreaties  and  wishes ;  and 
the  self-reproach  which  she  expressed  at  having, 
for  a  single  moment,  suffered  her  thoughts  to  be 
diverted  from  this  sacred  purpose,  not  only  revealed 
the  truth,  that  she  had  forgotten  it,  but  betrayed 
even  a  glimmering  consciousness  of  the  cause. 

Her  sleep,  she  said,  had  been  broken  by  ill- 
omened  dreams.  Every  moment  tlie  shade  of  her 
mother  had  stood  before  her,  rebuking,  will)  mourn- 
ful looks,  her  delay  and  pointing,  as  she  h.ad  done 
in  death,  to  the  eastern  hills.  Bursting  into  tears 
at  this  accusing  recollection,  she  hastily  placed  the 
leaf,  which  slie  had  been  examining,  in  my  hands, 
and  implored  that  I  would  ascertain,  without  a 
moincnt's  delay,  what  portion  of  our  voyage  was 
still  unperformed,  and  in  what  space  of  time  we 
might  hope  to  accomplish  it. 

I  had,  still  less  than  herself,  taken  note  of  either 
place  or  distance ;  and  could  we  have  been  left  to 
glide  on  in  this  dream  of  happiness,  should  never 
have  thought  of  pausing  to  ask  where  it  would  end. 
But  such  confidence  was  far  too  sacred  to  be  de- 
ceived; and,  reluctant  as  I  naturally  felt,  to  enter 
on  an  inquiry  which  might  soon  dissipate  even  my 
last  hope,  her  wish  was  sufllcient  to  supersede  even 
tho  selfishness  of  love,  and  on  the  instant  I  pro- 
ceeded to  obey  her  will. 

There  stands  on  the  eastern  hank  of  the  Nile, 
to  the  north  of  Antinoe,  a  high  and  sleep  rock,  im- 
pending over  the  flood,  which  has  home,  for  ages, 
from  a  prodigy  connected  with  it,  the  name  of  the 
MountAin  of  the  Birds.  Yearly,  it  is  said,  at  a  cer- 
tjun  season  and  hour,  largo  flocks  of  birds  assenihlo 
in  the  ravine,  of  which  this  rocky  mountain  forms 
one  of  the  sides,  and  are  there  observed  to  go 
through  the  mysterious  ceremony  of  inserting  each 
its  beak   inlo  a  |i;irliciilar  I'lcl'l  of  Ihc  rock,  (ill    the 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


291 


cleft  closes  upon  one  of  their  number,  when  all  the 
'est  of  the  birds  take  wing,  and  leave  tlie  selected 
victim  to  die. 

Througli  the  ravine,  rendered  famous  by  tliis 
charm — for  such  the  multitude  consider  it — tlicre 
ran,  in  ancient  times,  a  canal  from  tlie  Nile,  to  some 
great  and  forgotten  city,  now  buried  in  the  desert. 
To  a  short  distance  from  tlie  river  this  canal  still 
exists,  but,  after  having  passed  through  tlie  defile, 
its  scanty  waters  disappear,  and  are  wholly  lost 
under  tlie  sands. 

It  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  tliis  place,  as  I 
could  collect  from  tlie  delineations  on  tlie  leaf — 
where  a  flight  of  birds  represented  the  name  of  the 
mountain — tliat  the  abode  of  tlie  Solitary,  to  whom 
Alethe  was  about  to  consign  herself,  was  situated. 
Little  as  I  knew  of  the  geography  of  Egypt,  it  at 
once  struck  me,  that  we  had  long  since  left  this 
mountain  behind;"  and,  on  inquiring  of  our  boat- 
men, I  found  my  conjecture  confirmed.  We  had, 
indeed,  passed  it  on  the  preceding  night;  and,  as 
the  wind  liad  been,  ever  since,  blowing  strongly 
from  the  north,  and  the  sun  was  already  sinking 
towards  the  horizon,  we  must  be  now,  at  least,  a 
day's  sail  to  the  southward  of  the  spot. 

This  discovery,  I  confess,  filled  my  heart  with  a 
feeling  of  joy  which  I  found  it  difficult  to  conceal. 
It  seemed  as  if  fortune  was  conspiring  with  love  in 
my  behalf,  and,  by  thus  delaying  the  moment  of 
our  separation,  afforded  me  a  chance  at  least  of 
happiness.  Her  look  and  manner,  too,  when  in- 
formed of  our  mistake,  rather  encouraged  than 
chilled  this  secret  hope.  In  the  first  moment  of 
astonishment,  her  eyes  opened  upon  me  with  a 
suddenness  of  splendor,  under  which  I  felt  my  own 
wink  as  though  lightning  had  crossed  tliem.  But 
slie  again,  as  suddenly,  let  their  lids  fall,  and,  after 
a  quiver  of  her  lip,  which  showed  the  conflict  of 
feeling  then  going  on  within,  crossed  her  arms  upon 
her  bosom,  and  looked  down  silently  upon  the 
deck;  her  whole  countenance  sinking  into  an  e.\- 
pression,  sad,  but  resigned,  as  if  she  now  felt  that 
fate  was  on  the  side  of  wrong,  and  saw  Love  al- 
ready stealing  between  her  soul  and  heaven. 

I  was  not  slow,  of  course,  in  availing  myself  of 
what  I  fancied  to  be  the  irresolution  of  her  mind. 
But,  still,  fearful  of  exciting  alarm  by  any  appeal 
to  feelings  of  regard  or  tenderness,  I  but  .iddressed 
myself  to  her  imagination,  and  to  that  love  of 
novelty  and  wonders,  which  is  ever  ready  to  be 
awakened  within  the  youthful  breast.  We  were 
now  approaching  that  region  of  miracles,  Thebes. 
"In  a  day  or  two,"  srid  I,"  we  shiill  see,  towering 
above  the  waters,  th-:  coloss.al  Avenue  of  Sphinxes, 
and  the  bright  Obelisks  of  the  Sun.     We  shall 


visit  the  plain  of  Mcmnon,  and  behold  those  mighty 
statues  that  fling  tlieir  sh.adows"'  at  sunrise  over 
the  Libyan  hills.  We  shall  hear  the  image  of  the 
Son  of  the  Aloniing  responding  to  the  first  touch 
of  light.  From  thence,  in  a  few  hours,  a  breeze 
like  this  will  transport  us  to  those  sunny  islands 
near  the  cataracts;  there,  to  wander,  among  the 
sacred  palm-groves  of  Phila;,  or  sit,  at  noontide 
hour,  in  those  cool  alcoves,'"  which  the  waterfall 
of  Syene  shadows  under  its  arch.  Oh,  who  is  there 
that,  witli  scenes  of  .such  loveliness  witliin  reach, 
would  turn  coldly  away  to  the  bleak  desert,  and 
leave  this  fair  world,  with  all  its  enchantnient.s, 
shining  unseen  and  unenjoyed?  At  least" — I  add- 
ed, taking  tenderly  her  hand  in  mine — "let  a  few 
more  days  be  stolen  from  the  dreary  fate  to  which 
thou  hast  devoted  thyself,  and  then — " 

She  had  heard  but  the  last  few  words — the  rest 
had  been  lost  upon  her.  Startled  by  the  tone  of 
tenderness  with  which,  in  despite  of  all  my  resolves, 
I  liad  suffered  my  voice  to  soften,  she  looked  for 
an  instant  with  passionate  earnestness  into  my 
face; — then,  dropping  upon  her  knees  with  her 
clasped  hands  upraised,  exclaimed, — "Tempt  me 
not,  in  the  name  of  God  I  implore  thee,  tempt  me 
not  to  swerve  from  my  sacred  duty.  Oh!  take  me 
instantly  to  that  desert  mountain,  and  I  will  bless 
thee  for  ever." 

This  appeal,  I  felt,  could  not  be  resisted — even 
though  my  heart  were  to  break  for  it.  Having 
silently  intimated  my  assent  to  lier  prayer,  by  a 
slight  pressure  of  her  hand  as  I  raised  her  from  the 
deck,  I  proceeded  immediately,  as  we  were  still  in 
full  career  for  the  south,  to  give  orders  that  our 
sail  should  be  instantly  lowered,  and  not  a  moment 
lost  in  retracing  our  course. 

In  giving  these  directions,  however,  if,  for  the 
first  time,  occurred  to  me,  that,  as  I  h.ad  hired  this 
yacht  in  the  neighborhood  of  Memphis,  where  it 
was  probable  the  flight  of  the  young  Priestess 
would  be  most  vigil.antly  tracked,  we  -should  run 
the  risk  of  betraying  to  the  boatmen  the  place  of 
her  retreat ; — and  there  was  now  a  most  favorable 
opportunity  for  taking  precautions  against  this 
danger.  Desiring,  therefore,  that  we  should  be 
landed  at  a  small  village  on  the  shore,  under  pre- 
tence of  p.aying  a  visit  to  some  shrine  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, I  there  dismissed  our  barge,  and  was  re- 
lieved fi'om  fear  of  further  observation,  by  seeing 
it  again  set  sail,  and  resume  its  course  fleetly  up 
the  current. 

From  the  boats  of  all  de.scriptions  that  l.ay  idle 
beside  the  bank,  I  now  selected  one,  in  every 
respect,  suited  to  my  purpose — being,  in  its  shape 
and  accommodations,  a  miniature  of  our  former 


292 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


vessel,  but,  at  the  same  time,  so  light  and  small  as 
to  be  manageable  by  myself  alone,  and  requiring, 
with  the  advantage  of  the  current,  little  more  than 
a  hand  to  steer  it.  This  boat  I  succeeded,  without 
much  dilBculty,  in  purchasing,  and,  after  a  short 
delay,  we  were  again  afloat  down  the  current; — 
the  sun  just  thtn  sinking,  in  conscious  glory,  over 
his  own  gold".n  shrines  in  the  Libyan  waste. 

The  evtiimg  was  calmer  and  more  lovely  than 
any  that  had  yet  smiled  upon  our  voyage;  and,  as 
we  left  tlie  shore,  a  strain  of  sweet  melody  came 
soothingly  over  our  ears.  It  was  the  voice  of  a 
young  Nubian  girl,  whom  we  saw  kneeling  before 
an  acicia,  upon  the  bank,  and  singing,  wliile  her 
companions  stood  around,  the  wild  song  of  invoca- 
tion, wliich,  in  her  country,  they  address  to  that 
enchanted  tree : — 

*'0h!  AbyasiDian  tree, 

We  pray,  we  pray  to  thee ; 
By  the  glow  of  thy  golden  fruit, 
And  the  violet  hue  of  thy  tlower 

-^nd  the  greeting  mute 

Of  thy  bough's  salute 
To  the  stranger  who  seeks  thy  bower.'^ 

"  Oh  !  Abyssinian  tree, 

How  the  traveller  blesses  thee, 
\Vhcn  tho  night  no  moon  allows. 
And  the  sunset  hour  is  near. 

And  thou  bend'st  thy  boughs 

To  kiss  his  brows. 
Saying, '  Come,  rest  thee  here.* 

Oh!  Abyssinian  tree. 

Thus  bow  tliy  head  to  me  !'* 

In  the  burden  of  tliis  song  the  companions  of  the 
young  Nubian  joined ;  and  we  heard  the  words, 
"Oil!  Abyssinian  tree,"  dying  away  on  the  breeze, 
long  after  the  whole  group  had  been  lost  to  our 
eyes. 

Whether,  in  the  new  arrangement  which  I  had 
made  for  our  voyage,  any  motive,  besides  those 
which  I  professed,  had  a  share,  I  can  scarcely,  even 
myself — so  bewildered  were  then  my  feelings — 
determine.  But  no  sooner  had  the  current  borne 
us  aw.ay  from  .all  human  dwellings,  and  we  were 
alone  on  the  waters,  with  not  a  soul  near,  than  I 
felt  how  closely  such  solitude  draws  hearts  to- 
gether, and  how  much  more  we  seemed  to  belong 
to  (Micli  otiiir,  ih.iii  when  there  were  eyes  around 

UH. 

The  same  feeling,  but  without  the  same  scnso 
I'f  its  danger,  was  manifext  in  every  look  and  word 
of  Alellie.  'I'lio  consciousness  of  the  one  great 
etfort  which  kIic  had  made  appeared  to  have  salis- 
fii-d  her  heart  on  the  score  of  duly — while  the 
•levotedncHH  with  which  she  saw  I  attended  to  her 
every  wiali,  was  fell  with  all  liial  trusting  gratitude 
>t'luch,  ill  wouian.  iH  llio  diiv-spring  of  love.    She 


was,  therefore,  happy,  innocently  h.appy;  and  the 
confiding,  and  even  affectionate,  unreserve  of  her 
manner,  while  it  rendered  my  trust  more  sacred, 
made  it  also  fiir  more  difficult. 

It  was  only,  however,  upon  subjects  unconnected 
with  our  situation  or  fate,  that  'he  yielded  to  sucn 
interchange  of  thought,  or  th.at  her  voice  ventured 
to  answer  mine.  The  moment  I  .alluded  to  the 
destiny  th.nt  awaited  us,  all  her  cheerfulness  fled, 
and  she  became  s.iddened  and  silent.  When  I 
described  to  her  the  beauty  of  my  own  native  land 
— its  founts  of  inspiration  and  fields  of  glory — her 
eyes  sparkled  with  sympathy,  and  sometimes  even 
softened  into  fondness.  But  when  I  ventured  to 
whisper,  that,  in  that  glorious  country,  a  life  full 
of  love  and  liberty  awaited  her ;  when  I  proceeded 
to  contrast  the  adoration  and  bliss  she  might  com- 
mand, with  the  gloomy  austerities  of  the  life  to 
which  she  was  hastening — it  was  like  the  coming 
of  a  sudden  cloud  over  a  summer  sky.  Her  he.ad 
sunk,  as  she  listened ; — I  waited  in  vain  for  .an 
answer ;  and  when,  half  playfully  reproaching  her 
for  this  silence,  I  stooped  to  take  her  hand,  I  could 
feel  the  warm  tears  fast  falling  over  it. 

But  even  this — feeble  as  was  the  hope  it  held 
out — was  still  a  glimpse  of  happiness.  Though  it 
foreboded  that  I  should  lose  her,  it  also  whispered 
th.at  I  was  loved.  Like  that  lake,  in  the  land  of 
Roses,"  whose  waters  are  lialf  sweet,  half  hitter," 
I  felt  my  fate  to  be  a  compound  of  bliss  and  pain 
— but  its  very  pain  well  worth  all  ordinary  bliss. 

And  thus  did  the  hours  of  that  night  pass  along; 
while  every  moment  shortened  our  happy  dream, 
and  the  current  seemed  to  flow  with  a  swifter  pace 
than  any  that  ever  yet  hurried  to  the  sea.  Not  a 
feature  of  the  whole  scene  but  lives,  at  this  moment, 
freshly  in  my  memory ; — the  broken  starlight  on 
the  water; — the  rippling  sound  of  the  boat,  as, 
without  oar  or  .sail,  it  went,  like  a  thing  of  enchant- 
ment, down  the  stream  ; — the  scented  fire,  burning 
beside  us  upon  the  deck,  and  then  that  face,  on 
which  its  light  fell,  revealing,  at  every  moment, 
some  new  charm — some  blush  or  look,  more  beau- 
tiful than  the  last! 

Ol'leii,  while  1  sjit  gazing,  forgetful  ciC  all  else 
in  this  world,  our  boat,  left  wholly  to  itself,  would 
drive  from  its  course,  and  bearing  us  away  to  tho 
bank,  get  cntjingled  in  the  water  flowers,  or  be 
caught  in  some  eddy,  ere  I  perceived  wheio  wo 
were.  Once,  too,  when  the  rustling  of  my  oar 
among  the  Mnwers  had  start  led  away  from  the 
bank  some  wild  antelopes,  that  had  stolen,  at  lh:it 
still  hour,  to  drink  of  the  Nile,  what  an  emblem 
did  I  think  it  of  the  young  heart  then  beside  me— 
Ijisting,  ."or  the  first  time,  of  hope  and  love,  and  ho 


THE  EPIGUEEAN. 


293 


Boon,  alas,  to  bo  scared  from  their  sweetness  for 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  n.ght  was  now  far  advanced — the  bend  of 
(Uir  course  towards  tlie  k'ft,  and  the  closing  in  of 
the  eastern  liills  npon  tlie  river,  gave  warning  of 
our  approach  to  the  hermit's  dwelling.  Every 
minute  now  appeared  like  the  last  of  existence ; 
and  I  felt  a  sinking  of  despair  at  my  heart,  whicli 
would  have  been  intoler.able,  had  not  a  resolution 
that  suddenly,  and  as  if  by  in.spiration,  occurred  to 
me,  presented  a  glimpse  of  hope,  whicli,  in  some 
degree,  calmed  my  feelings. 

Much  as  I  had,  all  my  life,  despised  hypocrisy 
— tlie  very  sect  I  had  embraced  being  chiefly  recom- 
mended to  me  by  the  v/ar  they  continued  to  wage 
upon  the  cant  of  all  others — it  was,  nevertheless, 
in  hypocrisy  that  I  now  scrupled  not  to  take  refuge 
from  that  calamity  which  to  me  vv.as  far  worse  than 
either  shame  or  death,  my  separation  from  Alethe. 
In  my  desp.air,  I  adopted  the  humiliating  plan — 
deeply  humiliating  as  I  felt  it  to  be,  even  amid  the 
joy  with  which  I  welcomed  it — of  offering  myself 
to  this  hermit  as  a  convert  to  his  faith,  and  thus 
becoming  the  fellow-disciple  of  Alethe  under  his 
care ! 

From  the  moment  I  resolved  upon  this  plan  my 
spirit  felt  lightened.  Though  having  fully  before 
my  eyes  the  mean  labyrinth  of  imposture  into  which 
it  would  lead  me,  I  thought  of  nothing  but  the 
chance  of  our  continuing  still  together.  In  this 
hope,  all  pride,  all  philosophy,  was  forgotten,  and 
every  thing  seemed  tolerable,  but  the  prospect  of 
losing  her. 

Thus  resolved,  it  was  with  somewhat  less  reluc- 
tant feelings  that  I  now  undertook,  at  the  anxious 
desire  of  my  companion,  to  ascertain  the  site  of 
that  well-known  mount.ain  in  the  neighborhood  of 
which  the  anchoret's  dwelling  lay.  We  had  already 
passed  one  or  two  stupendous  rocks,  which  stood, 
detached,  like  fortresses,  over  the  river's  brink,  and 
which  in  some  degree  corresponded  with  the  de- 
scription on  tht!  leaf.  So  little  was  there  of  life 
now  stirring  along  the  shores,  that  I  had  begun 
almost  to  despair  of  any  assistance  from  inquiry, 
when,  on  looking  to  the  western  bank,  I  saw  a 
boatman  among  the  sedges,  towing  his  small  boat, 
with  some  difficulty,  up  the  current.  Hailing  him 
ns  we  passed,  I  asked, — "  Where  st.ands  the 
Mountain  of  the  Birds  ?" '""—and  he  had  hardly 
time,  as  he  pointed  above  us,  to  answer,  "  There," 


when  we  perceived  that  we  were  just  then  cntcrinf 
into  the  shadow,  which  this  mighty  rock  flings  across 
the  whole  of  the  flood. 

In  a  few  moments  we  had  reached  the  moutn 
of  the  ravine,  of  which  the  Mount^iin  of  the  Birds 
forms  one  of  the  sides,  and  through  which  the 
scanty  canal  from  the  Nile  flows.  At  the  sight  of 
this  awful  chasm,  within  some  of  whose  dreary  re- 
cesses (if  we  had  rightly  interpreted  the  leaf)  the 
dwelling  of  the  Solitary  w!is  to  be  found,  our  voices 
sunk  at  once  into  a  low  whisper,  while  Alctlie 
turned  round  to  me  with  a  look  of  awe  and  eager- 
ness, as  if  doubtful  whether  I  had  not  already  dis- 
appeared from  her  side.  A  quick  movement,  how. 
ever,  of  her  hand  towards  the  ravine,  told  too 
plainly  that  her  purpose  was  still  unchanged.  Im- 
mediately checking,  therefore,  with  my  oars,  the 
career  of  our  boat,  I  succeeded,  after  no  small  ex- 
ertion, in  turning  it  out  of  the  current  of  the  river, 
and  steering  into  this  bic.ik  and  stagnant  canal. 

Our  transition  from  life  and  bloom  to  the  very 
depth  of  desolation  w.as  immediate.  Vl^hile  the  wa- 
ter on  one  side  of  the  ravine  l.ay  buried  in  shadow, 
the  white  skeleton-like  crags  of  the  other  stood 
aloft  in  the  pale  glare  of  moonlight.  The  sluggish 
stream  through  which  we  moved  yielded  sullenly 
to  the  oar,  and  the  shriek  of  a  few  water-birds, 
which  we  had  roused  from  their  fastnesses,  was 
succeeded  by  a  silence,  so  dead  and  awful,  that 
our  lips  seemed  afraid  to  disturb  it  by  a  breath  ; 
and  half-whispered  exclamations,  "How  dreary!" 
— "How  dismal!" — were  almost  the  only  woids 
exchanged  between  us. 

We  had  proceeded  for  some  time  through  this 
gloomy  defile,  when,  at  a  short  distance  before  us, 
among  the  rocks  upon  which  the  moonlight  fell, 
we  could  perceive,  on  a  ledge  elevated  but  a  little 
above  the  canal,  a  small  hut  or  cave,  which,  from  a 
tree  or  two  planted  around  it,  had  some  appearance 
of  being  the  abode  of  a  human  being.  "This, 
then,"  thought  I,  "  is  the  home  to  which  she  is 
destined  !" — A  chill  of  despair  came  again  over  my  _ 
heart,  and  the  oars,  as  I  sat  gazing,  lay  motionless 
in  my  hands. 

I  found  Alethe,  too,  who.se  eyes  h.ad  caught  the 
same  object,  drawing  closer  to  my  side  than  she 
had  yet  ventured.  Laying  her  hand  agitatedly 
upon  mine,  "We  must  here,"  said  she,  "part  for 
ever."  I  turned  to  her  as  she  spoke:  there  was  a 
tenderness,  a  despondency,  in  her  countenance, 
that  at  once  s.adJened  .and  inflamed  my  soul. 
"  Part !"  I  exclaimed,  passionately — "  No  I — tho 
same  God  sh.all  receive  us  both.  Thy  fiitl-,  Aletlitj, 
shall,  from  this  hour,  be  mine ;  and  I  will  livi.  and 
die  in  this  desert  with  thee !'' 


294 


MOOEE'S  WOKKS. 


Her  surprise,  her  delight,  at  these  words  was 
like  a  momentary  delirium.  The  wild,  anxious 
smile,  wiih  wh.ch  she  looked  into  my  face,  as  if  to 
ascertain  wheLier  she  had  indeed  heard  my  words 
aright,  bespoke  a  happiness  too  much  for  reason  to 
bear.  At  length,  the  fulness  of  her  heart  found 
relief  in  tears;  and,  murmuring  forth  an  incoherent 
blessing  on  my  name,  she  let  her  head  fall  languidly 
and  powerlessly  on  my  arm.  The  light  from  our 
boat-fire  shone  upon  her  face.  I  saw  her  eyes, 
which  she  had  closed  for  a  moment,  again  opening 
upon  me  with  the  same  tenderness,  and — merciful 
Providence,  how  I  remember  that  moment  I — was 
on  the  point  of  bending  down  my  lips  towards  hers, 
when,  suddenly,  in  the  air  above  us,  as  if  coming 
direct  from  heaven,  there  burst  forth  a  strain  of 
choral  music,  th.it  with  its  solemn  sweetness  filled 
the  whole  valley. 

Breaking  away  from  my  caress  at  these  super- 
natural sounds,  the  maiden  threw  herself  trembling 
upon  Ijor  knees,  and,  not  daring  to  look  up,  e.x- 
elaimcd  wildly,  "My  mother,  oh  my  mother!"' 

It  was  the  Christian's  morning  hymn  that  we 
heard ; — the  same,  as  I  learned  afterwards,  that,  on 
their  high  terrace  at  Memphis,  she  had  been  taught 
by  her  mother  to  sing  to  the  rising  sun. 

Scarcely  less  startled  than  my  companion,  I 
looked  up,  and  saw,  at  the  very  summit  of  the  rock 
above  us,  a  light,  appearing  to  come  from  a  small 
opening  or  window,  through  which  those  sounds 
likewise,  that  had  appeared  to  me  so  supernatural, 
issued.  There  could  be  no  doubt,  that  we  had 
now  found — if  not  the  dwelling  of  the  anchoret — 
at  least,  the  haunt  of  some  of  the  Christian  brother- 
hood of  these  rocks,  by  whose  assistance  we  could 
not  fail  to  find  the  place  of  his  retreat. 

The  agiljition,  into  which  Alethe  had  been 
thrown  by  the  first  burst  of  that  psalmody,, soon 
yielded  to  the  softening  recollections  which  it 
brought  back ;  and  a  calm  came  over  her  brow, 
•jucli  as  it  had  never  before  worn,  since  we  met. 
She  seemed  to  feel  as  if  she  had  now  reached  her 
destined  haven,  and  hailed,  as  the  voice  of  heaven 
itself,  those  soleinri  s(junds  by  which  she  was  wel- 
comed to  it. 

In  her  tranquillity,  however,  I  was  very  far  from 
yet  sympathizing.  Full  of  impatience  to  learn  all 
that  awailed  her  as  well  as  mVKelf,  I  pushed  onr 
boat  close  to  the  base  of  the  rock,  so  as  to  bring  it 
directly  under  that  lighted  window  on  the  suniniil, 
to  explore  my  way  up  to  which  was  now  my  im- 
tncdiale  ol)ject.  Having  hastily  received  my  in- 
■truelioiis  from  Alethe,  and  m.ade  her  repeat  Again 
the  name  of  the  Christian  whom  wo  sought,  I 
NPrani;  ipun  the  bank,  and  wuh  not  lung  in  (Us- 


covering  a  sort  of  path,  or  stairway,  cut  rudely  out 
of  the  rock,  and  leading,  as  I  found,  by  easy  wind- 
ings, up  the  steep. 

After  ascending  for  some  time,  I  arrived  at  a 
level  space  or  ledge,  which  the  h.and  of  labor  had 
succeeded  in  converting  into  a  garden,'"'  and  which 
w.as  planted,  here  and  there,  with  fig-trees  and 
palms.  Around  it,  too,  I  could  perceive,  through 
the  glimmering  light,  a  number  of  small  caves  or 
grottoes,  into  some  of  which,  human  beings  might 
find  an  entrance;  while  others  appeared  of  no 
larger  dimensions  than  those  tombs  of  the  Sacred 
Birds  which  are  seen  ranged  around  Lake  Moe- 
ris. 

I  was  still,  I  found,  but  half-way  up  the  .ascent, 
nor  was  there  visible  any  further  means  of  continu- 
ing my  course,  as  the  mountain  from  hence  rose, 
almost  perpendicularly,  like  a  wall.  At  length, 
however,  on  exploring  more  closely,  I  discovered 
behind  the  shade  of  a  fig-tree  a  large  ladder  of  wood, 
resting  firmly  against  the  rock,  and  aflbrding  an 
easy  and  safe  ascent  up  the  steep. 

Having  ascertained  thus  far,  I  again  descended 
to  the  boat  for  Alethe,  whom  I  found  trembling 
already  at  her  short  solitude ;  and  having  led  her 
up  the  stairw.ay  to  this  quiet  garden,  left  her  lodged 
there  securely,  amid  its  holy  silence,  while  I  pursued 
my  w.ay  upward  to  the  light  upon  the  rock. 

At  the  top  of  the  long  ladder  I  f.nnid  myself  on 
another  ledge  or  platform,  somewhat  smaller  than 
the  first,  but  planted  in  the  same  manner,  with 
trees,  and,  as  I  could  perceive  by  the  mingled  light 
of  morning  and  the  moon,  embellished  with  flow- 
ers. I  was  now'  near  the  summit ; — there  remained 
but  another  short  ascent,  and,  as  a  ladder  again.st 
the  rock  supplied,  .as  before,  the  means  of  .scaling 
it,  I  w.as  in  a  few  minutes  at  the  opening  from 
which  the  light  issued. 

I  had  .ascended  gently,  as  well  from  a  feeling 
of  awe  at  the  whole  scene,  as  from  an  unwilling- 
ness to  disturb  rudely  the  rites  on  which  I  intruded. 
My  approach,  therefore,  being  unheard,  an  iippor- 
tnnity  was,  for  some  moments,  alTorded  me  of  ob- 
serving the  group  within,  before  my  appearance  at 
the  window  was  discovered. 

In  the  middle  of  the  apartment,  which  seemed 
to  have  been  once  a  I'.agan  oratory,  there  was  col- 
lected an  assembly  of  about  seven  or  eight  persons, 
some  male,  some  fetnale,  kiu'eling  in  silence  round 
a  small  allar; — while,  among  thcni.  as  if  pri'siding 
over  their  solemn  ceremony,  stood  an  aged  man 
who,  at  (he  moment  of  my  arrival,  was  presenting 
to  one  of  tho  female  worshippers  nn  alabaster  cup, 
which  she  applied,  wilh  profound  reverence,  to  her 
lips.     The  venerable  enunlenance  of  the  minister, 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


295 


as  he  pronounced  a  short  prayer  over  her  head, 
wore  an  expression  of  profound  feeling  tliat  sliowed 
how  wholly  ho  was  absorbed  in  that  rite ;  and  when 
she  had  drunk  of  llic  cup — whicli  I  saw  had  en- 
graven on  its  side  the  iina^'e  of  a  head,'"'  with  a 
glory  round  it — the  holy  man  bent  down  and  kissed 
her  forehead.'" 

After  this  parting  salutation,  the  whole  group 
rose  silently  from  their  knees ;  and  it  was  then, 
for  the  first  time,  that,  by  a  cry  of  terror  from  one 
of  the  women,  the  appearance  of  a  stranger  at  the 
window  was  discovered.  The  whole  assembly 
seemed  startled  and  alarmed,  except  him,  that 
superior  person,  who,  advancing  from  the  altar, 
with  an  unmoved  look,  raised  the  latch  of  the  door 
adjoining  to  the  window,  and  admitted  me. 

There  was,  in  this  old  man's  features,  a  mixture 
of  elevation  and  sweetness,  of  simplicity  and  en- 
ergy, which  commanded  at  once  attachment  and 
homage ;  and  half  hoping,  half  fearing,  to  find  in 
him  the  destintd  guardian  of  Alethe,  I  looked 
anxiously  in  his  face,  as  I  entered,  and  pronounced 
Ihe  name  "  Melanius !" — "  Melanius  is  my  name, 
young  stranger,"  lie  answered ;  "  and  whether  in 
friendship  or  in  enmity  thou  comest,  Melanius 
blesses  thee."  Thus  saying,  he  made  a  sign  with 
his  right  hand  above  my  head,  while,  with  involun- 
tary respect,  I  bowed  beneath  the  benediction. 

"Let  this  volume,"  I  replied,  " answer  for  the 
poacefulness  of  my  mission" — at  the  same  time, 
placing  in  his  hands  the  copy  of  the  Scriptures 
wliich  had  been  his  own  gift  to  the  mother  of 
Aleflie,  and  which  her  child  now  brought  as  the 
credential  of  her  claims  on  his  protection.  At  the 
sight  of  this  sacred  pledge,  which  he  instantly 
recognised,  the  solemnity  that  had  at  first  marked 
his  reception  of  me  softened  into  tenderness. 
Thoughts  of  other  times  appeared  to  pass  through 
his  mind;  and  as,  with  a  sigh  of  recollection,  he 
took  the  book  from  my  hands,  some  words  on  the 
outer  leaf  caught  his  eye.  They  were  few — but 
contained,  most  probably,  the  last  wishes  of  the 
dying  Theora;  for,  as  he  read  them  over  eagerly, 
I  saw  tears  in  his  aged  eyes.  "  The  trust,"  he  said, 
with  a  faltering  voice,  "  is  precious  and  sacred,  and 
God  will  enable,  I  hope,  his  servant  to  guard  it 
faithfully." 

During  this  short  dialogue,  the  other  persons 
of  the  assembly  had  departed — being,  as  I  after- 
wards learned,  brethren  from  the  neighboring  bank 
of  the  Nile,  who  came  thus  secretly  before  day- 
break,"" to  join  in  worshipping  their  God.  Fearful 
lost  their  descent  down  the  rock  might  alarm 
Aletne,  I  hurried  briefly  over  the  few  words  of 
explanation  that  remained,  and  leaving  the  venera- 


ble Christian  to  follow  at   ids  leisure,  hastened 
anxiou  dy  down  to  rejoin  the  young  maidcu. 


CUAPTER  XVI. 

Melakius  was  one  of  the  first  (.i  those  zealous 
Christians  of  Egypt,  who,  following  the  recent 
example  of  the  hermit,  Paul,  bade  farewell  to  all 
the  comforts  of  social  existence,  ;iii(r  betook  tliem- 
selves  to  a  life  of  contemplation  in  the  desert. 
Less  selfish,  however,  in  his  piety,  than  most  of 
these  ascetics,  Melanius  forgot  not  the  world  in 
leaving  it.  He  knew  that  man  was  not  born  to 
live  wholly  for  himself;  that  his  relation  to  human 
kind  was  that  of  the  link  to  the  chain,  and  that 
even  his  solitude  should  be  turned  to  tlie  advantage 
of  others.  In  flying,  llierefore,  from  the  din  and 
disturbance  of  life,  he  sought  not  to  place  himself 
beyond  the  reach  of  its  sympathies,  but  selected  a 
retreat  where  he  could  combine  all  the  advantages 
of  solitude  with  tho.se  opportunities  of  being  use- 
ful to  his  fellow-men,  which  a  neighborhood  to 
their  populous  haunts  would  alTord. 

That  taste  for  the  gloom  of  subterranean  reces- 
ses, which  the  race  of  Misniim  inherit  from  theii 
Ethiopian  ancestors,  had,  by  hollowing  out  all 
Egypt  into  caverns  and  crypts,  supplied  these 
Christian  anchorets  with  an  ample  choice  of  re- 
treats. Accordingly,  some  found  a  shelter  in  the 
grottoes  of  Elethya ; — others,  among  the  royal 
tombs  of  the  Thebaid.  In  the  midst  of  the  Seven 
Valleys,'"'  where  the  sun  rarely  shines,  a  few  have 
fixed  their  dim  and  melancholy  retreat;  while  others 
have  sought  the  neighborhood  of  the  red  I>akes  of 
Nitria,'"  and  there,  like  those  Pagan  solitaries  of 
old,  who  fixed  their  dwelling  among  the  palm-trees 
near  the  Dead  Se.a,  pass  their  whole  lives  in  musing 
amidst  the  sterility  of  nature,  and  seem  to  find,  in 
her  desolation,  peace. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  mountains  of  the  Said,  to 
the  east  of  the  river,  that  jNIelanius,  as  we  have 
seen,  chose  his  place  of  seclusion — having  all  the 
life  and  fertility  oi  the  Nile  on  one  side,  and  the 
lone,  dismal  barrenness  of  the  desert  on  the  other. 
Half  way  down  this  mountain,  where  it  impends 
over  the  ravine,  he  found  a  series  of  caves  or  grot- 
toes dug  out  of  the  rock,  which  had,  in  other  times, 
ministered  to  some  purpose  of  mystery,  but  whose 
use  had  long  been  forgotten,  and  their  recesses 
abandoned. 

To  this  place,  after  the  banishment  of  his  great 
master,  Origen,  Melanius,  with  a  few  faithful  fol- 
lowers, retired,  and  there,  by  the  example  of  hia 


293 


MOORE'S  WORKS. 


innocent  life,  as  well  as  by  his  fervid  eloquence, 
succeeded  in  winning  crowds  of  converts  to  his 
faith.  Placed,  as  he  was,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  rich  city,  Antinoc,'"  though  he  mingled  not 
with  its  multitude,  bis  name  and  his  fame  were 
ever  among  them,  and,  to  all  who  sought  after  in- 
struction or  consolation,  the  call  of  the  hermit  was 
always  open. 

Notwithstanding  the  rigid  abstinence  of  his  own 
Iiabits,  lie  was  yet  careful  to  provide  for  the  com- 
forts of  others.  Content  with  a  rude  pallet  of 
straw,  himself,  he  had  aiways  for  the  stranger  a 
less  homely  resling-piace.  From  his  grotto,  the 
wayfaring  and  the  indigent  never  went  unrefreshed  ; 
and,  with  the  aid  of  some  of  his  brethren,  he  had 
formed  gardens  along  the  ledges  of  the  mountain, 
which  gave  an  air  of  life  and  cheerfulness  to  his 
rocky  dwelling,  and  supplied  him  witli  the  chief 
necessaries  of  such  a  climate — fruit  and  shade. 

Though  the  acquaintance  he  had  formed  with 
the  mother  of  Aletlie,  during  the  short  period  of 
her  attendance  at  the  school  of  Origen,  was  soon 
interrupted,  and  never  afterwards  renewed,  the 
interest  which  he  had  then  taken  in  her  fate  was 
far  too  lively  to  be  forgotten.  He  had  seen  the 
zeal  with  which  her  young  heart  welcomed  in- 
struction; and  the  thought  that  so  promising  a 
candidate  for  heaven  should  have  relapsed  into 
idolatry,  came  often,  with  disquieting  apprehension, 
over  his  mind. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  true  pleasure,  tljat,  but  a 
year  or  two  before  Thcora's  death,  he  had  learned 
by  a  private  communication  from  her,  transmitted 
through  a  Christian  embalmer  of  Memphis,  that 
"  not  only  had  her  own  heart  taken  root  in  the 
faith,  but  that  a  new  bud  had  flowered  with  the 
same  divine  hope;  and  that,  ere  long,  he  might  see 
them  both  transjilanted  to  the  desert." 

The  coming,  therefore,  of  Alethc  was  far  less  a 
surjjrise  to  him,  than  her  coming  thus  alone  was  a 
shock  and  a  sorrow;  and  the  silence  of  their  first 
meeting  showed  how  painfully  both  remembered 
th.'it  the  tic  which  had  brought  them  together  was 
no  longer  of  this  world — that  the  hand,  which 
should  have  been  then  joined  with  theirs,  was 
mouldering  in  the  tomb.  I  now  saw,  that  even 
religion  like  his  was  not  proof  against  the  sadness 
of  mortality.  For,  as  the  old  man  put  asido  the 
ringlets  from  her  forehead,  and  contemplated  in 
tliat  clear  countenance  the  rellcctioii  of  wiiat  her 
mother  had  been,  there  mingled  a  mournfniness 
with  his  piely,  as  he  said,  "  Heaven  rest  her  sonl  1" 
which  showed  how  little  even  the  cerl.iinly  of  a 
hcnvcii  for  those  we  love  CJin  reconcile  us  to  the 
pain  olliatiii;;  lost  them  on  cartli. 


The  full  light  of  day  had  now  risen  upon  tho 
desert,  and  our  host,  reminded,  by  the  faint  looks 
of  Alethe,  of  the  many  anxious  hours  wc  had 
passed  without  sleep,  proposed  that  we  should 
seek,  in  the  chambers  of  the  rock,  such  rest  as  a 
hermit's  dwelling  could  offer.  Pointing  to  one  of 
the  largest  of  these  openings,  as  he  addressed  me 
— "  Thou  wilt  find,"  he  said,  "  in  that  grotto  a  bed 
of  fresh  doum  leaves,  and  may  the  consciousness 
of  having  protected  the  orphan  sweeten  thy  sleep  !" 

I  felt  how  dearly  this  praise  had  been  earned, 
and  already  almost  repented  of  having  deserved  it. 
There  was  a  sadness  in  the  countenance  of  Alethe. 
as  I  took  leave  of  her,  to  which  the  forebodings  of 
my  own  heart  but  too  faithfully  responded;  nor 
could  I  help  fearing,  as  her  hand  parted  lingeringly 
from  mine,  that  I  had,  by  this  sacrifice,  placed  her 
beyond  my  reach  for  ever. 

Having  lighted  for  me  a  lamp,  which,  in  these 
recesses,  even  at  noon,  is  necessary,  the  holy  man 
led  me  to  the  entrance  of  the  grotto.  And  here,  I 
blush  to  say,  my  career  of  hypocrisy  began.  With 
tho  sole  view  of  o'btaining  another  glance  at  Alethe, 
I  turned  humbly  to  solicit  the  benediction  of  the 
Christian,  and,  having  conveyed  to  her,  while  bend- 
ing reverently  down,  as  much  of  the  deep  feeling 
of  my  soul  as  looks  could  expres.s,  I  then,  with  a 
desponding  spirit,  hurried  into  the  cavern. 

A  short  passage  led  me  to  tho  chamber  within 
— the  walls  of  which  I  found  covered,  like  those 
of  the  grottoes  of  Lycopolls,  with  paintings,  which, 
though  executed  long  ages  ago,  looked  as  fresh  as 
if  their  cohn's  were  but  laid  on  yesterday.  They 
were,  all  of  them,  representations  of  rural  and  do- 
mestic scenes;  and,  in  tho  greater  number,  the 
melancholy  imagination  of  the  artist  had  called  in, 
as  usual,  the  presence  of  Death,  to  throw  his 
shadow  over  the  picture. 

Jly  attention  was  particularly  drawn  to  one 
series  of  subjects,  throughout  the  whole  of  which 
the  same  group — consisting  of  a  youth,  a  maiden, 
and  two  aged  persons,  who  appeared  to  bo  the 
father  and  mother  of  the  girl — were  represented 
in  all  the  details  of  their  daily  life.  The  looks  and 
attitudes  of  the  young  people  denoted  that  they 
were  lovers;  and,  sometimes,  they  were  seen  silling 
under  a  canopy  of  llowers,  with  their  eyes  fixed  on 
each  other's  faces,  as  though  they  could  never  look 
away;  Hometimes,  they  appeared  walking  along  the 
banks  of  the  Nile, — 

on  (mo  orihnRp  awpel  nighls 

W'lion  Ii»i».  tlio  puri'  8tnr  of  l(>vprH,ii>''  Uttlila 

Ih-r  hrUlnl  crPBCciit  o't'r  tliu  tinly  Mirpftiii— 

When  wiUHhTlnt?  yoiilh*  niul  tniiidctiN  uatcli  Ucr  licnin, 

And  number  oVr  tlio  nl»;liltt  ^)lf■  hiilli  (<»  run, 

I'JQ  llie  iwain  cmlpraro  licr  bridi'urouin  min.-"" 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


297 


Through  all  these  scenes  of  endearment  the  t  wo 
elder  persona  stood  by; — their  calm  countenances 
touched  with  a  share  of  that  bliss,  in  whose  perfect 
light  tlip.  young  lovers  were  basking.  Thus  far,  all 
was  happiness; — but  the  sad  lesson  of  mortality 
was  yet  to  come.  In  the  last  picture  of  the  series, 
one  of  the  figures  was  missing.  It  was  that  of  the 
young  maiden,  who  had  disappeared  from  among 
them.  On  the  brink  of  a  dark  lake  stood  the  three 
svho  remained  ;  wliile  a  boat,  just  dei>arting  for  the 
City  of  the  Dead,  told  too  plainly  the  end  of  their 
dream  of  happiness. 

This  memorial  of  a  sorrow  of  other  times — of  a 
sorrow,  ancient  as  death  itself — was.  not  wanting 
to  deepen  the  melancholy  of  my  mind,  or  to  add 
to  the  weight  of  the  many  bodings  that  pressed 
upon  it. 

After  a  night,  as  it  seemed,  of  anxious  and  un- 
sleeping thouglit,  I  rose  from  my  bed  and  returned 
to  the  garden.  I  found  the  Christian  alone — seat- 
ed, under  the  shade  of  one  of  his  trees,  at  a  small 
table,  on  which  there  lay  a  volume  unrolled,  while 
u  beautiful  antelope  was  sleeping  at  his  feet. 
Struck  by  the  contrast  which  he  presented  to  those 
haughty  priests,  whom  I  had  seen  surrounded  by 
the  pomp  and  gorgeousness  of  temples,  ■'  Is  this, 
then,"  thought  I,  "  the  faith  before  which  the  world 
now  trembles — its  temple  the  desert,  its  treasury  a 
book,  and  its  High  Priest  the  solitary  dweller  of 
the  rock  1" 

He  had  prepared  for  me  a  simple,  but  hospit.able 
repast,  of  which  fruits  from  his  own  garden,  the 
white  bread  of  Olyni,  and  the  juice  of  the  honey- 
cane,  formed  the  most  costly  luxuries.  His  man- 
ner to  me  was  even  more  cordial  and  fatherly  than 
before ;  but  the  absence  of  Alethe,  and,  still  more, 
the  ominous  reserve,  with  which  he  not  only,  him- 
self, refrained  from  all  mention  of  her  name,  but 
eluded  the  few  inquiries,  by  which  I  sought  to  lead 
to  it,  seemed  to  confirm  all  tlie  apprehensions  I  had 
felt  in  parting  from  her. 

She  had  acquainted  him,  it  was  evident,  with 
the  whole  history  of  our  flight.  My  reputation  as 
a  philosopher — my  desire  to  become  a  Christian — 
all  was  already  known  to  the  zealous  anchoret,  and 
the  subject  of  my  conversion  was  the  very  first  on 
which  he  entered.  Oh,  pride  of  philosophy,  how 
wert  thou  then  humbled,  and  with  what  shame  did 
I  stand  in  the  presence  of  that  venerable  man,  not 
daring  to  let  my  eyes  encounter  his,  while,  with 
unhesitating  trust  in  the  sincerity  of  my  intention, 
he  welcomed  me  to  a  participation  of  his  holy 
hope,  and  imprinted  the  Kiss  of  Charity  on  my 
infidel  brow ! 

Embarrassed  as  I  could  not  but  feel  by  the  hu- 
voL.  u. — 38 


miliating  consciousness  of  hypocrisy,  1  was  even 
still  more  perplexed  by  my  almost  total  ignorance 
of  the  real  tenets  of  the  faith  to  which  I  professed 
myself  a  convert.  Abaslied  and  confused,  and  with 
a  heart  sick  ut  its  own  deceit,  I  listened  to  the  am 
mated  and  eloquent  gratulations  of  the  Christian, 
as  though  they  were  words  in  a  dream,  without  any 
link  or  meaning ;  nor  could  disguise  but  by  the 
mockery  of  a  reverent  bow,  at  every  pause,  the 
total  want  of  self-possession,  and  even  of  speech, 
under  which  I  labored. 

A  few  minutes  more  of  such  trial,  and  I  must 
have  avowed  my  imposture.  But  the  holy  man 
perceived  my  embarrassment; — and,  whether  mis- 
taking it  for  awe,  or  knowing  it  to  be  ignorance, 
relieved  me  from  my  perplexity  by,  at,  once,  chang- 
ing^the  theme.  Having  gently  awakened  his  an- 
telope from  his  sleep,  "  You  have  doubtless,"  he 
said,  "  heard  of  my  brother-anchoret,  Paul,  who, 
from  his  cave  in  the  marble  mountains,  near  the 
Red  Sea,  sends  hourly  the  blessed  '  sacrifice  of 
thanksgiving'  to  heaven.  Of  his  walks,  they  tell 
me,  a  lion  is  the  companion  ;"°  but,  for  me,"  he 
added  with  a  playful  and  significant  smile,  "  who 
try  my  powers  of  taming  but  on  the  gentler  animals, 
this  feeble  child  of  the  desert  is  a  far  fitter  play- 
mate." Then,  talking  his  stafT,  and  putting  the 
time-worn  volume  which  he  had  been  perusing  into 
a  large  goat-skin  pouch,  that  hung  by  his  side,  "  I 
will  now,"  said  he,  "  conduct  thee  over  my  rocky 
kingdom,  that  thou  mayest  see  in  what  drear  and 
barren  places  that  '  sweet  fruit  of  the  spirit,'  Peace, 
may  be  gathered." 

To  speak  of  peace  to  a  heart  throbbing,  as  mine 
did,  at  that  moment,  was  like  talking  of  sotne  dis- 
tant harbor  to  the  mariner  sinking  at  sea.  In  vain 
did  I  look  around  for  some  sign  of  Alethe ; — in 
vain  make  an  effort  even  to  utter  her  name.  Con- 
sciousness of  my  own  deceit,  as  well  as  a  fear  of 
awakening  in  the  mind  of  Melanius  any  suspicion 
that  might  tend  to  frustrate  my  only  hope,  threw  a 
fetter  over  my  spirit,  and  checked  my  tongue.  In 
humble  silence,  therefore,  I  followed;  while  the 
cheerful  old  man,  with  slow,  but  firm  step,  ascend- 
ed the  rock,  by  the  same  ladders  which  I  had 
mounted  on  the  preceding  night. 

During  the  time  when  the  Decian  Persecution 
was  raging,  many  Christians,  as  he  told  me,  of  the 
neighborhood  had  taken  refuge,  under  his  protec- 
tion, in  these  grottoes ;  and  the  small  chapel  upon 
the  summit,  where  I  had  found  his  flock  at  prayer. 
was,  in  those  awful  times  of  sufFerinf.  their  usual 
place  of  retreat,  where,  by  drawnig  up  these  lad- 
ders, they  were  enabled  to  secure  themselves  from 
pursuit. 


298 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


The  riew,  from  the  top  of  the  rock,  extending 
on  either  side,  embraced  the  two  extremes  of  fei- 
tility  and  desolation  ;  nor  could  the  Epicurean  and 
the  Anchoret,  who  now  stood  gazing  from  that 
height,  be  at  any  loss  to  indulge  their  respective 
tastes,  between  the  living  luxuriance  of  the  world 
on  one  side,  and  the  dead,  pulseless  repose  of  the 
desert  on  the  other.  When  we  turned  to  the  river, 
what  a  picture  of  animation  presented  itself  I  Near 
us  to  the  south,  were  the  graceful  colonnades  of 
Antinoe,  its  proud,  populous  streets,  and  triumphal 
monuments.  On  the  opposite  shore,  rich  plains, 
all  teeming  with  cultivation  to  the  water's  edge, 
seemed  to  olTcr  up,  as  from  verdant  altars,  their 
fruits  to  the  sun  ;  while,  beneath  us,  the  Nile, 

the  glorious  slreani, 

Thftt  lato  between  il3  banks  was  seen  to  glide — 
With  shrines  and  marble  cities,  on  each  side. 
Glittering.  like  jewels  strung  (ilong  a  chain — 
Had  now  sent  torlh  its  waters,  and  o'er  plain 
-And  valley,  like  a  giant  from  his  bed 
Rising  with  outstretched  limbs  superbly  spread. 

From  this  scene,  on  one  side  of  ttie  mountain,  we 
had  but  to  turn  round  our  eyes  to  the  other,  and  it 
was  as  if  Nature  herself  had  become  suddenly  ex- 
tinct ; — a  wide  waste  of  sands,  bleak  and  intermina- 
ble, wearying  out  the  sun  with  its  sameness  of 
desolation; — bleak,  burnt-up  rocks,  that  stood  as 
barriers,  at  which  life  stopped; — while  the  only 
signs  of  animation,  past  or  present,  were  the  foot- 
prints, here  and  there,  of  an  antelope  or  ostrich,  or 
the  bones  of  dead  camels,  as  they  lay  whitening  at 
a  distance,  marking  out  the  track  of  the  caravans 
over  the  waste. 

After  listening,  while  he  contrasted,  in  a  few 
eloquent  words,  the  two  regions  of  life  and  death 
on  whose  confines  we  stood,  I  again  descended 
with  my  guide  to  the  -garden  that  we  had  left. 
From  thence,  turning  into  a  path  along  the  mount- 
ain-side, he  led  me  to  another  row  of  grottoes, 
facing  the  desert,  which  had  been  once,  he  said,  the 
abode  of  those  brethren  in  (Christ,  who  had  fled 
with  him  to  this  solitude  from  the  crowded  world 
— but  which  death  had,  within  a  few  short  months, 
rendered  tenantless.  A  cross  of  red  stone,  and  a 
few  faded  trees,  were  the  only  tracoH  these  Rolitnries 
had  left  behind. 

A  silence  of  some  minutes  succeeded,  while  we 
descended  to  the  edge  of  the  canal ;  and  I  saw  np- 
positc,  among  the  rocks,  that  solitary  cave  which 
had  H(i  chilled  me  with  its  aspect  on  the  preceding 
night.  IlcMide  the  hank  we  found-  one  of  those 
ruHlic  boalx,  which  llie  Egyptians  construct  of 
plankH  of  wild  thorn,  bound  rudely  together  with 
band"!  rif  pnpynio      Plaring  ourselves  in  this  boat, 


and  rather  impelling  than  rowing  it  across,  we 
made  our  way  through  the  foul  and  shallow  flood, 
and  landed  directly  under  the  site  of  the  cave. 

This  dwelling  was  situated,  as  I  have  already 
mentioned,  on  a  ledge  of  the  rock;  and,  being  pro- 
vided with  a  sort  of  window  or  aperture  to  admit 
the  light  of  heaven,  w.as  accounted,  I  found,  far 
more  cheerful  than  the  grottoes  on  the  other  side 
of  the  ravine.  But  there  was  a  dreariness  in  the 
whole  region  around,  to  which  light  oidy  lent  addi- 
tional horror.  The  dead  whiteness  of  the  rocks, 
as  they  stood,  like  ghosts,  in  the  sunshine; — that 
melancholy  pool,  half  lost  in  the  sands; — all  gave 
to  my  mind  the  idea  of  a  wasting  world.  To  dwell 
in  a  place  so  desolate  seemed  to  me  a  living  death  ; 
and  when  the  Christian,  .is  we  entered  the  cave, 
said,  "Here  is  to  be  thy  home,"  prepared  as  I  had 
been  for  the  worst,  all  my  resolution  gave  way; — 
every  feeling  of  disappointed  passion  and  humbled 
pride,  which  had  been  gathering  round  my  heart 
for  the  last  few  hours,  fonnd  a  vent  at  once,  and  I 
burst  into  tears. 

Accustomed  to  luinian  weakness,  and  perhaps 
guessing  at  some  of  the  sources  of  mine,  the  good 
Hermit,  without  appearing  to  take  any  notice  of 
this  emotion,  proceeded  to  exp.atiate,  with  a  cheer- 
ful air,  on,  what  he  called,  the  comforts  of  my 
dwelling.  Sheltered  from  the  dry,  burning  wind 
of  the  south,  my  porch  would  inhale,  he  said,  Iho 
fresh  breeze  of  the  Dog-star.  Fruits  from  his  own 
mountain-ganlen  should  furnish  my  repast.  The 
well  of  the  neighboring  rock  would  supply  my 
beverage';  and  "  here,"  he  continued — lowering  his 
voice  into  a  more  solemn  lone,  as  he  placed  upon 
the  table  the  volume  which  he  had  brought. — "here, 
my  son,  is  that  'well  of  living  waters,'  in  which 
alone  thou  wilt  find  l;isting  refreshment  or  peace!" 
Thus  saying,  he  descended  the  rock  to  his  boat; 
and,  after  a  few  plashes  of  his  oar  had  died  upon 
my  ear,  the  solitude  and  silonco  that  reigned  around 
me  was  complete. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

What  a  falo  was  mine  I — but  a  few  weeks 
since,  presiding  over  that  gay  Festival  of  the  Oar- 
den,  with  !ill  the  luxuries  of  existence  tributary  in 
my  train;  and  now — .self-humblfd  into  a  solitary 
ouleitst^ — the  hypocritical  pupil  of  a  ('hiistiun  an- 
choret— witlioul  even  the  excuse  of  religions  fanati- 
cism, or  any  olher  madness,  but  Ihat  of  love,  wild 
love,  lo  oxlenuale  my  fall  I  Wore  there  a  hope 
lliat.bv  this  hnmiliiitinc  waste  of  existence,  I  niighl 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


299 


purchase  now  iind  then  a  momentary  glimpse  of 
Alcthe,  even  the  depths  of  the  desert,  with  such  a 
chance,  woiikt  bo  welcome.  But  to  live — and  live 
thus — unlhoiU  her,  was  a  'misery  which  I  neither 
foresaw  nor  could  endure. 

Hating  even  to  look  upon  the  den  to  which  I 
was  doomed,  I  hurried  out  into  the  air,  and  found 
my  way,  along  tlie  rocks,  to  the  desert.  The  sun 
was  going  down,  with  that  hlood-red  hue,  which 
he  so  often  wears,  in  this  climate,  at  his  setting. 
1  saw  I  he  .sands,  stretching  out,  like  a  sea,  to  the 
horizon,  as  if  tlieir  waste  extended  to  the  very 
verge  of  the  world — and,  in  tlie  bitterness  of  my 
feelings,  rejoiced  to  see  so  large  a  portion  of  crea- 
tion rescued,  even  by  this  barren  liberty,  from  the 
encroaching  grasp  of  man.  The  tliought  seemed 
to  relieve  my  wounded  pride,  and  as  I  wandered 
over  the  dim  and  boundk'ss  solitude,  to  be  thus 
free,  even  amidst  blight  and  desolation,  appeared 
to  me  a  blessing. 

The  only  living  thing  I  saw  was  a  restless  swal- 
low, whose  wings  were  of  the  same  hue  with  the 
gray  sands  over  which  he  fluttered.'"  "  Why 
(thought  I)  may  not  the  mind,  like  this  bird,  par- 
take of  the  color  of  the  desert,  and  sympathixe  in 
its  austerity,  its  freedom,' and  its  calml" — thus 
vainly  endeavoring,  between  despondence  and  de- 
fiance, to'  encounter  with  some  degree  of  fortitude 
what  yet  my  heart  sickened  to  contemplate.  But 
the  eftbrt  was  unavailing.  Overcome  by  that  vast 
solitude,  whose  repose  was  not  the  slumber  of 
peace,  but  rather  the  sullen  and  burning  silence 
ot  hate,  I  felt  my  spirit  give  way,  and  even  love 
.tself  yielded  to  despair. 

Taking  my  seat  on  a  fragment  of  a  rock,  and 
covering  my  eyes  with  my  hands,  I  made  an  effort 
to  shut  out  the  overwhelming  prospect.  But  all 
in  vain — it  was  still  before  me,  with  every  addi- 
tional horror  that  fancy  could  suggest;  and  when, 
again  looking  forth,  I  beheld  the  last  red  ray  of  the 
sun,  shooting  across  the  melancholy  and  lifeless 
waste,  it  appeared  to  me  like  the  light  of  that  comet 
which  once  desolated  this  world,"^  and  thus  luridly 
shone  out  over  the  ruin  tli.it  it  h;!d  made ! 

Appalled  by  my  own  gloomy  imaginations,  I 
turned  towards  the  ravine ;  and,  notwithstanding 
the  disgust  with  which  I  had  fled  from  my  dwell- 
ing, was  not  ill  pleased  to  find  my  way,  over  the 
rocks,  to  it  again.  On  approaching  the  cave,  to 
my  astonishment,  I  saw  a  light  within.  At  such  a 
moment,  any  vestige  of  life  w.as  weui  me,  and  I 
bailed  the  unexpected  appearance  with  pleasure. 
On  entering, however,  I  found  the  chamber  all  as 
lonely  as  I  had  left  it.  The  light  I  had  seen  came 
from   a   lamp  that  burned    rrightly   on  the  table; 


beside  it  was  unfolded  the  volume  which  Mela- 
nius  had  brought,  and  upon  the  open  leaves — oh, 
joy  and  surprise — lay  the  well-known  cross  of 
Alethe ! 

What  hand,  but  her  own,  could  hav:.  jirejiared 
this  reception  for  met — The  very  thought  sent  a 
hope  into  my  heart,  before  which  all  despondency 
fled.  Even  the  gloom  of  the  desert  was  forgotten, 
and  my  rude  cave  at  <jnce  brightened  into  a  bower. 
She  h.ad  here  renjinded  me,  by  this  sacred  memorial, 
of  the  vow  whicli  I  had  pledged  to  he'r  under  the 
Hermit's  rock;  and  I  now  i-erupled  not  to  reiterate 
the  8.ame  daring  promise,  though  conscious  that 
through  hypocrisy  alone  I  conid  fulfil  it. 

Eag(>r  to  prepare  myself  for  my  task  of  impos- 
ture, I  sat  down  to  the  volume,  which  I  now  found 
to  be  the  Hebrew  Scriptures;  and  the  first  sen- 
tence, on  which  my  eyes  fell,  was — "The  Lord 
hath  commanded  the  bles.sing,  even  Life  for  ever- 
more !"  Startled  by  these  words,  in  which  it  ap- 
peared to  me  as  if  the  Spirit  of  my  dream  had  again 
pronounced  his  assuring  prediction,"^  I  raised  my 
eyes  from  the  page,  and  repeated  the  sentence  over 
and  over,  as  if  to  try  whether  in  these  sounds  there 
lay  any  charm  or  spell,  to  reawaken  that  faded  illu- 
sion in  my  soul.  But,  no — the  rank  frauds  of  the 
Memphian  priesthood  had  dispelled  all  my  trust  in 
the  promises  of  religion.  My  heart  had  again  re- 
lapsed into  its  gloom  of  skepticism,  and,  to  the 
word  of  "  Life,"  the  only  answer  it  sent  back  was, 
"Death!" 

Being  impatient,  however,  to  possess  myself  of 
the  elements  of  a  faith,  upon  wliich — whatever  it 
might  promise  for  hereafter — I  felt  that  all  my 
happiness  here  depended,  I  turned  over  the  pages 
with  an  earnestness  and  avidity,  such  as  never  even 
the  most  favorite  of  my  studies  had  awakened  in 
me.  Though,  like  all  who  seek  but  the  surface  of 
learning,  I  flew  desultorily^ver  the  leaves,  lighting. 
only  on  the  more  prominent  and  sliining  poi.>.j,  1 
yet  found  myself,  even  in  this  undisciplined  career, 
arrested,  at  every  page,  by  the  awful,  the  super- 
natural sublimity,  the  altern.ate  melancholy  and 
grandeur  of  the  im'ages  that  crowded  upon  me. 

I  had,  till  now,  known  the  Hebrew  theology  but 
through  the  platonizing  refinement  of  Philo ; — as, 
in  like  manner,  for  my  knowledge  of  the  Christian 
doctrine  I  was  indebted  to  my  brother  Epicureans, 
Lucian  and  Celsus.  Little,  therefore,  was  my 
mind  prepared  for  the  simple  majesty,  the  high 
tone  of  inspiration — the  poetry,  in  short,  of  heaven 
that  bre.Hthed  throughout  these  oracles.  Could 
admiration  have  kindled  faith,  I  should,  that  night, 
have  been  a  believer;  so  elevated,  so  awed,  was 
my  imagination  by  that  wonderful  book — its  warn 


300 


]\rOORE'S  WORKS 


ings  of  woe,  its  announcements  of  glory,  .and  its  un- 
rivalled slMins  of  adoration  and  sorrow. 

Hour  after  hour,  with  the  same  eager  and  des- 
ultory curiosity,  did  I  turn  over  the  leaves; — and 
when,  at  length,  I  lay  down  to  rest,  my  fancy  was 
still  haunted  by  the  impressions  it  had  received.  I 
went  again  through  the  various  scenes  of  wliich  I 
had  read ;  again  called  up,  in  sleep,  the  bright 
images  that  had  passed  before  me:  and  when 
awakened  at  early  dawn  by  the  solemn  Hymn  from 
the  chapeF,  imagined  that  I  was  still  listening  to 
the  sound  of  the  winds,  sighing  raoumfuUy  through 
the  harps  of  Israel  on  the  willows. 

Starting  from  my  bed,  I  hurried  out  upon  the 
rock,  with  a  hope  that,  among  the  tones  of  tliat 
morning  choir,  I  might  be  able  to  distinguish  the 
sweet  voice  of  Alethe.  But  the  strain  had  ceased; 
— I  caught  only  the  last  notes  of  the  Hymn,  as, 
echoing  up  that  lonely  valley,  they  died  away  into 
tlie  silence  of  the  desert. 

With  the  first  glimpse  of  light  I  was  .igain 
eagerly  at  my  study,  and,  notwithstanding  the  fre- 
quent distraction  both  of  my  thoughts  and  looks 
towards  the  dist.nnt,  half-seen  grottoes  of  the  An- 
choret, continued  my  task  with  unabating  persever- 
ance throughout  the  day.  Still  alive,  however,  only 
to  the  eloquence,  the  poetry  of  what  I  studied,  of 
its  claims  to  authority,  as  a  history,  I  never  once 
paused  to  consider.  My  fancy  alone  being  interested 
by  it,  to  fancy  alone  I  referred  .ill  that  it  contained ; 
and,  passing  rapidly  from  annals  to  ])rophecy,  from 
narration  to  song,  regarded  the  whole  but  as  a  tissue 
of  oriental  allegories, in  which  the  deep  melancholy 
of  Egyptian  associations  was  interwoven  with  the 
rich  and  sensual  imagery  of  the  East. 

Towards  sunset  I  saw  the  venerable  Hermit,  on 
his  way,  across  the  canal,  to  my  cave.  Tliongh  he 
was  accompanied  only  by  his  graceful  antelope, 
which  came  snuffing  the  wild  air  of  the  desert,  as 
if  scenting  its  home,  I  felt  his  visit,  even  thus,  to  be 
a  most  welcome  relief.  It  was  the  horn-,  lie  said 
of  Ills  evening  ramble  up  the  mountain — of  his  ac- 
customed visit  to  those  cisterns  of  the  rock,  from 
which  he  drew  nightly  his  most -precious  beverage. 
While  he  spoke,  I  observed  in  his  li.md  one  of  those 
earthen  cups,"*  in  which  it  is  the  custom  of  the  in- 
habilants  of  the  wilderness  to  collect  the  fresh  dew 
omong  the  rocks.  Having  propo.scd  that  I  should 
Bccompany  him  in  his  walk,  he  proceeded  to  lead 
me,  in  the  direction  of  the  desert,  up  the  side  of 
the  mounUiin  that  rose  above  my  dwelling,  and 
which  formed  (he  southern  wall  or  screen  of  the 
defilr. 

Near  the  summit  we  found  a  sent,  where  tho  old 
man  pouiM-d  to   rest      It  commanded  a  full  view 


over  the  desert,  and  was  by  the  side  of  one  of  thosr 
hollows  in  the  rock,  those  natural  reserv'oirs,  in 
which  are  treasured  the  dews  of  night  for  the  re- 
freshment of  the  dwellers  in  the  wilderness.  Hav- 
ing learned  from  me  how  far  I  had  advanced  in  my 
study — "In  yonder  light,"  ss.id  he,  pointing  to  a 
small  cloud  in  the  east,  whici.  had  been  formed  on 
the  horizon  by  the  haze  of  th:  desert,  and  was  now 
faiatly  rellecting  the  splend( ;«  of  sunset — "in  the 
midst  of  that  light  stands  1  loant  Sinai,  of  whose 
glory  thou  hast  read :  upon  wtjose  summit  was  the 
scene  of  one  of  those  avvfri  revelations,  in  which 
the  Almighty  has  renewed  from  time  to  time  his 
comniunieation  with  Man,  and  kept  .alive  the  re- 
membrnnce  of  his  own  Proridence  in  this  world." 

.\fter  a  pause,  as  if  absorbed  in  the  immensity 
of  the  subject,  the  holy  man  continued  his  sublime 
theme.  Looking  back  to  the  earliest  annals  of 
time,  he  showed  bow  consUintly  every  relapse  of 
the  human  race  into  idolatry  has  been  followed  by 
some  manifestation  of  Divine  power,  chastening 
the  strong  and  proud  by  punishment,  and  winning 
back  the  humble  by  love.  It  was  to  preserve,  he 
said,  unextinguished  upon  earth,  that  great  and 
vital  truth — the  Creation  of  the  world  by  one  Su- 
preme Being — that  God  chose,  from  among  the  na- 
tions, an  huinble  and  enslaved  race — that  he  brought 
them  out  of  their  captinty  "  on  eagles'  wings,"  and, 
still  surrounding  every  step  of  their  course  with 
miracles,  has  placed  them  before  the  eyes  of  all  suc- 
ceeding generations,  as  the  deposit.aries  of  his  will, 
and  the  ever-during  memorials  of  his  power.'" 

Passing,  then,  in  review  the  long  train  of  inspired 
interpreters,  whose  pens  and  whose  tongues  were 
made  the  echoes  of  the  Divine  voice,""  he  traced 
throughout  the  events  of  successive  age.s,  the  grad- 
ual unfolding  of  the  dark  scheme  of  Providence — 
darkness  without,  but  all  light  and  glory  within. 
The  glimpses  of  a  coming  reilemption,  visible  even 
through  the  wrath  of  Heaven  ; — the  long  series  of 
prophecy  through  which  this  hope  runs,  burning 
and  alive,  like  a  spark  along  a  chain  ; — the  slow  and 
merciful  pn'par.ilion  of  the  hearts  of  mankind  for 
the  great  trl.il  of  llieir  failh  and  obedience  that  was 
at  hand,  not  only  by  miracles  that  appealed  to  the 
living,  but  by  prophecies  l.-uincluvl  into  the  future 
to  carry  conviction  to  the  yet  unborn; — "through 
all  these  glorious  and  bencricent  gr.adations  we  may 
track,"  said  he, "  the  manifest  footsteps  of  a  Creator, 
advancing  to  his  grand,  nlliinato  end,  the  salvation 
of  his  c  real  H  res." 

After  some  hours  devoted  to  liu'se  holy  instruc- 
tions, we  returned  to  the  r/iviiie.  and  iMelanius  left 
me  at  my  cave ;  praying,  as  he  parted  from  me — 
with  a  benevolence  wiiirh  I  hut   ill,  alas!   desi-rved 


THE  epicurean; 


801 


— that  my  soul  inii,'lit,  under  these  lessons,  be  "  as 
a  watered  g;irdcn,"  and,  ere  long,  "  bear  fruit  unto 
life  eternal." 

Next  morning,  1  was  again  at  my  study,  and 
even  more  eager  in  the  awakening  task  than  before. 
Witli  the  commentary  of  the  Morniit  freshly  in  my 
memory,  I  again  read  through,  with  attention,  the 
Rook  of  the  Law.  But  in  vain  did  I  seek  the 
promise  of  immortality  in  its  pages  '"  "  It  tells 
me,"  said  I,  "  of  a  God  coming  down  to  earth,  but 
of  the  ascent  of  Man  to  heaven  it  speaks  not.  The 
rewards,  the  punishments  it  announces,  lie  all  on 
this  side  of  the  grave ;  nor  did  even  the  Omnipotent 
ofl'er  to  Ills  own  chosen  servants  a  hope  beyond  the 
impassable  limits  of  this  world.  Where,  then,  is 
the  salvation  of  which  the  Christian  spoke?  or,  if 
Death  be  at  the  root  of  the  faith,  can  Life  spring 
out  of  it  ?" 

Again,  in  the  bitterness  of  disappointment,  did 
I  mock  at  my  own  willing  self-delusion — again  rail 
at  the  arts  of  that  traitress.  Fancy,  ever  ready,  like 
the  Delihih  of  this  wondrous  book,  to  steal  upon 
the  slumbers  of  Reason,  and  deliver  him  up,  shorn 
and  powerless,  to  his  foes.  If  deception,  thought 
I,  be  necessary,  at  least  let  me  not  practise  it  on 
myself; — in  the  desperate  alternative  before  me,  let 
me  rather  be  even  hypocrite  than  dupe. 

These  self-accusing  reflections,  cheerless  as  Ihey 
rendered  ray  task,  did  not  abate,  for  a  single  mo- 
ment, my  industry  in  pursuing  it.  I  read  on  and 
on,  with  a  sort  of  sullen  apathy,  neither  charmed  by 
style,  nor  transported  by  imagery — the  fatal  blight 
in  my  heart  having  communicated  itself  to  my  im- 
agination and  taste.  The  curses  and  the  blessings, 
the  glory  and  the  ruin,  which  the  historian  recorded 
and  the  prophet  had  predicted,  seemed  all  of  this 
world — nil  temporal  and  earthly.  That  mortality, 
of  which  the  fountain-head  had  tasted,  tinged  the 
whole  stream;  and  when  I  read  the  words, "  all  are 
of  the  dust,  and  all  turn  to  dust  ng:iin,""°  a  feeling, 
like  the  wind  of  the  desert,  came  witheringly  over 
me.  Love,  Beauty,  Glory,  every  thing  most  bright 
and  worshipped  upon  earth,  appeared  to  be  sinking 
before  my  eyes,  under  this  dreadful  doom,  into  one 
general  mass  of  corruption  and  silence. 

Possessed  by  the  image  of  desolation  I  had  thus 
called  up,  1  laid  my  head  upon  the  book,  in  a  paro.\- 
ysm  of  despair.  Death,  in  all  his  most  ghastly  va- 
rieties, passed  before  me ;  and  I  had  continued  thus 
for  some  time,  as  under  the  influence  of  a  fearful 
vision,  when  the  touch  of  a  hand  upon  my  .shoulder 
roused  me.  Looking  up,  I  saw  the  Anchoret  stand- 
ing by  my  side;-^his  countenance  beaming  with 
that  sublime  tranquillity,  which  a  hope,  beyond  this 
earth,  alone  can  bestow.     How  I  did  envy  him  1 


We  again  took  our  way  to  the  scat  upon  the 
mountain — the  gloom  within  my  own  mind  making 
every  thing  around  roe  more  gloomy.  Forgetting 
my  hypocrisy  in  my  feelings,  I  proceeded  .at  once 
to  make  an  avowal  to  him  of  all  the  doubts  iina 
fears  which  my  study  of  the  morning  had  awakened. 

"Thou  art  yet,  my  son,"  he  answered,  "but  on 
the  threshold  of  our  faith.  Thou  hast  seen  but 
the  first  rudiments  of  the  Divine  plan  ; — its  full  and 
consummate  perfection  hath  not  yet  opened  upon 
thy  mind.  However  glorious  that  manifestation  of 
Divinity  on  Mount  Sinai,  it  was  but  the  forerunner 
of  another,  still  more  glorious,  which,  in  the  fulness 
of  time,  was  to  burst  upon  the  world;  when  a]l, 
that  before  had  seemed  dim  and  incomplete,  was  to 
be  perfected,  and  the  protni.ses,  sh.-idowed  out  by 
the  'spirit  of  prophecy,'  realized; — when  the  seal 
of  silence,  under  which  the  Future  had  so  long  lain, 
was  to  bo  broken,  and  the  glad  tidings  of  life  and 
immortality  proclaimed  .to  the  world!" 

Observing  my  features  brighten  at  these  words, 
the  pious  man  continued.  Anticipating  some  of  the 
holy  knowledge  that  w.as  in  store  for  me,  he  traced, 
through  all  its  wonders  and  mercies,  the  great  work 
of  Redemption,  dwelling  in  detail  upon  every  mirac- 
ulous circumstance  connected  with  it — the  exalted 
nature  of  the  Being,  by  whose  ministry  it  was  ac- 
complished, the  noblest  and  first  .created  of  the 
Sons  of  God,'"  inferior  only,  to  the  one,  self-exist- 
ent Father; — the  mysterious  incarnation  of  this 
heavenly  messenger ; — the  miracles  that  authenti- 
cated his  divine  mission  ; — the  ex.ample  of  obedi- 
ence to  God  and  love  to  man,  which  he  set,  as  a 
shining  light,  before  the  world  for  ever ; — and,  lastly 
and  chiefly,  his  death  and  resurrection,  by  which 
the  covenant  of  mercy  was  sealed,  and  "life  and 
immortality  brought  to  light." 

"  Such,"  continued  the  Hermit,  "  was  the  Me- 
diator, promised  through  all  time,  to  '  make  recon- 
ciliation for  iniquity,'  to  change  death  into  life,  and 
bring  '  healing  on  his  wings'  to  a  darkened  world. 
Such  was  the  last  crowning  dispensation  of  that 
God  of  benevolence,  in  whose  hands  sin  and  death 
are  but  instruments  of  everlasting  good,  and  who, 
through  apparent  evil  and  temporary  retribution, 
bringing  .nil  things  '  out  of  darkness  into  his  mar- 
vellous light,'  proceeds  watchfully  and  unchanging- 
ly to  the  great,  final  object  of  his  providence — the 
restoration  of  the  whole  human  race  to  purity  and 
happiness!""" 

With  a  mind  astonished,  if  not  touched,  by  these 
discourses,  I  returned  to  my  cave,  and  found  the 
Lamp,  as  before,  ready  lighted  to  receive  me.  The 
volume  which  I  had  been  hitherto  studying,  was 
replaced   by   another    which   lay  open   upon    the 


302 


MOOBE'S  WORKS. 


la^le,  with  a  branch  of  fresh  palm  between  its 
leiives.  Though  I  could  not  doubt  to  whose  gen- 
tle and  guardian  hand  I  was  indebted  for  tliis  visi- 
ble watchfulness  over  my  studies,  there  was  yet  a 
something  in  it,  so  like  spiritual  interposition,  that 
it  struck  me  with  awe ; — and  never  more  than  at  this 
moment,  when,  on  approaching  the  volume,  I  saw, 
as  the  light  glistened  over  its  silver  letters,"'  that 
it  was  the  very  Book  of  Life  of  which  the  Hermit 
had  spoken ! 

The  midnight  hymn  of  the  Christians  had  sound- 
ed through  the  valley,  before'I  had  yet  raised  my 
eyes  from  that  s;icred  volume ;  and  the  second  hour 
of  the  sun  found  me  again  over  its  pages. 


CHAPTER  XVni. 

In  this  mode  of  existence  I  had  now  passed 
some  days; — my  mornings  devoted  to  reading,  my 
nights  to  listening,  under  the  wide  canopy  of  heaven, 
to  the  holy  eloquence  of  Jlelanius.  The  perseve- 
rance with  which  I  inquired,  and  the  quickness  with 
which  I  learned,  soon  succeeded  in  deceiving  my 
benevolent  instructor,  who  mistook  curiosity  for 
zeal,  and  knowledge  for  belief.  Alas !  cold,  and 
barren,  and  earthly  was  that  knowledge — the  word 
without  the  spirit,  the  shape  without  the  life.  Even 
when,  as  a  relief  from  hypocrisy,  I  persuaded  my- 
self that  I  believed,  it  was  but  a  brief  delusion, 
u  failh,  whose  hope  crumbled  at  the  touch — like 
the  fruit  of  the  desert-shrub,'"'  shining  and  empty  ! 

But,  though  my  sonl  was  still  dark,  the  good 
Hermit  saw  not  into  its  depths.  The  very  facility 
(if  my  belief,  which  might  have  suggested  some 
doubt  of  its  sincerity,  was  but  regarded,  by  his  in- 
n<H;enl  zeal,  us  u  more  signal  triumph  of  the  truth. 
His  own  ingenuousness  led  him  to  a  re.'idy  trust  in 
olliers;  and  llie  examples  of  such  ccinversions  as 
lliat  of  the  philosopher,  Justin,  who,  during  a  walk 
by  the  sea-shore,  received  the  light  into  his  soul, 
had  prepared  him  for  illuminntionH  of  the  spirit,  even 
more  rapid  than  mine. 

During  all  this  time,  I  neither  saw  nor  heard  of 
Ali'tlic : — nor  could  my  patience  have  endured 
through  HO  long  a  priv.ition,  had  not  those  mute 
vistigeH  of  her  presence,  that  welecuned  me  every 
night  o[i  my  return,  made  me  feel  that  1  was  still 
liviinf  under  her  gentle  influence,  and  that  her  sym- 
(mtliy  hung  round  every  step  of  my  progress.  Once, 
loo,  when  I  ventured  to  speak  her  name  to  Mela- 
iiluM,  though  he  iinswered  not  my  Inquiry,  there  was 
•1  smile,  I  tlion(;lil,  iif  promise  upon  hisi'ountenance, 


which  love,  far  more  alive  than  faith,  was  ready  tc 
interpret  as  it  desired. 

At  length — it  was  on  the  sixth  or  seventh 
evening  of  my  solitude,  when  I  lay  resting  at  the 
door  of  my  cave,  after  the  study  of  tlie  day — I  was 
startled  by  hearing  my  name  called  loudly  from  the 
opposite  rocks ;  and  looking  up,  saw,  upon  the  clitf 
near  the  deserted  grottoes,  Melanius  and — oh  I  I 
could  not  doubt — my  Alethe  by  his  side  ! 

Though  I  had  never,  since  the  first  night  of  my 
return  from  the  desert,  ceased  to  flatter  myself  with 
the  fancy  that  I  was  living  in  her  presence,  the 
actual  sight  of  her  onee  more  made  me  feel  for 
what  a  long  age  we  had  been  separated.  She  was 
clothed  all  in  white,  and,  as  she  stood  in  the  last 
remains  of  the  sunshine,  appeared  to  my  too  pro- 
phetic fancy  like  a  parting  spirit,  whose  last  foot- 
steps on  earth  that  pure  glory  encircled. 

With  a  delight  only  to  be  imagined,  I  saw  them 
descend  the  rocks,  and,  placing  themselves  in  the 
boat,  proceed  directly  towards  my  cave.  To  dis- 
guise from  Melanius  tlie  mutual  delight  with  which 
we  again  met  was  impossible; — nor  did  Alethe 
even  attempt  to  make  a  secret  of  her  joy.  Though 
blushing  at  her  own  happiness,  .as  little  could  her 
frank  nature  conceal  it,  as  the  clear  waters  of  Ethio- 
pia can  hide  their  gold.  Every  look,  every  word, 
bespoke  a  fulness  of  affection,  to  which,  doubtful  aa 
I  was  of  our  tenure  of  happiness,  I  knew  not  how 
to  respond. 

I  was  not  long,  however,  left  ignorant  of  the 
bright  fate  that  awaited  me  ;  but,  as  we  wandered 
or  rested  among  the  rocks,  learned  every  thing  that 
had  been  .arranged  since  our  parting.  She  had 
made  the  Hermit,  I  found,  acquainted  with  all  that 
had  passed  between  us  ;  had  told  him,  without  re- 
serve, every  incident  of  our  voyage — the  avowals, 
the  demonstrations  of  alTectioa  on  one  side,  and  the 
deep  sentiment  that  gratitude  had  awakened  on  the 
other.  Too  wise  to  regard  illections  so  natuial 
with  severity — knowing  that  they  were  of  heaven, 
and  but  made  evil  by  man — the  good  Hermit  had 
heard  of  our  attjxchmeul  with  pleasure  ;  .iiiil.  Cully 
satisfied  as  to  the  honor  and  purity  of  my  liews, 
by  the  fidelity  with  which  I  hail  delivereil  nu  trust 
into  his  hands,  saw.  in  my  afl'ection  for  tin'  yomig 
orphan,  but  a  providential  resource  ai;ainsl  that 
friendless  solitude  in  which  his  death  mnsf  sunn 
leave  her. 

As,  lingering  eagerly,  I  collecleil  these  parlicu- 
hirs  from  their  discourse,  1  could  hardly  trust  my 
ears.  It  seemed  a  happiness  too  great  to  be  true, 
to  be  real ;  nor  can  w.cnds  convey  an  idea  of  the 
joy,  the  slunne,  the  wonder  with  which  I  listened 
I  while  the  liolv  nnui  himself  declared  that   he  await- 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


SOS 


ed  but  the  moment,  when  he  should  find  me  wor- 
thy of  becomiiif^  a  inetiiber  of  the  Christian  Churcii, 
to  give  me  also  the  hiind  of  Aletlio  in  that  sacred 
union,  which  alone  sanclilies  love,  and  makes  the 
faith,  which  it  pledges,  holy.  It  was  but  yesterday, 
he  added,  that  his  younir  charge,  herself,  after  a 
preparation  of  prayer  and  repentance,  such  as  even 
her  pure  spirit  required,  had  been  admitted,  by  the 
sacred  ordinance  of  baptism,  into  the  bosom  of  the 
faith ; — and  the  white  garment  she  wore,  and  the 
ring  of  gold  on  her  finger,'"  '•  were  symbols,"  he 
added,  "  of  that  New  Life  into  which  she  had  been 
initiated." 

I  raised  my  eyes  to  hers  as  he  spoke,  but  with- 
drew them  again,  dazzled  and  confused.  Even  her 
beauty,  to  my  imagination,  seemed  to  have  under- 
gone .some  lirightening  ch:ingej  and  the  contrast 
between  that  open  and  happy  countenance,  and  the 
unblest  brow  of  the  infidel  that  .stood  before  her, 
abashed  me  into  a  sense  of  unworthiness,  and  al- 
most checked  my  rapture. 

To  that  night,  however,  I  look  back,  as  an  epoch 
in  my  existence.  It  proved  that  sorrow  is  not  the 
only  awakener  of  devotion,  but  that  joy  may  some- 
times quicken  the  holy  spark  into  life.  Returning 
to  my  cave,  with  a  heart  full,  even  to  oppression, 
of  its  happiness,  I  could  find  no  other  relief  to  my 
overcharged  feelings,  than  that  of  throwing  myself 
on  my  knees,  and  uttering,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  a  heartfelt  prayer,  that  if,  indeed,  there  were  a 
Being  who  watched  over  mankind,  he  would  send 
down  one  ray  of  his  truth  into  my  darkened  soui, 
and  make  it  worthy  of  the  blessings,  both  here  and 
hereafter,  proffered  to  it ! 

My  days  now  rolled  on  in  a  perfect  dream  of 
happiness.  Every  hour  of  the  morning  was  wel- 
comed as  bringing  nearer  and  nearer  the  blest  time 
of  sunset,  when  the  Hermit  and  Alethe  never  failed 
to  visit  my  now  charmed  cave,  where  her  smile  left, 
at  each  parting,  a  light  that  lasted  till  her  return. 
The*  our  rambles,  together,  by  starlight,  over  the 
mountain ;  our  pauses,  from  time  to  time,  to  con- 
template the  wonders  of  the  bright  heaven  above 
us ;  our  repose  by  the  cistern  of  the  rock  ;  and  our 
silent  listening,  through  hours  that  seemed  minutes, 
to  the  holy  eloquence  of  our  teacher; — all,  all  w.as 
happiness  of  the  most  heartfelt  kind,  and  such  as 
even  tthe  doubts,  the  cold  lingering  doubts,  that 
still  hung,  like  a  mist,  around  my  heart,  could 
neither  cloud  nor  chill. 

.\s  soon  as  the  moonlight  nights  returned,  we 
.ised  to  venture  into  the  desert;  and  those  .sands, 
which  had  lately  looked  so  desolate,  in  my  eyes, 
now  assumed  even  a  cheerful  and  smiling  aspect. 
To  the  light,  innocent  heart  of  Alethe,  every  thing 


was  a  source  of  enjoyment.  For  her,  even  the 
desert  had  its  jewels  and  flowers;  and,  sometimes, 
her  delight  was  lo  search  among  the  sands  for  those 
beautiful  pebbles  of  jasper"'  that  .abound  in  them  ; — 
sometimes  her  eyes  would  sparkle  with  pleasure  on 
finding,  perhap.s,a  .stunted  marigold,  or  one  of  those 
bitter,  scarlet  flowers,'"  that  lend  their  dry  mockery 
of  ornament  to  the  de.sert.  In  all  these  pursuits 
and  pleasures  the  good  Hermit  took  a  share'^min- 
gling  occasionally  with  them  the  reflections  of  a 
benevolent  piety,  that  lent  its  own  cheerful  hue  to 
all  the  works  of  creation,  and  saw  the  controlling 
truth,  "God  is  Love,"  written  legibly  everywhere. 

Such  was,  for  a  few  weeks,  my  blissful  life. 
Oh,  mornings  of  hope !  oh,  nights  of  happiness ! 
with  what  melancholy  pleasure  do  I  retrace  your 
flight,  and  how  reluctantly  pass  to  the  .sad  events 
tliat  followed  ! 

During  this  time,  in  compliance  with  the  wishes 
of  Melanius,  who  seemed  unwilling  th.nt  I  should 
become  wholly  estranged  from  the  world,  I  used 
occasionally  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  neighboring  city 
Antinoe,'"  which,  being  the  capital  of  the  Thcbaid 
is  the  centre  of  all  the  lu.vury  of  Upper  Egypt 
But  here,  so  changed  was  my  every  feeling  by  the 
all-absorbing  passion  which  now  possessed  me,  that 
I  sauntered  along,  wholly  uninterested  by  either 
the  scenes  or  the  people  that  surrounded  me,  and, 
sighing  for  that  rocky  solitude  where  my  Alethe 
breathed,  felt  this  to  be  the  wilderness,  and  that  the 
world. 

Even  the  thoughts  of  my  own  native  Athens, 
that  at  every  step  were  called  up,  by  the  light 
Grecian  architecture  of  this  imperial  city,  did  not 
awaken  one  single  regret  in  my  heart — one  wish 
to  exchange  even  an  hour  of  my  desert  for  the  best 
luxuries  and  honors  that  awaited  me  in  the  Garden. 
I  saw  the  arches  of  triumph  ;• — I  walked  under  the 
superb  portico,  which  encircles  the  whole  city  with 
its  marble  shade ; — I  stood  in  the  Circus  of  the 
Sun,  by  whose  rose-colored  pillars  the  mysterious 
movements  of  the  Nile  are  measured; — on  all  these 
proud  monuments  of  glory  and  art,  as  well  as  on 
the  gay  multitude  that  enlivened  them,  I  looked 
with  an  unheeding  eye.  If  they  awakened  in  me 
any  thought,  it  was  the  monrnfnl  idea,  that,  one 
d.iy,  like  Thebes  and  Heliopolis,  this  pageant  would 
pass  away,  leaving  nothing  behind  but  a  few  moul- 
dering ruins — like  se.a-shells  found  where  the  oeean 
has  been — to  tell  that  the  great  tide  of  Life  was 
once  there ! 

But,  though  indifferent  tin  s  to  all  that  had  for- 
merly attracted  me,  there  were  subjects,  once  alien 
to  my  heart,  on  which  it  was  now  most  Iremblinglv 
alive ;  and  some  rumors  which  had  reached  mc.  in 


804 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


one  of  my  visits  to  tlie  city,  of  an  expected  change 
in  the  policy  of  tlie  Emperor  towards  the  Christians, 
filled  my  mind  with  apprehensions  as  new  as  they 
were  dreadful  to  uie. 

The  toleration  and  even  favor  which  the  Chris- 
tians enjoyed,  during  the  first  four  years  of  the 
reign  of  Valerian,  had  removed  from  them  all  fear 
of  a  renewal  of  those  horrors,  whicli  they  had  ex- 
perienced under  the  rule  of  his  predecessor,  Decius. 
Of  late,  however,  some  less  friendly  dispositions 
had  manifested  themselves.  The  bigots  of  the 
court,  taking  alarm  at  the  rapid  spread  of  the  new 
faith,  had  succeeded  in  filling  the  mind  of  the 
monarch  with  that  religious  jealousy,  which  is  the 
evei^ready  parent  of  cruelty  and  injustice.  Among 
these  counsellors  of  evil  was  MacrLinus,  the  Prseto- 
rian  Prefect;  who  was,  by  birth,  an  Egyptian,  and 
had  long  made  himself  notorious — so  akin  is  super- 
stition to  intolerance — by  his  addiction  to  the  dark 
practices  of  demon-worship  and  magic. 

From  this  minister,  who  was  now  high  in  the 
favor  of  Valerian,  the  new  measures  of  seveiity 
against  the  Christians  were  expected  to  emanate. 
All  tongues,  in  all  quarters,  were  busy  vv'ith  tlie 
news.  In  the  streets,  in  the  public  gardens,  on  the 
steps  of  the  temples,  I  saw,  everywhere,  groups  of 
inquirers  collected,  and  heard  the  name  of  Macria- 
nus  upon  every  tongue.  It  was  dreadful,  too,  to 
observe,  in  the  countenances  of  those  who  spoke, 
the  variety  of  feeling  with  which  the  rumor  was 
discussed,  according  as  they  feared  or  desired  its 
truth — according  as  they  were  likely  to  be  among 
the  torturers  or  the  victims. 

Alarmed,  though  still  ignorant  of  the  whole  ex- 
tent of  the  danger,  I  hurried  back  to  thera\ine,and, 
going  at  once  to  the  grotto  of  Melanius,  detailed  to 
him  every  particular  of  the  intelligence  I  had  col- 
lected. He  listened  to  me  with  a  composure,  which 
I  mistook,  alas !  for  confidence  in  his  own  security ; 
and,  nami.ig  the  hour  for  our  evening  walk,  retired 
into  Ills  grotto. 

At  the  accustomed  time,  accompanied  by  Alethe, 
ho  came  to  uiy  cave.  It  was  evident  that  he  had 
not  eummunicat«d  to  her  the  intelligence  which  I 
had  brought,  for  never  liath  brow  worn  such  hap- 
piness U!t  that  which  now  played  around  hers: — it 
v/as,  alas!  not  of  this  earth.  Melanius,  himself, 
though  composed,  was  thoughtful;  and  the  solem- 
nity, almost  approaching  to  melancholy,  with  which 
he  placed  the  liand  of  Alethe  in  mine — in  the  per- 
formance, too,  of  a  ceremony  that  ought  to  have 
filled  my  licart  with  joy — saddened  and  alarmed 
me.  This  ceremony  was  our  bctrolhmcnt,  the  act 
cif  pllgliiiiig  our  fiillli  to  each  other,  wlilcli  we  now 
koltiniiii/.uii  on  lli«  rock  before  the  door  of  my  cave, 


in  the  face  of  that  calm,  sunset  heaven,  whose  onn 
star  stood  as  our  witness.  After  a  blessing  from 
the  Hermit  upon  our  spousal  pledge,  I  placed  the 
ring — the  earnest  of  our  future  union — on  her  fin- 
ger; and,  in  the  blush,  with  which  she  surrendered 
to  me  her  whole  heart  at  that  instant,  forg':'  every 
thing  but  my  happiness,  and  felt  secure  e>"-:.  .igainst 
fate ! 

We  look  our  accustomed  w.ilk,  that  evening, 
over  the  rocks  and  on  the  desert.  So  bright  was 
the  moon — more  like  the  dayliglit,  indeed,  of  other 
climes — that  we  could  plainly  see  the  tracks  of  the 
wild  antelopes  in  the  sand ;  and  it  was  not  without 
a  slight  tremble  of  feeling  in  his  voice,  as  if  some 
melancholy  analogy  occurred  to  him  as  he  spoke, 
that  the  good  Hermit  said,"  I  have  observed, in  the 
course  of  my  walks,'"'  that  wherever  the  track  of 
that  gentle  animal  appears,  there  is,  almost  always, 
found  the  foot-print  of  a  beast  of  prey  near  it."  He 
regained,  liowever,  his  usual  cheerfulness  before  we 
parted,  and  fixed  the  following  evening  for  an  ex- 
cursion, on  the  other  side  of  the  r.avine,  to  a  point 
looking,  he  said,  "  towards  that  nortliern  region  of 
the  desert,  where  the  hosts  of  the  Lord  encamped 
in  their  departure  out  of  bondage." 

Though,  when  Alethe  was  present,  all  my  fears 
even  for  herself  were  forgotten  in  that  perpetual 
element  of  happiness,  which  encircled  her  like  the 
air  that  she  breathed,  no  sooner  was  I  alone,  than 
vague  terrors  and  bodings  crowded  upon  me.  In 
vain  did  I  endeavor  to  reason  away  my  fears,  by 
dwelling  only  on  the  most  cheering  circumstances 
— on  the  reverence  with  which  Melanius  was  re- 
garded, even  by  the  Pagaii.s,  and  the  inviolate  secu- 
rity with  which  he  had  lived  through  the  most 
perilous  periods,  not  only  safe  himself,  but  aftbrd- 
ing  sanctuary  in  the  depths  of  his  grottoes  to  others. 
Though  somewhat  oalmecrby  these  considerations, 
yet,  when  at  lengtii  I  sunk  oft'  to  sleep,  dark,  hor- 
rible dreams  took  possession  of  my  mind.  Scenes 
of  death  and  of  torment  passed  confusedly  before 
me ;  and,  when  I  awoke,  it  was  with  the  fearful  im- 
pression that  all  these  horrors  were  real. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

At  length,  the  day  dawncil — that  dreadful  day! 
Impatient  to  bo  relieved  from  my  HUspense,  I  threw 
myself  into  my  boat — the  Hunio  in  which  we  had 
performed  our  happy  voyage— and,  as  fast  as  oar* 
ciiuhl  s])ecd  inc,  hurried  awny  to  the  city-  I  fiMind 
the  Huburbs  silent  and  soliUiry,  but,  as  I  approtu'ltw^ 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


305 


the  Forum,  loud  yells,  lilce  those  of  harharians  in 
combat,  struck  on  my  cnr,  and,  when  I  entered  it — 
great  God,  what  a  spectacle  presented  itself!  The 
imperial  edict  against  the  Christians  h:id  arrived 
during-  the  night,  and  already  the  wild  fury  of  big- 
otry was  let  loose. 

Under  a,  canopy,  in  the  middle  of  the  Forum, 
was  the  tribunal  of  the  Governor.  Two  statues — 
,  one  of  Apollo,  the  other  of  Osiris — stood  at  the 
bottom  of  the  steps  that  led  up  to  his  judgment- 
seat.  Before  these  idols  were  shrines,  to  which 
the  devoted  Christians  were  dragged  from  all  quar- 
Jers,  by  the  soldiers  and  mob,  and  there  compelled 
to  recant,  by  throwing  incense  into  the  Hame,  or, 
on  their  refusal  hurried  away  to  torture  and  death. 
It  was  an  appalling  scene; — the  consternation,  the 
cries  of  some  of  the  victims — the  pale,  silent  reso- 
lution of  others; — the  fierce  shouts  of  laughter 
that  broke  from  the  multitude,  when  the  dropping 
of  the  frankincense  on  the  altar  proclaimed  some 
denier  of  Christ;'"'  and  the  fiend-like  triumph  with 
which  the  courageous  Confessors,  who  avowed 
their  faith,  were  led  away  to  the  flames ; — never 
could  I  have  conceived  such  an  assemblage  of 
norrors ! 

Though  I  gazed  but  for  a  few  minutes,  in  those 
minutes  I  felt  and  fiincied  enough  for  years.  Al- 
ready did  the  form  of  Alethe  appear  to  fiit  before 
me  through  that  tumult ; — I  heard  them  ghout  her 
name ;  her  shriek  fell  on  my  ear ;  and  the  very 
thought  so  palsied  me  with  terror,  that  I  stood 
fixed  and  statue-like  on  the  spot. 

Recollecting,  however,  the  fearful  preciousness 
of  every  moment,  and  that — perhaps,  at  this  very 
instant — some  emissaries  of  blood  might  be  on  their 
way  to  the  Grottoes,  I  rushed  wildly  out  of  the 
Forum,  and  made  my  way  to  the  quay. 

The  streets  were  now  crowded;  but  I  ran  head- 
long through  the  multitude,  and  was  already  under 
the  portico  leading  down  to  the  river — already  saw 
the  boat  that  was  to  bear  me  to  Alethe — when  a 
Centurion  stood  sternly  in  my  path,  and  I  was  sur- 
rounded and  arrested  by  soldiers  !  It  was  in  vain 
thiit  I  implored,  that  I  struggled  with  them  as  for 
life,  assuring  them  that  1  was  a  stranger — that  I 
was  an  Athenian — that  I  was — iiol  a  Christian. 
The  precipitation  of  ray  flight  was  sufficient  evi- 
dence .against  me,  and  unrelentingly,  and  by  force, 
they  bore  me  .away  to  the  quarters  of  their  Chief. 

It  was  enough  to  drive  me  at  once  to  madness! 
Two  hours,  two  frightful  hours,  was  I  kept  waiting 
the  arrival  of  the  Tribune  of  their  Legion'" — my 
brain  burning  with  a  thousand  fears  .ar.d  imagina- 
tions, which  every  passing  minute  made  but  more 
likely  to  be  realized.  All  I  could  collect  too,  ftoff 
vcL.  11. — ."in 


the  conversations  of  those  around  me,  but  added 
to  the  .agonizing  apprehensions  with  which  I  w.as 
racked.  Troops,  it  was  said,  had  been  sent  in  all 
directions  through  the  neighborhood,  to  bring  in 
the  rebellious  Christians,  and  make  them  bow  be- 
fore the  Gods  of  the  Empire.  With  horror,  too,  I 
heard  of  Orcus— Orcus,  the  High  Priest  of  .Mem 
phis — as  one  of  the  principal  instigators  of  thi? 
sanguinary  edict,  and  as  he.-e  present  in  Anlinoij, 
animating  and  directing  its  execution. 

In  this  state  of  torture  I  remained  till  the  arrival 
of  the  Tribune.  Absorbed  in  my  own  thoughts,  I 
hiid  not  perceived  his  entrance; — till,  hearing  n 
voice,  in  a  tone  of  friendly  surprise,  exclaim,  '-.M- 
eiphron !"'  I  looked  up,  and  in  this  legionary  Chief 
recognised  a  young  Roman  of  rank,  who  had  held 
a  military  command,  the  year  before,  at  Athens, 
and  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished  visitors  of 
the  Garden.  It  was  no  time,  however,  for  courte- 
sies:— he  w.as  proceeding  with  all  cordiality  to  greet 
me,  but,  having  heard  him  order  my  instant  release, 
I  could  wait  for  no  more.  Acknowledging  his 
kindness  but  by  a  grasp  of  the  hand,  I  flew  off",  like 
one  frantic,  throu'h  the  streets,  and,  in  a  few  min- 
utes, was  on  the  river.  . 

My  sole  hope  had  been  to  reach  the  Grottoes 
before  any  of  the  detached  parties  should  arrive, 
and,  by  a  timely  flight  .across  the  desert,  rescue,  at 
least,  Alethe  from  their  fury.  The  ill-fated  delay 
th.at  had  occurred  rendered  this  hope  almost  des- 
perate; but  the  tranquillity  I  found  everywhere  as 
I  proceeded  down  the  river,  and  my  fond  confidence 
in  the  sacredness  of  the  Hermit's  retreat,  kept  my 
he.art  from  sinking  altogether  under  its  terrors. 

Between  the  current  and  my  oars,  my  bo.at  flew, 
with  the  speed  of  wind,  along  the  waters,  and  I  was 
already  near  the  rocks  of  the  ravine,  when  I  saw, 
turning  out  of  the  canal  into  the  river,  a  barge 
crowded  with  people,  and  glittering  with  .arms! 
How  did  I  ever  survive  the  shock  of  that  sight  ? 
The  cars  dropped,  as  if  struck  out  of  my  hands, 
into  the  water,  and  I  s.at,  helplesslv  g.azing,  as  that 
terrific  vision  approached.  In  a  few  minutes,  the 
current  brought  us  together ;— -and  I  saw,  on  the 
deck  of  the  barge,  Alethe  herself  and  the  Hermit 
surrounded  by  soldiers ! 

We  were  already  passing  each  other,  when,  with 
a  desper.ate  effort,  I  sprang  from  my  boat  and  light- 
ed upon  the  edge  of  their  vessel.  I  knew  not  wliat 
I  did,  for  despair  was  my  only  prompter.  Snatdiing 
at  the  sword  of  one  of  the  soldiers,  as  I  stooQ  tot- 
tering on  the  edge,  I  had  succeeded  in  wresting  it 
out  of  his  hands,  when,  at  the  same  moment,  I  re- 
ceived a  thrust  of  a  lance  from  one  of  his  comrades, 
and  fell  backward  int^i  'he  ri-. er.    I  can  'ust  rertero 


306 


MOOKE'S  WOEKS. 


ber  risuig  again  and  making  a  grasp  at  the  side  of 
the  vessel ; — but  tlie  shock,  and  the  faintness  from 
my  nound,  dejirived  uic  of  all  consciousness,  and  a 
shriek  from  Alethe,  as  I  sank,  is  all  I  can  recollect 
of  what  followed. 

Would  I  had  then  died  I — Yet,  no,  Almighty 
Being — I  should  have  died  in  darkness,  and  I  have 
lived  to  know  Thee ! 

On  returning  to  my  senses,  I  found  myself  re- 
clined on  a  conch,  in  a  splendid  apartment,  the 
whole  appearance  of  which  being  Grecian,  I,  for  a 
moment,  forget  all  that  had  passed,  and  imagined 
myself  in  my  ov.n  home  at  Athens.  But  too  soon 
the  wliole  dreadful  certainty  flashed  upon  me  ;  and, 
starting  w  ildly — disabled  as  I  was — from  my  couch, 
I  called  loudly,  and  with  the  shriek  of  a  maniac, 
upon  Alethe. 

I  was  in  the  house,  I  then  found,  of  my  friend 
and  disciple,  the  young  Tribune,  who  had  made  the 
Governor  acquainted  with  my  name  and  condition, 
and  had  received  me  under  his  roof,  when  brought, 
bleeding  and  insensible,  to  Antinoe.  From  him  I 
now  learned  for  once — for  I  could  not  wait  for 
details — tlie  sum  of  all  that  had  happened  in  that 
dreadful  interval.  Melanius  was  no  more — Alethe 
still  alive,  but  in  prison ! 

"Take  me  to  her" — I  had  but  time  to  say — 
"take  me  to  her  instantly,  and  let  me  die  by  her 
side" — when,  nature  again  failing  under  such  shocks, 
I  relapsed  into  insensibility.  In  this  state  I  con- 
tinued for  near  an  liour,  and,  on  recovering,  found 
the  Tribune  by  my  side.  The  horrors,  he  said,  of 
the  Forum  were,  for  that  day,  over, — but  what  the 
morrow  might  bring,  he  shuddered  to  contemplate. 
His  nature,  it  was  plain,  revolted  from  the  inhuman 
duties  in  which  he  was  engaged.  Touched  by  the 
agonies  he  saw  me  suffer,  he,  in  some  degree,  re- 
lieved them,  by  promising  that  I  should,  at  night- 
fall, be  conveyed  to  the  prison,  and,  if  possible, 
through  his  influence,  gain  access  to  Alethe.  She 
might  yet,  he  added,  be  saved,  could  I  succeed  in 
persuading  her  to  comply  with  the  terms  of  the 
edict,  and  make  sacrifice  to  the  Gods. — "  Other- 
wise," said  he,  "there  is  no  hope; — the  vindictive 
Orcus,  who  has  resisted  even  this  short  respite  of 
mercy,  v»ill,  to-morrow,  incxorablv  demand  his 
prey." 

He  then  related  to  me,  at  my  own  request — 
though  every  word  was  torture — all  the  harrowing 
dclails  of  the  proceeding  before  the  Tribunal.  "  I 
have  seen  courage,"  said  he,  "  in  its  noblest  forms, 
In  the  field;  but  the  c.ilrn  intrepidity  with  which 
that  aged  hermit  endured  torments — which  it  was 
hardly  less  torment  to  witness — surpassed  all  that 
I  could  hrc  cnncf  ived  of  human  fortitude  !" 


BIy  poor  Alethe,  too — in  describing  to  me  her 
conduct,  the  brave  man  wept  ike  a  child.  Over- 
whelmed, he  said,  at  first  by  lier  apprehensions  for 
my  safety,  she  had  given  way  to  a  full  burst  of 
womanly  \veakness.  But  no  sooner  was  she 
brought  before  the  Tribun.il,  .ind  the  declaration 
of  her  faith  was  demanded  of  her,  than  a  spirit 
almost  supernatural  seemed  to  animate  her  whole 
form.  "  She  raised  her  eyes,"  said  he,  "  calmly, 
but  with  fervor,  to  heaven,  while  a  blush  was  the 
only  sign  of  mortal  feeling  on  her  features : — and 
the  clear,  sweet,  and  untrembling  voice,  with  which 
she  pronounced  her  own  doom,  in  the  words, '  I  am 
0  Christian  !'  "°  sent  a  thrill  of  admiration  and  pity 
throughout  the  multitude.  Her  youth,  her  loveli- 
ness, afiected  all  hearts,  and  a  cry  of  'Save  the 
young  maiden !'  was  heard  in  all  directions." 

The  implacable  Orcus,  however,  would  not  he.ar 
of  mercy.  Resenting,  .is  it  appeared,  with  all  his 
deadliest  rancor,  not  only  her  own  escape  from  his 
toils,  but  the  aid  with  which  she  had,  so  fatally  to 
his  views,  assisted  mine,  he  demanded  loudly  and 
in  the  name  of  the  insulted  sanctuary  of  Isis,  iier 
instant  death.  It  was  but  by  the  firm  intervention 
of  the  Governor,  who  shared  the  general  sympathy 
in  her  fate,  that  the  del.iy  of  another  day  was 
granted  to  give  a  chance  to  the  yonng  maiden  of 
yet  recalling  her  confession,  and  thus  .ifFording 
some  pretext  for  saving  her. 

Even  in  yielding,  with  evident  reluctance-,  to  this 
respite,  the  inhuman  Priest  would  yet  accompany 
it  with  some  mark  of  his  vengeance.  Whether  for 
the  pleasure  (observed  the  Tribune)  of  mingliiig 
mockery  with  his  cruelty,  or  as  a  warning  to  her 
of  the  doom  she  must  nltimately  e.xpect,  he  gave 
orders  that  there  should  be  tied  round  her  brow 
one  of  those  chaplets  of  coral,'"  with  which  it  is 
the  custom  of  young  Christian  maidens  to  array 
themselves  on  the  day  of  their  martyrdom  ; — "and, 
thus  fearfully  adorned,"  said  ho,  "  she  was  led 
away,  amidst  the  gaze  of  the  pitying  multitude,  to 
prison." 

With  these  harrowing  details  tho  short  inten'al 
till  nighlfdl — every  minute  of  which  seemed  an 
age — was  occupied.  As  soon  as  it  grew  dark,  I 
v>-as  placed  upon  a  litter — my  wound,  though  not 
dangerous,  rccjuiring  .such  a  conveyance — and,  un- 
der the  guidance  of  my  friend,  I  was  conducted  tc 
the  prison.  Through  his  interest  with  tlie  guard, 
we  Were  without  diniciilly  admitted,  and  I  was 
borne  into  the  chamber  where  the  maiden  lay  im- 
mured. Even  the  veteran  guardian  of  the  place 
seemed  touched  with  compassion  for  his  prisoner, 
and  Kiiiijiosing  her  to  be  asleep,  had  the  litter  placed 
g«nlly  ncnr  her. 


THE  EriGUliEAN. 


807 


She  was  lialf  ri'cliniiig,  witii  her  Imco  liid  beneath 
her  hands,  upon  a  couch — at  the  foot  of  whicli  stood 
an  idol,  over  whose  hideous  features  a  himp  of 
naplitha,  that  hung  from  the  ceiling,  shod  a  wild 
and  ghastly  glare.  On  a  table  before  the  image 
was  a  censer,  with  a  small  vessel  of  incense  beside 
it — one  grain  of  which,  thrown  voluntarily  into  the 
flame,  would,  even  now,  save  that  precious  life. 
So  strange,  so  fearful  was  the  whole  scene,  that  I 
almost  doubted  the  reality.  Alethe!  my  own, 
happy  Alethe  !  can  it,  I  thoiiglit,  he  thou  that  I 
look  upon  ? 

She  now  slowly,  and  with  difficulty,  raised  her 
head  from  the  couch,  on  observing  which,  the  kind 
Tribune  withdrew,  and  we  were  left  alone.  There 
was  a  paleness,  as  of  death,  over  her  features;  and 
those  eyes  which,  when  last  I  saw  them,  were  but 
too  bright,  too  happy  for  this  world,  looked  dim 
and  sunken.  In  raising  herself  up,  she  put  her 
hand,  as  if  from  pain,  to  her  forehead,  whose  marble 
hue  but  appeared  more  death-like  from  those  red 
bands  that  lay  so  awfully  across  it. 

After  wandering  for  a  minute  vaguely,  her  eyes 
at  length  rested  upon  me — and,  with  a  shriek,  half 
terror,  half  joy,  she  sprung  from  the  couch,  and 
sunk  upon  her  knees  by  my  side.  She  had  believed 
me  dead ;  and,  even  now,  scarcely  trusted  her  sen- 
ses. "My  husband!  my  love!"  she  exclaimed; 
"  oh,  if  thou  comest  to  call  me  from  this  world, 
behold  I  am  ready!"  In  saying  thus,  she  pointed 
wildly  to  that  ominous  wreath,  and  then  dropped 
her  head  down  upon  my  knee,  as  if  an  arrow  had 
pierced  it. 

"Alethe!"  I  cried — terrified  to  the  very  soul  by 
that  mysterious  pang — and,  as  if  the  sound  of  my 
voice  had  reanimated  her,  she  looked  up,  with  a 
faint  smile,  in  my  face.  Her  thoughts,  which  had 
evidently  been  wandering,  became  collected ;  and 
in  her  joy  at  my  safety,  her  sorrow  at  mv  suffering, 
she  forgot  entirely  the  fate  that  impended  over 
herself.  Love,  innocent  love,  alone  occupied  all 
her  thoughts;  and  the  warmth,  the  affection,  the 
devotedness,  with  which  she  spoke — oh  how,  at 
any  other  moment,  I  would  have  blessed,  have 
lingered  upon  every  word ! 

But  the  time  flew  fast — th.at  dreadful  morrow 
was  approaching.  Already  I  saw  her  writhing  in 
the  hands  of  the  torturer — the  flames,  the  racks,  the 
wheels,  were  before  my  eyes  !  Half  frantic  with 
the  fear  that  her  resolution  was  fi.xed,  I  flung  my- 
self from  the  litter  in  .an  agony  of  weeping,  and 
supplicated  her,  by  the  love  she  bore  me,  by  the 
happiness  that  awaited  us,  bj'  her  own  merciful 
God,  who  was  too  good  to  require  such  a  sacrifice 
— by  all  that  the  most  passionate  anxiety  could 


dictate,  I  implored  that  she  would  avert  from  us  the 
doom  that  was  coming,  and — but  for  once — comply 
with  the  vain  ceremony  demanded  of  her. 

Shrinking  from  me,  as  I  spoke — but  with  a  look 
more  of  sorrow  than  reproach — "  What,  thou,  too  !"* 
she  said  mournfully — "thou,  into  whose  inmost 
spiiit  I  had  fondly  hoped  the  same  light  had  entered 
as  into  my  own!  No,  never  be  thou  leagued  with 
them  who  would  tempt  me  to  '  make  shipwreck  of 
my  faith !'  Tliou,  who  couldst  alone  bind  me  to 
life,  use  not,  I  entreat  thee,  thy  power;  but  let  me 
die,  as  He  I  serve  h.ath  commanded — die  for  the 
Truth.  Remember  the  holy  lessons  we  heard  to- 
gether on  those  nights,  those  happy  nights,  when 
both  the  present  and  future  smiled  upon  us — when 
even  the  gift  of  eternal  life  came  more  welcome  to 
my  soul,  from  the  glad  conviction  that  thou  wert 
to  be  a  sharer  in  its  blessings; — shall  I  forfeit  now 
that  divine  privilege  1  shall  I  deny  the  true  God, 
whom  we  then  learned  to  love  ? 

"No, my  own  betrothed,"  she  continued — point- 
ing to  the  two  nngs  on  her  finger — "behold  the>e 
pledges — they  are  both  sacred.  I  should  have  been 
as  true  to  thee  as  I  am  now  to  heaven, — nor  in  that 
life  to  which  I  am  hastening  shall  our  love  be  for- 
gotten. Should  the  baptism  of  fire,  through  which 
I  shall  pass  to-morrow,  make  me  worthy  to  be 
heard  before  the  throne  of  Grace,  I  will  intercede 
for  thy  soul — I  will  pray  that  it  may  yet  share  with 
mine  that  'inheritance,  immortal  and  undefiled, 
which  Mercy  offers,  and  that  thou — and  my  dear 
mother — and  I — ■" 

She  here  dropped  her  voice ;  the  momentary 
animation,  with  which  devotion  and  affection  had 
inspired  her,  vanished  ; — and  there  came  a  darkness 
over  all  her  features,  a  livid  darkness — like  the  ap- 
proach of  death — that  made  me  shudder  through 
every  limb.  Seizing  my  hand  convulsivelv,  and 
looking  at  me  with  a  fearful  eagerness,  as  if  anxious 
to  hear  some  consoling  assurance  from  my  own  lips — ■ 
"Believe  me,"  she  continued,  "not  all  the  tormenta 
they  are  preparing  for  me — not  even  this  deep, 
burning  pain  in  my  brow,  to  which  they  will  hardly 
find  an  equal — could  be  half  so  dreadful  to  me  as 
the  thought  that  I  leave  thee,  without — " 

Here  her  vnice  again  failed ;  her  head  sunk 
upon  my  arm,  and — merciful  God,  let  me  forget 
what  I  then. felt — I  saw  that  she  was  dying! 
Whether  I  uttered  any  cry,  I  know  not; — but  the 
Tribune  came  rushing  into  the  chamber,  and,  look- 
ing on  the  maiden,  said,  with  a  face  full  of  horror, 
"  It  is  but  too  true  !" 

He  then  told  me  in  a  low  voice,  what  he  had 
just  learned  from  the  guardian  of  the  prison,  that 
the  band  -ound  the  young  Christian's  brow"'  wpj 


308 


MOORE'S  ^VORKS. 


— oh  horrible  I — a  compound  of  the  most  deadly 
poison — the  hellish  invention  of  Orcus,  to  satiate 
his  vengeance,  and  make  the  fate  of  his  poor  vietiui 
secure.  My  first  movement  was  to  untie  that  fatal 
wreath — but  it  would  not  come  away — it  would  not 
come  away ! 

Roused  by  the  pain,  she  again  looked  in  my  face  ; 
out,  unable  to  speak,  took  hastily  from  her  bosom 
the  small  silver  cross  which  she  had  brought  with 
her  from  my  cave.  Having  pressed  it  to  her  own 
lips,  she  held  it  anxiously  to  mine,  and,  seeing  me 
kiss  the  holy  symbol  with  fervor,  looked  happy,  and 
smiled.  The  agony  of  death  seemed  to  have  pass- 
ed away; — there  came  suddenly  over  her  features 
a  heavenly  light,  some  share  of  which  I  felt  de- 
scending into  my  own  soul,  and,  in  a  few  minutes 
more,  she  expired  in  my  arms. 


Here  tnds  the  Manuscript ;  but,  un  tlie  outer  cover  is 
found,  in  tl.:  Jiandioriting  of  a  much  later  period. 


the  following  \otice,  extracted,  as  it  appears  from 
some  Egyptian  martyrology : — 

"  ALcirHRON — an  Epicurean  philosopher,  con- 
verted to  Christianity,  A.  D.  257,  by  a  young  Egyp- 
tian maiden,  who  suffered  martyrdom  in  that  vear. 
Immediately  upon  her  death  he  betook  himself  to 
the  desert,  and  lived  a  life,  it  is  s.aid,  of  much  holi- 
ness and  penitence.  During  the  persecution  under 
Dioclesian,  his  sufferings  for  the  faith  were  most 
exemplary ;  and  being  at  length,  at  an  advanced 
age,  condemned  to  hard  labor,  for  refusing  to  com- 
ply with  an  Imperial  edict,  he  died  at  the  Brass 
Mines  of  Palestine,  A.  D.  297. 

"  As  Alciplu'on  held  the  opinions  maintained 
since  by  Arius,  his  memory  has  not  been  spared  by 
Athan.asian  writers,  who,  among  other  charges,  ac- 
cuse him  of  having  been  addicted  to  the  supersti- 
tions of  Egypt.  For  this  calumny,  however,  there 
.appears  to  be  no  better  foundation  than  a  circum- 
stance, recorded  by  one  of  his  brother  monks,  that 
there  was  found,  after  his  death,  a  small  metal 
mirror,  like  those  used  in  the  ceremonies  of  Isis, 
suspended  around  his  neck." 


THE  EPICUREAN. 


309 


NOTES. 


(1)  Tho  description,  hero  alluded  to,  may  aluo  bo  found 
copied  verbatim  from  Pelhos,  in  tho  "  Voyages  d'Ant^nor." — 
"In  that  pliilosophkal  romance,  called 'La  Vie  de  Selhos,'" 
Bays  Warburton,  ''  we  fiiul  a  much  juster  account  of  old  Egyp- 
tian wisdom,  than  in  all  the  pretended  'Ilistoiro  du  Ciel.'  "— 
Div.  Leg.  book  iv.  sect.  14, 

(2)  For  the  importance  attached  to  dreams  by  tho  ancients, 
BOO  Jortin^  Uemarka  on  Ecclesiastical  History,  vol.  i.,  p.  DO. 

(3)  More  properlj-,  perhaps, "  the  Column  of  the  Pillars."  Vide 
Abdallaiify  Relatien  de  TEgypte,  and  the  notes  of  M.  de  Sacy. 
The  great  portico  around  this  column  (formerly  desi^fnated 
Pompey's,  but  now  known  to  have  been  erected  in  honor  of 
Diocleaian)  was  still  standing,  M.  de  Sacy  says,  in  the  time  of 
Saladin.     Vide  Lord  Valentia's  Travels. 

(4)  Ammianus  thus  speaks  of  the  state  of  Alexandria  in  his 
time,  which  was,  I  believe,  as  lale  as  the  end  of  the  fourth 
century: — "N'e  nunc  quidem  in  eadem  urbe  Doctrinai  variic 
silent,  uon  apud  nos  exaruit  Musica  nee  Ilarmouia  conticuit." 
Lib.  ^2. 

(5)  From  the  character  of  the  features  of  the  Sphinx,  Volncy, 
Bruce,  and  a  few  others,  have  concl\Kied  that  the  ancient  in- 
habitants of  Egypt  were  negroes.  But  this  opinion  is  contra- 
dicted by  a  host  of  authorities.  See  Castcra's  notes  upon 
Broicnt's  Travels^  for  the  result  of  Blunienbach's  dissection 
of  a  variety  of  mummies.  Denoii,  speaking  of  the  character 
of  the  heads  represented  in  tho  ancient  sepulchre  and  painting 
of  Egypt,  says,  '•  Celle  des  fommes  rcssemble  encore  a  la  figure 
des  jolies  fcmmes  d'aujourd'hui :  de  la  rondeur,  do  la  vohipl6, 
le  nez  petit,  les  yeux  longs,  pen  ouverts,"  &c.,  &.C.  He  could 
judge,  too,  he  says,  from  the  female  mummies,  "  que  leuj-s 
cheveux  etaient  longs  et  lisses,  que  le  caractere  de  t/:te  de 
la  plupart  tenait  du  beau  style." — ^'.lo  rapporlai,"  he  adds, 
*Mme  lete  de  vieille  fummo  <iui  6tait  aussi  belle  que  celles  de 
Michel-Ange,  et  lenr  rcasemblait  boaiicoup." 

In  a  "  Description  generate  dc  Thebts^''''  by  Messrs,  Ja/lois  et 
Desvilficrs,  they  say,  '^Toutes  le;^  sculntures  Kgjptiennes,  de- 
puis  les  plus  grands  colosses  de  Thebes  jusqu'aux  plus  potites 
idolcs,  no  rappelent  en  auciine  maniere  les  traits  de  la  figure 
des  negres;  outre  que  les  teles  des  nnunies  des  cataconibesde 
Thebes  priisentent  des  prolils  droits.*'  (ir^ee  also  -1/.  Jomard's 
"Description  of  tfyene  and  its  Cataracts,''  Baron  Lurmj, 
on  tlie  "  conformation  physiiiue"  of  Ihc  Egyptians,  tc.)  Hut 
the  most  satisfactory  rel'utalion  of  the  opinion  of  Volncy,  hafl 
been  afforded  within  these  few  years,  by  Doctor  Granritle^ 
who,  having  been  lucky  enough  to  obtain  possession  of  a  per- 
fect female  mummy,  has,  by  the  dissection  and  admeasure- 
ment of  its  form,  completely  established  the  fact,  tliat  the  an- 
cient Egyptians  were  of  the  Cauca^^ian  race,  and  not  of  the 
Ethiopians.  See  this  gentleman's  curious  "  I'.s.^ni/  on  F.giipHan 
JUiiiitmies,^^  read  before  Ihc  Uoyal  Society,  .\pril  11, 18-J5. 

Dc  Pauw,  tlie  great  depreciator  of  every  thing  Egyptian, 
has,  on  the  authority  of  a  passage  in  ^lian,  presumed  to  affix 
lo  the  countrj  women  of  Cleopatra  the  stigma  of  complete  and 
unredeemed  ugliness.  In  addition  to  the  celebrated  instances 
of  Cleopatra,  Rhodope,  &c.,  we  are  told,  on  tho  authority  of 
.Manetho.  (as  given  by  Zoega  from  Georgius  Syncollus,)  of  a 
beautiful   queen  of  .Momphis.  Nitocris.  of  the   sivlh  dynasty. 


wlio,  in  addition  to  other  charms  and  perfections,  was  (rathw 
Inconsistently  with  tho  negro  hypnlhcsift;  yellow-haired. 

See  for  a  tribute  to  tho  beauty  of  Egyptian  women,  .Monte»- 
qnieu's  Temple  de  Gnide. 

(G)  Vide  Strabo. 

(7)  See  Plutarch,  de  Isid.  et  Osir. 

(8)  "De  li'i,  en  remontant  toujours  leNil,  on  trouvo  a  deux 
cent  cinquaiite  pas,  ou  environ  de  la  Matart-e.  les  traces  de 
Tancienne  Htdiopolis,  ou  Ville  do  Soleil,  a  qui  ce  lieu  ^tail 
particulierement  consacr6.  C'cst  pour  cotte  ralson  qu'on  I'ap- 
pclait  encore  i'CEil,  ou  la  Fontaine  du  Poleii."— .UiZ/M. 

(9)  "On  trouve  une  ilo  appelOo  Venti3-Dor6o.  ou  le  champ 
d'or,  avant  de  remontcr  jusqu'a  Memphis."— Ftfya^M  dc  Py 
thagore. 

(10)  For  an  account  of  the  Table  of  Emerald,  Tide  Lrttrtt 
sur  lOrigine  des  Dicnz  d^ Egijpte.  Dc  Pauw  supposes  it  to  be 
a  modern  fiction  of  the  Arabs.  Many  writers  have  fancied 
that  tho  art  of  making  gold  was  tho  great  secret  that  lay  hid 
under  the  forms  of  EtryptiEin  theology.  "La  science  herme- 
tique,"  says  the  Benedictine,  Fcrnetz,  "I'art  sacerdotal,  ^tail 
la  source  de  toutes  les  richesscs  des  Uois  d'Egyptc,  et  Tobjet 
de  ces  mystiTes  si  caches  sous  le  voile  de  ieur  pr6lendue 
Religion."— faWf^  Egyptiennrs.  The  hieroglyphs,  that  for- 
merly covered  the  Pyramids,  are  supposed  by  some  of  these 
writers  to  relate  to  the  same  art.    See  Mutus  Liber,  Rupcllu. 

(U)  "  Enfin  Ilarpocrate  reprd'sentait  aussi  le  Soleil.  II  e^t 
vrai  que  c'btait  aussi  le  Dieu  du  Silence  ;  il  mettait  le  doigt  sur 
la  bouche  parcequ'on  adorait  le  soleil  avec  un  respectueux  si- 
lence, et  c'fist  de  li  qu'est  vcnu  le  Sig6  des  Basilidiens,  qui 
liroient  leurorigine  de  I'Egypte." — Beausobre. 

(12j  "  By  redecting  tho  sun's  rays,"  says  Clarke^  speaking  of 
the  Pyramids,  "they  appeared  white  as  snow." 

(13)  For  Bubustis,  the  Diana  of  the  Egyptians,  vide  Jabiun- 
.tAi,  lib.  iii.  cap.  4. 

(14)  Vide  .^maiikoii^  "  Ifisloirc  df  la  .Wieigatjun  et  du  Cum- 
vicrce  des  Egijpticns  sons  les  Ploleniics.''^  See  also  for  u 
description  of  the  various  kinds  of  boats  used  on  the  Nile, 
Maillet^  torn,  i.,  p.  98. 

(15)  Vide  Maurice^  .Appendix  to  "Ruins  of  Babylon."  .An- 
other reason,  he  says,  for  their  worship  of  the  Ibis,  "  founded 
on  their  love  of  geometry,  was  (according  to  Plutarch)  that 
the  space  between  its  legs,  when  parted  asunder,  as  it  walks, 
together  with  its  beak,  forms  a  complete  equilateral  triangle." 
From  the  examination  of  the  embalmed  birds,  found  in  the 
Cat.'icombs  of  Saccara,  there  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  the  Ibia 
was  the  same  kind  of  bird  as  that  described  by  Bruce,  under 
the  Arabian  name  of  .\bou  llaime?. 

(lij)  "  La  fleur  eu  est  mille  fois  plus  odoriferante  que  cellea 
de  nos  f^ves  d'Europe,  quotque  lenr  parfum  nous  paraisse  si 
flgr^nble.  Cnmrae  on  en  ffeme  heauroup  dans  les  terres  voisines 


310 


MOOllE'S  WORKS. 


du  Caire,  du  c5t6  de  I'occident,  c'eat  quelque  chose  de  char- 
roaot  que  I'air  cmbaum^  que  Vou  respire  le  soir  sur  les  terrasses, 
qu&Dd  le  veut  de  I'oueal  vient  aaouffler,  et  y  apporto  cette 
odeur  admirable."— .Va*V/e^ 

(17>  "lais  est  geoias."  says  5err(u5,  '' .Egypti,  qui  per  sislii 
motum,  quod  gerit  in  dexlra,  Nill  accessus  recessusque  sig- 
oiflcal." 

(16)  The  ivy  was  coi»«ecraled  to  Osiris.  Vide  Diodor. 
Sic.  1.  10. 

(19)  "  Quelques-unes,"  says  Z)k/jui>,  describing  the  proces- 
sions of  Isis,  "  portaienl  des  miroirs  attaches  a  leurs  epaules, 
afin  de  multiplier  et  de  porter  daus  tous  sens  les  images  de  la 
D6e3se." — Orig-ine  rf«  Cu/tes.,  toiQ.  viii.  p.  H47.  A  mirror,  it 
appears,  was  also  one  of  the  emblems  in  the  mysteries  of  Bac- 
chus. 

(30)  ^  Tout  prouve  que  la  territoire  de  Sakkarah  6tait  la 
Necropolis,  au  sud  do  Memphis,  et  le  faubourg  oppos6  a  celui- 
ci,  oii  sunt  les  pyrainides  de  Gizeh,  uue  autre  Ville  des  Morta, 
qui  ttrmiimil  .Memphis  au  nord." — Dtnun. 

There  is  nothing  known  with  certainty  as  to  the  site  of 
Memphis,  but  it  will  be  perceived  that  the  description  of  its 
position  given  by  the  Epicurean  corresponds,  in  almost  every 
particular,  with  thai  which  M.  Maillet  (the  French  consul,  for 
many  years,  at  Cairo)  has,  in  his  work  on  Egypt,  left  us.  It 
must  be  always  borne  in  miud,  too,  that  of  the  distances  be- 
tween the  respective  places  here  mentioned,  we  have  no  longer 
tny  accurate  means  of  judging. 

(,21)  •'  Par-la  non-sculoraent  on  conservait  les  corps  d'une 
laraillc  cnliere,  mais  en  de-sccndant  dans  ces  lieux  soiitcrrains, 
ou  ils  Ctaient  d^-poses,  on  pouvait  se  repr^senter  en  un  instant 
luUB  scs  ancetres  depuis  plusienrd  milliers  d'aun^cs  tels  a  pea 
prcs  qu'ils  etaient  de  leur  vivanl." — MaUiet. 

(22)  "  Multns  dim  pyramJdas  fuisse  e  ruiuis  uri,'uitur," — 
Zarga.  Fanslrh^  who  visited  more  than  ten  of  the  small 
pyramids,  is  of  opinion  that  there  must  have  origiually  been  u 
hundred  in  this  place. 

Sec,  on  the  subject  of  tlie  lake  to  the  northward  of  .Memphis, 
Shato's  Travels^  p.  303. 

(23)  "^On  Toit  en  Egyptc,  aprcs  la  relraile  du  Nil  et  la  ft- 
condation  des  terres,  le  limon  cuuvorl  d'unc  multitude  do 
scarab^-cs.  L'n  pareil  ph6nomi^ne  adu  sembler  aux  Egyptlcns 
ie  plus  propro  ri  peindre  une  nouvclle  cxisteuce.^* — M.  Joiti' 
bard. 

Partly  for  the  same  reason,  and  partly  for  another,  still  more 
fanciful,  Iho  early  Christians  used  to  apply  this  emblem  to 
Christ.  "  Don  us  lllo  8carab:L>us  nicuH,**  says  St.  .Augustine, 
"  non  cii  tantum  de  causik.  quod  unigenitus,  quod  ipsemel  sul 
nuctor  murtiLlium  speciem  luduurit,  sed  qu^d  in  hac  nostril 
fit'co  MHO  vulutavurit  et  ex  hac  IpsA  na»ci  volucrit." 

V24)  *'  1^8  EgypUena  onl  fatt  auwi,  pour  conservor  lours 
n)orl<i,  des  caisses  <le  verre." — De  rauic.  Ho  mentions,  also, 
h)  another  place,  a  sort  of  transparent  substanco,  which  tho 
Ethiopians  used  for  thv  samu  purpose,  ond  wliicli  wiui  fro- 
quenily  mistaken  by  tho<^rceks  fur  glass. 

C2J)  **  L'n  prelro,  qui  brlsu  la  tigo  d'unti  llufir,  des  ulscaux 
qui  sVnTolont,  fionl  les  emblt^moi  do  la  morl  ct  do  I'&rau  qui 
io  s^paro  du  corps." — JJenon. 

fOO)  A  croRfl  was,  atonng  tho  KgyptlauH,  the  emblem  of  a 
future  life. 

'*Tha  singular  appearance  of  a  Crou  so  froquently  recurring 
ainonic  U>o  hlrroglyphlca  of  Egypt,  had  excited  tho  curiosity 
•f  Ih'* 'lir.iiian*  at  a  very  parly  period  of  occloslaitirnl  his 


tory ;  and  as  some  of  the  Priests,  who  were  acquainted  with 
the  meaning  of  the  hieroglyphics,  became  converted  to  Chns- 
liauily,  the  secret  transpired.  '■The  converted  heathens,'  says 
Socrates  Scholasticus,  'explained  the  symbol,  and  declared 
that  it  signified  Life  to  Come.''  "— C/arAv. 

Lipsius,  theielore,  is  mistaken  in  supposing  tho  Cross  to 
have  been  an  emblem  peculiar  to  the  Christians.  See,  on  this 
subject,  IJ'Histoirc  des  Juifs.  liv.  vi.  c.  16. 

11  issingularenough  that  while  tho  Cross  was  thus  held  sa- 
cred among  tho  Egyptians,  not  only  the  custom  of  tn;irking  the 
forehead  with  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  but  Baptism  urn!  the  con- 
secration of  the  bread  in  the  Eucharist,  were  imitated  in  the 
mysterious  ceremonies  of  Mithra. —  Tertall.  de  Proscriptione 
Hircticorum. 

Zoega  is  of  opinion  that  the  Cross,  said  to  have  been  for  the 
first  time  found,  on  the  destruction  of  the  temple  of  Serapis,  by 
the  Christians,  could  not  have  been  the  crux  ausata ;  as 
nothing  is  more  common  than  this  emblem  ou  all  the  Egyptian 
monuments. 

(27)  It  was  an  idea  entertained  among  the  ancients  that  the 
Pyramids  were  so  constructed  ("  mecanic:\  constructione," 
says  .'Immianus  Jilarcellinus)  as  never  to  cast  any  shadow. 

(28)  From  the  story  of  Rhodope,  Zoarn  thinks,  "  vidcntur 
Arabes  ansam  arripuisse  ut  in  una  ex  pyramidibus,  genii  loco, 
habitare  dicerent  mulierem  nudam  insignis  pulchritudinis  qua. 
aspecto  sue  homines  insanire  facial." — De  Csu  Obrliscorttm. 
See  also  VEgypte  de  Murtadi,  par  fattier, 

(29)  "Apud  Memphim  apneas  quasdam  portas,  quie  Lethes 
et  Cocyti  (hoc  est  oblivionis  et  lamentationis)  appellantur, 
aperiri,  gravem  asperuraque  edentes  sonum."— Zof^^a. 

(30)  See.  for  the  custom  of  burying  the  dead  tiprlght,  (^  posl 
funus  stantia  busto  corpora,"  as  Slatius  describes  it.)  Dr. 
Clarke's  preface  to  tho  2d  section  of  his  fifth  volume.  They 
used  to  insert  precious  stones  in  tho  placo  of  the  eyes.  "  Les 
yeux  ttaient  formes  d'trnfrraudea,  do  turquoises,"  &c. — Vide 
Masoudy^  <|Uolo<l  by  Quntrcmere. 

(31)  The  following  verses  of  Claudian  are  supposed  to  have 
been  meant  as  a  description  of  those  imitations  of  the  noise 
of  earthquake  and  thunder,  which,  by  means  of  the  Cerauno 
scope,  ond  other  such  contrivances,  were  practised  In  the 
shows  of  the  Mysteries: 

Jam  milu  cernuntur  trepidis  delubra  moreri 
Sedibus,  ct  claram  dispergero  culmina  lucem, 
Adveutum  teslala  Del.    Jam  m.ignus  ab  imis 
Auditur  fremitus  lerris,  lumplumque  remuglt 
Cecropluni.  Jiai>t.  Pro.^erp.  lib.  I. 

(32)  See,  for  the  echoea  in  the  p)runiidn.  i'lutarch  de  Placitit 
Vhilosoph. 

i^XS)  "  Ce  ruomoiil  heuruux  (,de  KAutopsle)  Otait  prepare  par 
des  scenej)  elTruyantes,  par  les  alternatives  de  cralnte  ot  de  Joie, 
do  luralerc  ot  do  lOnubres,  par  la  luour  des  tclairs,  par  le  bruit 
terrible  do  la  foudre,  qu'on  imltait,  et  par  des  apparitions  do 
spectres,  dci  illusions  mugiques.  <iul  frappaieut  les  yuux  et  les 
oreilles  tout  ensemblo."— /^n/iwi.v. 

(34)  "Ces  cunsidtl'mtions  me  portent  h  penser  que,  dans  los 
mysleres,  ces  phOnonu-nes  i>taient  beaucoup  mioux  ex6cut6cs, 
ct  sans  comparaisnii  plus  t<Tribles  ii  Paldo  du  (|ueliiuu  compu 
sltlon  pyri<|ue,  (pil  e!<t  reHlce  riich^e,  comme  cello  du  feu  (>r( 
gouis.** — De  I'auw. 

(35)  "  II  n'y  a  point  d'nutn*  nioyeii  qui<  do  porter  le  f«>u  daui 
COS  for^la  do  ruseaux,  qui  n^pundunl  alurs  dans  tout  Io  pais 
une  lumi^ro  auftst  cnntilili^riiblf  tjue  cello  du  Juur  m^mo."- 
Mullft,  lorn.  1.  p  til. 


THE  EPlCUIiEAN. 


811 


(30)  The  Nile,  Ptinij  tells  us,  waa  ndmiltcii  into  the  Pjramifl. 

(XT)  "On  cxcrriiit,"  anys  />«/>«(>,"  Irs  rycijjii'inIiiiri'B,  J)lti- 
diiiit  phiBiuurs  jours,:'!  ImvLM'aer,  li  lu  nnge,  unu  gi'iinde  ttcii- 
duo  d'uau.  On  It-s  y  Jt;tinit,  ct  co  nVialt  qu'avcc  puliio  qu'ils 
sVn  retiraient.  On  ft])iiliquiiil  It- fer  cl  In  fun  but  luurs  mL-in- 
/brt's.    On  les  faisiiit  juigsei-  a  tiavers  lus  nninmos." 

The  atjpii-Hnts  were  often  In  considL-rnblo  dftiitrer,  and  Py- 
Ihaguraa,  wo  aro  told,  nearly  lost  his  lift)  in  the  trials.  Vidu 
Recherches  sur  les  Initiations^  par  Ituhin. 

(38)  •'  Enfln  Mnrpocrato  6tait  nssis  sur  hi  hitua,  qui  ot^t  la 
plantedu  Soleil."     Hist,  dcs  Jtiifs. 

(UD)  For  the  two  cups  used  in  th*.-  mystorii^s,  see  // fri.iti>irr 
dett  Juif.iy  liv.  ix.  c.  10. 

(40)  Osiris,  under  tlin  nainu  of  Scrapis,  wasauppiijuid  to  nil<i 
over  the  subterranean  world  ;  and  performu<l  the  oflictj  of  IMiilo, 
In  the  tnylholo2:y  of  tho  Eijyplians.  "  Thi-y  beliuved,"  says  Dr. 
Prichard,  "  that  Pepis  presided  over  the  rocfinu  of  departed 
souls,  dmincr  the  pfri».id  of  their  absence,  when  laiigiiisbing 
without  bodies,  and  that  the  dead  were  deposited  in  his  pal- 
ace."    ^naljjsia  of  the  Egijptian  Jlfyt/iolnjrij. 

(41)  '' Fri^idam  illani  aquurn  post  niorlern,  lauipiain  Hebes 
pocnlum,cxpetitara."  Zoega. — The  I*elbe  ofllie  LOpyptiuns  waa 
called  AmRles.    Seo  Dupuis^  torn.  viii.  p.  (351. 

(42)  "  Enfin  on  disait  qu'il  y  avail  deux  coupes,  Puue  en  haut 
et  I'autre  en  baa.  Celui  qui  buvait  de  la  coupo  d'en  bas,  avait 
toujours  soif,  ses  dtisirs  a'augmentait  au  lieu  de  s'eteindre  ;  mais 
celui  qui  buvait  de  la  coupe  on  haut,  6tait  rempli  et  content. 
Cette  premiere  coupo  etait  la  connaissancc  de  la  Nature,  qui  ne 
Batisfait  jamais  pleinement  ceux  qui  en  sondent  lea  rayslercs  ; 
et  la  seconde  coupe,  dans  laqvielle  on  devait  boiro  pour  n'avoir 
jamais  soif,  ^lait  la  connaisaance  des  raysteres  du  Ciel."  Hist, 
des  JiiifSi  liv.  ix.  chap.  IG. 

(43)  The  divine  draught,  which,  according  to  Diodorua  Sicu- 
lus,  Isis  prepared  for  her  son  Orus. — Lib.  i. 

(44)  Hur.  jipoll.^The  grasshopper  was  also  consecrated  to 
the  sun,  as  being  musical. 

(45)  The  isle  Antirrhodus,  near  Alexandria.    Maillet. 

(46)  Vide  Athti\.  Deipnof. 

(47)  "On  s'fttait  meme  avisd,  depuis  la  premirro  construc- 
tion de  ces  demeures,  do  percer  en  plusieurs  endroits  jusqu'au 
haut  les  terrcs  qui  les  couvraient ;  non  pas,  a  la  v^rilt,  pour 
tirer  un  jour  qui  n'aurait  jamais  6t6  sufflsant,  mais  pour  rece- 
voir  ua  air  salutaire,"  &.C.     Sithos. 

(48)  "  On  voyait  en  plein  jour  par  ces  ouvertures  les 
^toiles,  et  mPme  quolques  planetes  en  leur  plus  s;rande  lati- 
tude septentrionale ;  et  les  pretres  avaient  bientut  proflt6  de 
ce  ph6nomene,  pour  observer  a  diverses  heures  le  passage 
des  etoiles."  SHhos.—Strabo  mentions  certain  caves,  or 
pits,  constructed  for  the  purpose  of  astronomical  observa- 
tions, which  lay  in  Iho  Ileliopolitan  prefecture,  beyond  He- 
liopolis. 

(49)  Serapis,  Sol  Inferus.— Athcnodorus,  seripter  vetustus, 
apud  Cleraentem  Alcxandrium  iu  Protrcptico^  ait  "simulacra 
Serapidis  conspicua  esse  colore  CiTruleo  et  nigricante."  Macro- 
biu8,  in  verbis  dcscriptis,  §6,  docet  nos  apud  jEgyptios  "si- 
mulacra solis  infera  flngi  colore  cacruloo."    Jabtonski, 

.5ti\  Oairi* 


(rib  This  tno  was  dedicated  to  the  Genii  of  the  Shades, 
fnun  its  being  an  emblem  of  repose  and  cooling  alrn.  "Oil 
imtnitiet  mus^n  loliutn,  quod  ab  Isido  infera  geniisque  ei  addio* 
tin  manu  gerl  solitum,  umbram  requicmque  et  auras  frigidas 
subindigilare  videtuf."    Zoega. 

(52)  For  a  full  account  of  the  doctriiu-s  which  are  hero  ref> 
resented  as  having  been  taught  to  the  initiated  in  the  Egyp- 
tian myatcries,  the  reader  may  consult  Dupuin,  PricAard't 
Jlnalijsis  of  the  Egyptian  Mythology^  ficc,  ice.  "  I/on  d6- 
couvrait  Torigine  do  Time,  sa  chuto  sur  la  terrc,  a  travers  lea 
Bjdieres  ct  les  616mens,  et  son  retour  au  lieu  de  son  origine  .  . 
.  .  cVtait  ici  la  partio  lapluflnii'jrtaphynifiuo,rt  que  ne  pourrait 
guere  entendre  le  commun  des  Initios,  mais  dont  on  lui  don- 
nall  le  spectacle  par  des  figures  ct  des  spectres  all^goriqites." 
!}Hpuis. 

(53)  Hee  Itcaumhrr^  lib.  iii.  c.  4,  for  the  "  tcrre  bienheurcuBo 
et  lumineuse,"  which  the  Manicheans  supposed  God  to  in- 
habit. Plato,  too,  speaks  (in  Pha;d.)  of  a  pure  land  lying  in 
the  pure  sky, '*  the  abode  of  divinity,  of  innocence,  and  of 
life." 

(54)  The  power  of  producing  a  sudden  and  dazzling  ofTu- 
sion  of  light,  which  was  one  of  tbe  arts  employed  by  tho  con- 
trivers of  the  ancient  Mysteries,  is  thug  described,  in  a  few 
words  by  Apuleius,  who  waa  himself  admitted  to  witness  the 
Isinc  ceremonies  at  Corinth  : — "Nocte  raediil  vidi  solem  candi 
do  coruscautem  luraine." 

(55)  In  the  original  construction  of  this  work,  there  was  an 
episode  introduced  here,  (which  I  have  since  published  in 
a  more  extended  form.)  illustrating  the  doctrine  of  the  fall  of 
the  soul  by  the  Oriental  fable  of  the  Loves  of  the  Angels. 

(56)  fn  the  language  of  Plato,  Hierocles,  &c.,  to  "  restore  to 
tbe  soul  its  wings,"  is  the  main  object  both  of  religion  and  phi- 
losophy. 

Damascins,  in  his  Life  of  Isidorus,  says,  "Ex  antiquissimis 
Philosophis  Pythagorum  et  Platonem  Isidorus  ut  Deos  coluit, 
et  corum  aitimas  alatas  esse  dixit  quas  in  locum  superctplestem 
inque  carapum  veritatis  et  pratura  elevatas,  divinis  putavit 
ideispasci."     ."Jpud  Phot.  Bibliothrc. 

(.')7)  In  tracing  the  early  connection  of  spectacles  with 
the  ceremonies  of  religion,  Voltaire  says,  "■  II  y  a  bien  plus; 
les  vferitables  grandes  tragedies,  les  representations  irapo- 
santes  et  terriblcs,  ^taient  les  mystercs  sacr^s.  qu'on  cCI*>brait 
dans  lea  plus  vastes  temples  du  toonde,  en  presence  des  seuls 
Iniliea  ;  c'^tait  la  que  les  habits,  les  decorations,  les  machines 
etaient  propres  au  sujet ;  et  le  eujct  etait  la  vie  pr^sente  et 
la  vie  future."  Des  divers  Changrmcns  arrives  a  Cjlrt  tra- 
gi que. 

To  these  scenic  representations  in  the  Egyptian  mysteries, 
there  is  evidently  an  allusion  in  the  vision  of  Ezekiel,  where 
the  Spirit  shows  him  the  abominations  which  the  Israelites 
had  learned  in  Egypt : — "  Then  said  he  unto  me,  Sen  of  man, 
bast  thou  seen  what  the  ancients  of  the  house  of  Israel  do 
in  the  dark,  every  man  in  the  chambers  of  his  imagery  ?" — 
Chap.  viii. 

(58)  "  Bernard,  0>mte  de  la  Marche-Trevisane,  instruil  par 
la  lecture  des  livres  anciens,  dit,  que  Hermea  trouva  sept  ta- 
bles dans  la  valine  d'Hebron,  sur  lesquelles  etaient  graves  lea 
principcs  des  arts  liberaux."  Fables  Egypti-nncs.  See  Jab- 
lonski  de  stelis  Herm. 

(59)  For  an  account  of  the  animal  worship  of  the  Egyptiena 
see  De  Pauw,  tom.  ii. 

((jO)    Herodotus  (Eutcrp)  t«lls  us,  that    the  j'cople  abcut 


812 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Thebes  and  Lake  Mceris  kept  a  uuraber  of  tame  crocodiles, 
which  they  worshipped,  and  dressed  them  out  with  gems  and 
golden  ornamenls  in  their  ears. 

(.61)  "  On  augnrait  bien  de  serpens  isiaques,  lorsqu'ils  gou- 
taient  Poffrande  el  se  traiuaieut  Jentement  atitour  de  I'autel." 
De  Pauw. 

(62)  For  an  account  of  the  various  festivals  at  the  different 
periods  of  the  sun's  progress,  in  the  spring,  and  in  the  au- 
tumn, see  Dupuis  and  Prichard. 

(63)  Vide  Jilhenag.  Leg.  pro  Christ.,  p.  133. 

(64)  See,  for  some  curious  remarks  on  the  mode  of  imita- 
tine  thunder  and  lightning  in  the  ancient  mysteries,  Ve  Panir^ 
torn.  i.  p.  3iXJ.  The  machine  with  which  these  effects  were  pro- 
duced on  the  stage  was  called  a  Ceraunoscope. 

(65)  In  addition  to  the  accounts  which  the  ancients  have 
left  us  of  the  prodigious  excavations  in  all  parts  of  E:^ypt— the 
fifteen  hundred  chambers  under  the  Labyrinth— the  subterra- 
nean stables  of  the  Thebaid,  containing  a  thousand  hor?es— 
the  crypts  of  L'pper  Egypt  passing  under  the  bed  of  the  Xile, 
&c..  &c.— the  stories  and  traditiuns  current  among  the  Arnbs 
Blill  preserve  the  memorj-  of  tliose  wonderful  substructions, 
**  L'n  Arabe,"  says  Paul  Lucas,  '-qui  (itait  avec  nous,  m'assura 
qu'elant  enlre  iiutrefoia  dans  le  Labyrinthe,  il  avait  march6 
dans  les  chambres  soulerraines  jnsqu'en  un  lieu  oii  il  y  avait 
une  grande  place  environnee  de  plusieurs  niches  qui  ressem- 
blait  a  de  pctilcs  boutiques,  d'oii  Ton  entrait  dans  d'autres 
allies  et  dans  chambres,  sans  puuvuir  en  trouver  la  fin.*'  In 
speaking,  too,  of  the  arcades  along  the  >'ile,  near  Cosseir,  "lis 
me  dirent  meme  que  ces  soulerraines  6tai(-i.t  si  profondesqu'ii 
y  en  nvnicnt  qui  alluienl  a  trois  journ6es  de  la,  et  qu'ila  cnu- 
duisaieiit  dans  un  pays  oii  Ton  voyuit  de  beaux  jardins,  qu'on 
y  trouvait  de  belles  niaisons,''  Alc,  &-c. 

See  also  in  ,M.  Quatrrmerc\i  Mivwires  sur  VE-rupte,  torn. 
i.  p.  142,  an  account  of  a  subterranean  reservoir,  said  to  have 
been  diacovcrud  at  Kais,  and  of  the  expedition  undertaken 
by  a  parly  of  persons,  in  a  long  narrow  boat,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  exploring  it.  "  Leur  voyage  avail  He  do  six  joura, 
donl  les  quatre  premiers  furent  employes  u  piuutrer  les  herds ; 
les  deux  aulres  a  revcnir  au  lieu  d'ou  ils  etaient  partis. 
Pendant  tout  cet  interviillu  ils  no  purent  alteindre  rextr»>mit6 
du  bassin.  LVmir  Ala-cddin-Taraboga,  gouverneur  do  Ueh- 
ncsa,  tcrivit  ces  details  au  sultan,  qui  en  fiit  extreracment 
eurpris." 

(60)  The  position  here  given  to  Lake  Mteri-^,  in  making  it 
the  Iraraediato  boundary  of  Iho  city  of  Memphis  to  the  sctulh, 
corresponds  exactly  with  tho  silo  assigned  to  it  by  Maillot:— 
"  Memphis  avait  encore  a  son  midi  nn  vuiste  reservoir,  par  oii 
toul  cc  qui  peul  serwr  a  la  comtnodil6  et  a  rn^'iemcnt  do  la 
vie  lui  ttait  voilur6  abondammenl  du  toulcs  les  parlies  do 
TEgypte.  Co  lac  qui  la  terminait  de  cc  c6te-la,"  itc,  4ic.— 
Tom.  il.  p.  7. 

(67)  "On  veil  uur  la  rlvo  oricntalo  des  antiquity's  qnl  sont 
prcsquc  cnlieremenl  sous  los  eaux."    liehoni. 

(08)  "Quorundam  outcm  domornm  (In  Labyrlntho)  Inlis  ef^t 
•Uiis.  ut  adnperlcntibus  fores  tonitruum  Intun  torriblle  exlHlat.^' 
— r/(ny. 

(fW)  Strabo.  According  to  the  French  translator  of  Stniho, 
U  wft«  Iho  fruit  of  tho  /aba  JEsyptiaca,  not  the  leaf,  Ihitt  was 
uiied  for  thU  purpose.  "La  KiP^jpiuv,"  he  iays.  "devall 
i'entendre  d.t  la  capsule  ou  fruit  do  cette  plante,  dont  lea 
Egyptieni  w)  Burvalrnt  commo  d'un  vinie.  Imiiginaril  <|Uo  IVau 
4uNt  y  dovonnlt  d^licloiiw.** 

»TCi  ,Xfiin,\\h.  vl.  33. 


(71)  Called  Thalameges,  trom  the  pavilion  on  the  deck. — 
Vide  Stralto. 

(72)  As  April  is  the  season  for  gathering  these  roses,  (sea 
JUaltr-Brun's  Economical  Cal€ndar,^  the  Epicurean  could  not, 
of  course,  mean  to  say  that  he  saw  them  actually  in  flower. 

(73)  *-L'or  et  I'azur  bri'lent  en  bandos  longiludinales  sur 
leur  corps  entier,  et  lour  queue  est  du  plus  beau  bleu  celeste.'* 
— Sonnini, 

(74)  "  Un  caoal,'*  says  Mnillrt,  "tres-profond  et  tri's-large  j 
voituralt  les  eaux  du  Nil." 

(75)  '•  Ancienncment  on  poitait  les  eaiLX  du  N'll  juaqu'a  df* 
conlrecs  fort  t^luignees,  et  surtout  chez  les  princesses  du  sang 
di's  PlolnmtV's,  marii>c3  dans  des  families  ^tnmgeres." — />« 
PfJiiir. 

The  water    thus  conveyed  to  other  hinds  was,  as  we    may 
collect  from  Juvenal,  chielly  intended  for  the  use  of  the  Tem- 
ples of  Isis.  established  in  those  countries. 
Si  Candida  jusseril  lo, 
Ibit  ad  .Eiiypti  finem,  calidaque  petitaa 
A  Mero?  porlabit  aquas,  ut  spargat  in  asde 
laldis,  antiquo  qu;e  proxima  surgit  ovili. 

Sftr.  vi 

(7G)  "  Le  noin  du  maitre  y  6tait  6crit,  pendant  la  nuit,  en 
lettres  de  feu."— .VaiV/cf. 

(77)  Called  Alassoutes.  For  their  brittleness  Martial  is  an 
authority ; — 

Tolle.  puer,  calices,  tepidique  toreumata  Nill, 
Et  mihi  secura,  pocula  trade  manu. 

"Sana  parler  ici  des  coupes  d'un  verre  port«i  jusqu'4  la 
puret^  du  crystal,  ni  de  celles  qu'im  appelait  Alassontes,  el 
qu'on  suppose  avoir  reprt^sontti  des  figures  dont  les  coule\ira 
changoaient  suivant  I'aspect  sous  lequc!  on  les  resardait  4 
peu  pres  comme  ce  qu'on  nomme  vulgaireuient  gorgcdo' 
pigton^"  i.c. — De  Pauw. 

(78)  The  bean  of  the  Glycine,  which  is  an  beautiful  as  to  bo 
strung  into  necklaces  and  bracelets,  is  generally  known  bv  tho 
name  of  the  black  bean  of  Abyssinia.— A"*>ft«Ar. 

(79)  See  M.  P'illntrfiu  mi  the  mnsieai  inntrnmrijt^  of  the  Egi/p- 
tiatis, 

(80)  Soliniti  speaks  of  the  snowy  summit  of  Mount  Alias 
glittering  with  flames  at  niglit.  In  tho  account  of  the  Periplu« 
of  Ilanuo.  as  well  as  in  that  of  Eudoxus,  we  read,  Ihsil  as  those 
navigators  wi're  coasting  Ihis  part  of  Africa,  torrents  of  light 
were  seen  lo  fall  on  the  sea. 

(81)  "Per  lacrymas,  vero.  Isidis  inlellik'o  ellluvia  qujeilam 
Lun;e,  quibus  tantam  vim  viilentur  trihuisso  .I'gyptl."— J"*!* 
blonaki.  lie  is  of  opinion  that  the  superstition  of  the  .N'lif-fj, 
or  miraculous  drop,  is  a  relic  of  the  veneration  p:iid  lo  tho 
dews,  as  the  lears  of  IsIh. 

(82)  Trncels  of  Captain  ,M.in-t/i:->. 

(83)  Phitnrfh.  /)u/)hi.»,  torn.  x.  Tho  M-niihenn-t  hel.'  th« 
same  boiler.— See  Ueauaobrcy  p.  ^ft.'). 

(84)  See  Plutarch,  de  hid. 

(Sj)  See  Porphyr,  deAntro  Xjfmpa, 

(80)  Vldo  rVit/ord  on  Eg>'pt  ii<'  f^'  >^'''^fi  Asiatic  lU 
Bear:h.i. 


TILE  Ei'iUUKEAN. 


313 


(87)  "  A  r^poque  do  lu  ci"ue  le  Nil  Vert  clmrric  les  pluiiclics 
d'un  bols  qui  a  iino  oiJour  sumbtuble  u  cello  du  rfiicuits." 

•Quatrcmcre* 

(88)  Maillct. 

(89)  -'On  les  vuit  comnic  jadis  cuciUir  daiis  Ics  chiiinps  tlu-a 
liji^d  du  lotU3,  signed  dii  dtibordoiiient  I't  pruBiigea  du  I'ubon- 
daiice ;  ils  e'onvelopiiunt  lea  brua  ct  lo  corps  uvec  les  longucs 
ligea  flourlos,  et  parcourunt  Ics  rubs,"  fitc. — DescrijUtim  dca 
Tomheauz  dcs  Rois,par  J\I,  Costaz. 

(90)  It  was  during  tho  composition  of  his  grculcriUcal  %vnrk, 
the  Hcxapin,  that  Origen  employed  these  fcmulo  HCiibc-^. 

(91)  Non  ego  prajtulurira  Babylonica  picla  superbtj 
Toxta,  Semii-araii  qua;  variantur  ucu.  J\I<ntin!. 

(92)  Do  Pauw,  who  dilTers  in  opinion  from  those  wiio  sup- 
posed women  to  be  eligible  to  the  higher  sacerdotal  offices  in 
i'gypt,  thus  enumerates  the  tasks  to  which  their  superintend- 
ence was,  as  he  thinks,  confined:—"  Les  fommes  n'ont  pu  tout 
au  plus  dans  I'ordre  seconduire  a'acquittur  que  de  qvielqucs 
emplois  suns  consequence,  cumme  de  nourrir  des  scarabecs, 
des  musaraigncs  et  d'autres  petita  animaux  sacrtis." — Tom.  i. 
sect.  2. 

(93)  Vide  iVilfonl^  jlsialic  Researches^  vol.  iii.  p.  3^0. 

(94)  The  voyages  on  the  Nile  arc,  under  favorable  circuui- 
stances,  performed  with  considerable  rapidity.  "En  cinq  ou 
six  jours,"  says  Maillet^  "on  pourrait  aisfiment  remonter  do 
Pembouchure  du  Nil  a  sos  catnractcs,  ou  dcscendre  des  cata- 
ractes  jusqu'a  la  mer."  The  great  uncertainty  of  the  naviga- 
tion is  proved  by  what  Belzoni  tells  us: — "  Nous  no  mimes 
cetle  fois  que  deux  jours  et  demi  pour  fuire  le  trajet  du  Caire 
a  IHelawI,  auquel,  dans  notre  second  voyage,  nous  avious 
employiS  dix-huit  jours." 

(95)  "Elles  ont  pros  de  vingt  metres  (61  pieds)  d'61t;Vation; 
et  au  lever  du  soleil,  leurs  ombres  immenses  s'6tendent  au 
loin  sur  la  chaine  Libyenne." — Description  ffcnitrale  de  Tlubcs^ 
par  J\IJ\i.  Jullois  ct  Dcsvilliers* 

(96)  Paul  Lucas. 

(97)  See  an  account  of  this  sensitive  tree,  which  bends  down 
Us  branches  to  those  who  approach  it,  in  M.  Jomard's  De- 
wription  of  Pyeue  and  the  Cataracts. 

(93)  The  province  of  Arslno^-,  now  Fioum. 

(99)  Paid  Lucas. 

(100)  There  has  been  much  controversy  among  the  Arabian 
writers,  with  respect  to  the  site  of  this  mountain,  for  which  see 
Quatremere,  torn.  i.  art.  Amoun. 

(101)  The  monks  of  Mount  Sinai  {Hhaw  says)  have  covered 
over  near  four  acres  of  the  naked  rocks  with  fruitful  gardens 
and  orchards. 

(102)  There  was  usually,  Tcrttdlian  telia  us,  the  image  of 
Christ  on  the  communion-cups. 

(103)  "  We  are  rather  disposed  to  infer,"  says  the  late  Bishop 
of  Lincoln,  in  his  very  sensible  work  on  Tertullian,  "that,  at 
(ho  conclusion  of  all  their  meetings  for  the  purpose  of  devotion, 
the  early  Christians  were  accustomed  to  give  the  kiss  of 
peace,  in  token  of  the  brotherly  love  subsisting  between 
them ." 

iVA)  It  was  among  ths  accusations  of   Cdsux  against  the 


Chrisliuns,  that  they  held  their  assemblies  privately,  and  con- 
trary to  law  ;  and  one  of  the  Hpeukers,  in  the  curious  work  of 
Jilinuciim  /V///,  calls  the  Chrisl'ans  "latehrosa  et  luclfugax 
nutio." 

(105)  See  Macrinfa  account  of  these  valleys,  given  by  (lua- 
trerrUrey  torn.  t.  p.  450. 

(Iwi)  For  a  striking  description  of  this  rt-gion,  pco  *•  Jin 
mr«(;x,"  a  work  which,  though  In  general  loo  technical  and 
elaborate,  shows,  in  many  passage*,  to  what  picturesque  efPecln 
the  scenery  and  niytliohnry  of  Fgypt  may  be  luade  uiib^T- 
vient. 

(107)  From  the  position  assigned  to  Antino'i  in  this  work,  vrn 
should  conclude  that  it  extended  much  farther  to  the  north, 
than  the  few  ruins  of  it  that  remain  woirld  seem  to  indicntr, 
and  that  the  distance  between  the  city  and  tlie  .Mountain  of 
the  Birds  was  considerably  less  than  what  it  appears  to  he  at 
present. 

(lUti)  Vide  Plutarch,  de  hid. 

(109)  "Conjunctio  aolis  cum  luiia,  quod  est  vututi  utriiLs<p>e 
connubium." — Jablonski. 

(110)  M.  Chdtiaulrriand  has  introduced  Paul  au<l  his  lion  inlt 
the  MnrtijrSyMw  xi. 

(111)  "Je  vis  dans  lo  desert  des  hirundolles  d'un  gris  clair 
coiume  le  sable  sur  lequel  elles  volent." — Dcnoit, 

(H2)  In  alluding  toWhiston's  idea  of  a  comet  having  caused 
the  deluge,  J\f.  Qirard^  having  remarked  that  the  wordTyphon 
moans  a  deluge,  adds,  "  On  no  pent  entendre  par  le  tenia  du 
regne  de  I'jphon  qui  cslni  pendant  lequel  le  deluge  inonda  la 
terre,  tems  pendant  lequel  on  di'it  observer  la  comcle  qui 
Toccasionna,  et  dont  I'apparition  fut,  non  seulemeut  pour  lea 
peuples  de  I'Egypte,  et  de  I'Elhiopie,  mais  encore  poor  tous 
peuples  lu  presage  funeste  de  leur  destruction  presque  lotaJe." 
— Description  de  la  ValUe  de  l*E<fiircincnt. 

(113)  "Many  people,''  said  Origen,  "have  been  brought 
over  to  Chriatiaaily  by  the  Spirit  of  God  giving  a  sudden  turn 
to  their  minds,  and  offering  visions  to  them  either  by  day  or 
night."  On  this  Jortin  remarks  :— "  Why  should  it  be  thought 
improbable  that  Pagans  of  good  dispositions,  but  not  free  from 
prejudices,  should  have  been  called  by  divine  admonitions,  by 
dreams  or  visions,  which  might  be  a  support  to  Christianity  in 
those  days  of  distress  V" 

(114)  Paltadius,  who  lived  some  time  in  Egypt,  describes  the 
raonk  PtoIemffiU3,who  inhabited  the  desert  of  Scete,  as  collect- 
ing in  eartl'.fiu  cups  the  abundant  dew  from  the  rocks. — Biblia- 
thee.  Pat.  torn.  xiii. 

(115)  The  brief  sketch  here  given  of  the  Jewish  dispensation 
agi'eea  very  much  with  the  view  taken  of  it  by  Dr.  Sumner,  in 
the  first  chapters  of  the  eloquent  work,  the  "  Records  of  tlie 
Creation." 

(116)  In  the  original,  the  discourses  of  the  Hermit  arc  given 
much  more  at  length. 

(117)  "  It  is  impossible  to  deny,"  says  Dr.  Sumner,  "  that  the 

sanctions  of  the  Mosaic  Law  are  altogether  temporal 

It  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  facts  that  can  only  be  explained  by 
acknowledging  that  he  really  acted  under  a  Divine  commis- 
sion, promulgating  a  temporary  law  for  a  peculiar  purpose," 
—a  much  more  candid  and  sensible  way  of  ti  eating  this  very 
difficult  point,  than  by  either  endeavoring,  Uke  Warbui-ton,  to 
escq'8  from  it  Into  a  paradox,  or,  stiU  WcHe,  contririn^,  like 


514 


MOOEE'S  WOEKS. 


Dr.  Graves,  to  increase  its  difficulty  by  explanation,— Vide 
"  On  the  Pentateuch''  Sec  also  Hornets  Introduction^  &.C.,  vol. 
t.p.&'& 

(118)  While  Voltaire,  Volney.  &c.,  refer  to  Ibe  Ecclesinstes, 
as  abounding  with  tenet3  of  materialism  and  Epicurism,  M. 
Tits  VoBUX  and  others  find  in  it  strong  proofs  of  belief  in  a 
future  etate.  The  chief  difficulty  lies  iu  the  chapter  frurn 
which  this  text  is  quoted ;  and  the  mode  of  construction  by 
which  some  writers  attempt  to  get  rid  of  it— namely,  by  putting 
these  texts  into  the  mouth  of  a  foolish  reasoner— appears  forced 
and  gratuitous. — Vide  Dr.  Hale's  ,^nalysis. 

(119)  This  opinion  of  the  Ilemiit  may  be  supposed  to  liave 
been  derived  from  his  master,  Origun ;  but  it  is  not  easy  to 
Bscertain  the  exact  doctrine  of  Origen  on  this  subject.  In  the 
Treatise  on  Prayer  attributed  to  him.  he  asserts  that  God  the 
Father  alone  should  be  invoked— which,  says  Bayle,  is  to  "en- 
Ch6rir  sur  les  H^ri^sies  des  Sociniens."  Notwithstanding  this, 
however,  and  some  other  indications  of,  what  was  afterwards 
called,  Arianism,  (such  as  tho  opinion  of  the  divinity  being 
received  by  cominunxcation^  which  Jililntr  asserts  to  have  been 
held  by  this  Father,)  Origen  was  one  of  the  authorities  quoted  by 
Athanasius  in  support  of  his  high  doctrines  of  co-eternity  and 
co-essentiality.  What  Priestley  says  is.  perhaps,  the  best  aolu- 
lion  of  these  inconsistencies:— ■'Origen,  as  well  as  Clemens 
Alexandrinus,  has  been  thought  to  favor  the  Arian  principles; 
but  he  did  it  only  in  words,  and  not  in  ideas."— Ear/y  Opinions, 
S-c.  Whatever  uncertainty,  however,  there  may  exist  with 
respect  to  the  opinion  of  Origen  himself  on  this  subject,  there 
is  no  doubt  that  the  doctrines  of  his  immediate  followers  were, 
at  least,  Anti-Alhanasian.  "  i?o  many  Bishops  of  Africa,"  says 
Priestley, "  were,  at  this  period  (between  the  years  255  and  258j 
Unitarians,  that  Athanasius  says,  *The  Son  of  God'— mean- 
ing his  divinity— 'was  scarcely  any  longer  preached  in  the 
churches.' " 

(130)  This  benevolent  doctrine— which  not  only  goes  far  to 
solve  tho  great  problem  of  moral  and  physical  evil,  but  which 
would,  if  received  more  generally,  tend  lo  soften  the  spirit  of 
uncharilableneas,  so  fatally  prevalent  among  Christian  sects 
—was  maintained  by  that  great  light  of  the  early  Church, 
Origen,  and  has  not  wanted  supporters  among  more  modem 
Theologians.  That  Tillotson  was  inclined  to  the  opinion  ap- 
pears from  his  yermon  preached  before  tho  queen.  Paley  is 
supposed  to  have  held  the  samo  amiable  doctrine;  and  New- 
ton (the  author  of  the  work  on  the  Prophecies)  is  also  among 
the  supporters  of  it.  For  a  full  occount  of  the  arguments  in 
fsTor  of  this  opinion,  derived  both  from  reason  and  tho  ex- 
press louguago  of  Scripture,  see  XJr.  Southwood  Smith's  jery 
Interesting  work,  "On  the  Divino  Government.'*  See  also 
Moffee  on  Atonement,  where  Iho  doctrine  of  the  advocates  of 
Untversal  Restoration  is  thus  briefly,  and,  I  boliovc,  fairiy  ex- 
plained:—"  Beginning  with  tho  exlstenco  of  an  infinitely  p(.w- 
erful,  wise,  and  good  Being,  as  tho  first  and  fundamental 
principle  of  rullonal  religion,  they  pronounce  tho  essence  of 
this  Being  to  bo  love,  and  from  this  infer,  as  a  demonstrablo 
eoDsequonco,  that  none  of  the  creatures  formed  by  such  a 
bvlng  will  ever  bo  mAdo  eternally  mlBorablo Since 


God  (they  say)  would  act  unjustly  in  inflicting  eternal  misery 
for  temporary  crimes,  the  sufferings  of  the  wicked  can  be  but 
remediiil,  and  will  terir.inate  in  a  complete  purification  from 
moral  disorder,  and  in  Iheir  ultimate  restoration  lo  virtue  and 
happiness." 

(131)  The  Codex  Cottooianus  of  the  New  Testament  is  writ- 
ten in  silver  letters  on  a  purple  ground.  The  Codex  Cottoni- 
anus  of  the  Septuagint  version  of  the  Old  Testament  is  sup- 
posed to  be  the  identical  copy  that  belonged  to  Origen. 

(122)  Vide  Hamilton's  ^gyptiaca, 

(123)  See,  for  the  custom  among  the  early  Christians  of 
wearing  while  for  a  few  days  after  baptism,  Amhros.  de  Jlfyst. 
— With  respect  to  the  ring,  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln  says,  in  his 
work  on  Tertullinn,  "The  natural  inference  from  these  words 
(Tt-rt.  lie  Pudicittt'i)  appears  to  be,  that  a  ring  used  to  be  given 
in  baptism;  but  I  have  found  no  other  trace  of  such  a  custom." 

(124)  Vide  Clarke. 

(125)  "Les  Mcsemhryanthcmum  nodijiorum  et  Zyf^opTiyUiim 
eneeineum,  plantes  grasses  des  deserts,  rejet^es,  a  cause  de 
leur  acreti^,  par  les  chameaux,  les  che\Te3,  et  les  gazelles."— 
.1/.  Delile  upon  the  Plants  of  Egypt. 

(126)  Vide  Savary  and  Quatremere. 

(127)  "  Je  remarquai,  avec  une  r6flexion  triste,  qu'un  animal 
de  proio  accompagnc  presque  toujours  les  pas  dc  ce  joli  et 
fV^le  individu." 

(128)  "These  Christians  who  sacrificed  to  idols  to  save  them- 
selves wero  called  by  various  names,  Thurificnti^  Sacrifcati^ 
.Mittentes,  JVrgntorrs,"  Sec.  Baronius  mentions  a  bishop  of  this 
period,  (253,)  Marcellinus.  who.  yielding  lo  the  threats  of  the 
Gentiies,  threw  incense  upon  the  altar. — Vide  Amob.  contra 
Gent.  lib.  vil. 

(129)  A  rank,  similar  to  that  of  Colonel. 

(130)  Tho  merit  of  the  confession  "Christlauus  sum,  or 
"C^lrl8tiana  sum,"  was  considerably  enhanced  by  the  clear- 
ness and  distinctness  with  which  it  was  pronounced. 

(131)  Une  "do  cos  couronnos  do  grain  de  corail,  dunt  les 
vierges  martyres  ornalcnt  leurs  cheveux  on  allant  .i  la  mort."— 
I^es  J\Iartyrs. 

(132)  Wo  find  poisonous  crowns  mentioned  by  Plinys  under 
tho  designation  of  "coronie  ferales."  Pasekaliusy  too,  gives 
the  following  account  of  tlicso  "de:idly  gailnnds,'*  as  he  calls 
them: — "Sed  mirum  est  tarn  salutaro  Inventum  humanam 
ncquitiam  reperlsse,  quonioilo  ad  ncfarlos  ubus  traducent. 
Nempe,  rcpertio  sunt  nefandai  corome  harum,  quns  dixi.  tam 
salubrlum  per  nomen  qiiidem  et  epeciem  Imitatilccs,  at  re  et 
ofTcctu  forates,  atque  adeo  capitis,  cul  Imponuntur,  tnlorfec- 
trice*."— On  Coronitt. 


A  L  C  I  P  H  R  0  I 


A  FRAGMENT. 


LETTER  X. 

FROM  /LClPUaOK   AT   ALEXANIialA  TO  CLEON  AT  ATHENS. 

Well  may  you  wonder  at  my  lliglit 

From  those  fair  Gardens,  in  whose  bowers 
Lingers  vvhate'er  of  wise  and  bright, 
Of  Beauty's  smile  or  Wisdom's  light. 

Is  left  to  grace  this  world  of  ours. 
Well  may  my  comrades,  as  they  roam. 

On  such  sweet  eves  as  tliis,  inquire 
Why  I  liave  left  that  happy  homo 

Where  all  is  found  that  all  desire. 

And  Time  hath  wings  that  never  tire ; 
Where  bliss,  in  all  the  countless  shapes. 

That  Fancy's  self  to  bliss  hath  given, 
Comes  clustering  round,  like  road-side  grapes 

That  woo  the  traveller's  lip,  at  even; 
Where  Wisdom  flings  not  joy  away — 
As  Pallas  in  the  stream,  they  say. 
Once  flung  her  flute — but  smiling  owns 
That  woman's  lip  can  send  forth  tones 
Worth  all  the  music  of  those  spheres 
So  many  dream  of,  but  none  hears ; 
Where  Virtue's  self  puts  on  so  well 

Her  sister  Pleasure's  smile,  that,  loth 
From  either  nymph  apart  to  dwell, 

We  finish  by  embracing  both. 

Ves,  such  the  place  of  bliss,  I  own. 
From  all  whose  charms  I  just  h.ave  flown ; 
And  even  while  thus  to  thee  I  write. 

And  by  the  Nile's  dark  flood  recline. 
Fondly,  in  thought,  I  wing  my  flight 
Back  to  those  groves  and  gardens  bright, 
And  often  think,  by  this  sweet  light, 

How  lovelily  they  all  must  shine 


Can  see  that  graceful  temple  throw 

Down  the  green  slope  its  lengthen'd  shade, 
While,  on  the  marble  steps  below, 

There  sits  some  fair  Athenian  maid. 
Over  some  vavorite  volume  bending; 

And,  by  her  side,  a  youthful  sage 
Holds  back  the  ringlets  that,  descending, 

Would  else  o'ershadow  all  the  page. 
But  hence  such  thoughts! — nor  let  me  grieve 
O'er  scenes  of  joy  that  I  but  leave. 
As  the  bird  quits  awhile  its  nest 
To  come  again  with  livelier  zest. 

And  now  to  tell  thee — what  I  fear 
Thou'lt  gravely  smile  at — why  I'm  here. 
Though  through  my  life's  short,  sunny  dream, 

I've  floated  witliout  pain  or  care. 
Like  a  light  leaf,  down  pleasure's  stream, 

Caught  in  each  sparkling  eddy  there ; 
Though  never  Mirth  awaked  a  strain 
That  my  heart  echoed  not  again ; 
Yet  have  I  felt,  when  even  most  gay. 

Sad  thoughts — I  knew  not  whence  or  why— 

Suddenly  o'er  my  spirit  fly. 
Like  clouds,  that,  ere  we've  time  to  s.iy 

"How  bright  the  sky  isl"  shade  the  sky. 
Sometimes  so  vague,  so  undefined. 
Were  these  strange  dark'nings  of  my  mind — 
While  naught  but  joy  around  me  beam'd — 

So  causelessly  they've  come  and  flown, 
That  not  of  life  or  earth  they  seem'd. 

But  shadows  from  some  world  unknown 
More  oft,  however,  'twas  the  thought 

How  soon  that  scene,  with  all  its  play 

Of  life  and  gladness,  must  decay — 


316 


ilOOEE'S  WORKS. 


Those  lips  1  i>ress'J,  the  liands  I  caught — 

Myself — the  ciowd  tliat  mirth  had  brought 

Around  me — swept  like  weeds  away ! 

This  thought  it  was  that  came  to  shed 

0"er  rapture's  hour  its  worst  alloys ; 
And,  close  as  shade  with  sunshine,  wed 

Its  s;^dIle^s  with  i:iy  happiest  joys. 
Oh,  hut  for  this  disheart'ning  voice, 

Stealing  amid  our  mirth  to  say 
Thiit  all,  in  which  we  most  rejoice, 

Ere  night  may  be  the  earth-worn.'s  prey ; 
But  for  this  bitter — only  this — 
Full  as  the  world  is  brimnrd  with  bliss, 
.\nd  capable  as  feels  my  soul 
Of  draining  to  its  dregs  the  whole, 
I  should  turn  earth  to  heav'n,  and  bo, 
If  bliss  made  Gods,  .1  Dcily  I 

Thou  know'st  that  nijrht— !he  very  la.st 
That  'mong  my  Garden  IViends  I  pass'd — 
When  the  School  held  its  feast  of  mirth 
To  celebr.ite  our  founder's  birth, 
.\nd  all  that  Ho  in  dreams  but  saw 

When  ho  set  Pleasure  on  the  throne 
Of  this  bright  world,  and  wrote  her  law 

In  human  hearts,  w.-is  felt  and  known — ■ 
Sul  in  unreal  dreams,  but  true 
Substantial  joy  .is  pulse  o'er  knew — 
By  Iiearts  and  bosoms,  that  each  felt 
Ilself  the  realm  where  Pleasure  dwelt. 

That  night,  when  all  our  mirth  was  o'er, 

The  minstrels  silent,  and  the  feet 
Of  the  young  maidens  heard  no  more — 

So  stilly  was  the  time,  so  sweet, 
And  such  a  calm  came  o'er  that  scene, 
Where  life  and  revel  late  had  been — 
Lone  as  the  quiet  of  some  bay, 
From  which  the  set  hath  ebb'd  away — 
That  still  I  linger'd,  lost  in  thought, 

Gazing  upon  the  sUirs  of  night. 
Sad  and  intent,  as  if  I  sought 

Some  mournful  necrct  in  their  light ; 
And  nsU'd  them,  'mid  that  silence,  why 
Man,  glorious  man,  alone  must  die, 
While  they,  less  wonderful  than  he. 
Shine  on  through  all  elernily. 

That  night — thou  haply  may'st  forget 
ItH  loveliness — but  'twas  a  night 

To  make  earth's  nieancsl  slave  regret 
Ixiaving  a  world  so  soft  and  bright. 

Un  one  side,  in  the  dark  blue  sky, 

l^onclv  and  radiant,  was  the  eye 


Of  Jove  himself,  while,  on  the  other, 

'^long  stars  that  came  out  one  by  ono. 
The  young  moon — like  the  Roman  mother 

Among  her  living  jewels — shone. 
"  Oh  that  from  yonder  orbs,"  I  thought, 

"  Pure  and  eternal  as  they  are, 
'•  There  could  to  earth  some  power  be  brouglit, 
"  Some  cliarm,  with  their  own  essence  fraught. 

"  To  make  man  deathless  as  a  st.ir  ; 
"  And  open  to  his  vast  desires 

"  A  course,  as  boundless  and  sublime 
'•  .\s  th.it  which  waits  those  comet-fires, 

'•  That  burn  and  roam  throughout  all  time !" 

While  thoughts  like  tlwse  .nbsorb'd  iny  mind, 

That  weariness  which  eflrthly  bliss. 
However  sweet,  still  le^ives  behind, 

.'\s  if  to  show  how  earthly  'tis. 
Came  lulling  o"er  me,  and  I  laid 

My  limbs  at  that  fair  statue's  base — 
That  miracle,  which  Art  hath  made 

Of  all  the  choice  of  Nature's  grace — 
To  which  so  oft  I've  knelt  and  sworn, 

That,  could  a  living  maid  like  her 
Unto  this  wondering  world  be  born, 

I  would,  myself,  turn  worshipper. 

Sleep  came  then  o'er  me — and  I  seem'd 

To  be  transported  far  away 
To  a  bleak  desert  plain,  where  gleam'd 

One  single,  melancholy  r.ay. 
Throughout  that  darkness  diinly  shed 

From  a  small  t.aper  in  the  hand 
Of  one,  who,  pale  as  are  the  de.ad, 

Before  me  took  his  spectral  stand. 
And  said,  while,  awfully,  a  smile 

Came  o'er  the  wanness  of  his  cheek — 
"  Go,  and  beside  the  sacred  Nile 

'■  You'll  find  tir  Eternal  Life  you  seek." 

Soon  as  he  spoke  these  words,  the  hue 
Of  death  o'er  all  his  features  grew. 
Like  the  pale  morning,  when  o'er  night 
She  gains  the  victory,  full  of  light; 
While  the  small  torch  lie  held  beeamo 
A  glory  in  his  hand,  whose  flame 
Brighten'd  the  desert  suddenly. 

Even  to  the  far  horizon's  line — 
.'\long  whose  level  I  could  see 

Gardens  and  groves,  that  seem'd  to  shine 
As  if  then  o'er  them  freshly  play'd 
A  vernal  rainbow's  rich  cascade  ; 
And  music  lloaled  everywhere. 
Circling,  as  'twere  itself  the  air, 
And  spirits,  on  whose  wings  the  hue 
Of  heaven  still  linger'd.  round  me  flew, 


ALCirUiiON. 


517 


Till  fiMiii  all  sides  sucli  splendors  broke, 
Tli;it,  with  the  excess  of  lijjlit,  I  woke! 

Siicli  was  my  dream  ; — and,  I  confess, 

Tlioujh  none  of  all  our  crocdless  School 
E'er  conn'd,  believed,  or  reverence  less 

The  fables  of  the  priest-led  fool. 
Who  tells  us  of  a  soul,  a  mind, 
Separate  and  pure,  within  us  shrined. 
Which  is  to  live — ah,  hope  too  bright ! — 
For  ever  in  yon  fields  of  light ; 
Who  fondly  thinks  the  guardian  eyes 

Of  Gods  are  on  him — as  if,  blest 
And  blooming  in  their  own  blue  skies, 
Th'  eternal  Gods  were  not  too  wise 

To  let  weak  man  disturb  their  rest ! — 
Though  thinking  of  such  creeds  as  thou 

And  all  our  Garden  sages  think. 
Vet  is  there  something,  I  allow. 

In  dreams  like  this — a  sort  of  link 
With  worlds  unseen,  which,  from  the  hour 
I  first  could  lisp  my  thoughts  till  now. 
Hath  master'd  me  with  spell-like  power. 

And  who  can  tell,  as  we're  combined 
Of  various  atoms — some  refined, 
Like  those  that  scintillate  and  play 
In  the  fix'd  stars — some,  gross  as  they 
That  frown  in  clouds  or  sleep  in  clay — 
Who  can  be  sure,  but  'tis  the  best 

And  brightest  atoms  of  our  frame, 

Those  most  al;in  to  stellar  (lame, 
That  shine  out  thus,  wlicn  we're  at  rest ; — 
Ev'n  as  the  stars  themselves,  whose  light 
Comes  out  but  in  the  silent  night. 
Or  is  it  that  there  lurks,  indeed, 
Some  truth  in  Man's  prevailing  creed, 
And  that  our  Guardians,  from  on  high, 

Come,  in  that  pause  from  toil  and  .sin. 
To  put  the  senses'  curtain  by. 

And  on  the  wakeful  soul  look  in  ! 

Vai!'.  thought ! — but  yet,  howe'er  it  be. 

Dreams,  more  than  once,  have  proved  to  me 

Oracles,  truer  far  than  Oak, 

Or  Dove,  or  Tripod,  ever  spoke. 

And  'twas  the  words — thou'lt  hear  and  smile- 

The  words  tliat  phanloin  seeni'd  to  speak — 
"  Go.  and  beside  the  .sacred  Nile 

"  You'll  find  the  Eternal  Life  you  seek — " 
That,  haunting  me  by  night,  by  d.ay, 

At  length,  as  with  the  unseen  hand 
Ol  Fate  itself,  urged  me  away 

From  Athens  to  this  Holy  Land  ; 


Where,  'niong  tlic  secrets,  slill  untxiuglit. 
The  myst'ries  that,  as  yet,  nor  sun 

Nor  eye  hatl]  reach'd — oh,  blessed  tlioughl!- 
llay  sleep  this  everlasting  one. 

Farewell — when  to  our  Garden  friends 
Thou  talk'st  of  the  wild  dream  that  sends 
The  gayest  of  their  school  thus  far, 
Wandering  beneath  Canopus'  star. 
Tell  them  that,  wander  where  he  will, 

Or,  howsoe'er  they  now  condemn 
His  vague  and  vain  pursuit,  he  still 

Is  worthy  of  the  School  and  them  ; — 
Still,  all  their  own — nor  e'er  forgets, 

Ev'n  while  liis  heart  and  soul  pursue 
Th'  Eternal  Light  which  never  sets. 

The  many  meteor  joys  that  do, 
But  seeks  them,  hails  them  with  delight, 
Where'er  they  meet  his  longing  sight. 
And,  if  his  life  must  wane  away, 
Like  other  lives,  at  least  the  day. 
The  hour  it  lasts  sliall,  like  a  firo 
With  incense  fed,  in  sweets  e.\pire. 


LETTER  II. 

FKO.NI    TUK    S.IME    TO    TUE    S.VME. 

'Tis  true,  alas — the  myst'i-ies  and  the  lore 

I  came  to  study  on  this  wondrous  shore. 

Are  all  forgotten  in  the  new  delights. 

The  strange,  wild  joys  that  fill  my  days  and  nighla, 

Instead  of  dark,  dull  oracles  th.at  speak 

From  subterranean  temples,  those  I  seek 

Come  from    the  breathing  shrines  where  Beauty 

lives. 
And  Love,  her  priest,  the  soft  responses  gives. 
Instead  of  honoring  Isis  in  those  rites 
At  Coptos  held,  I  hail  her,  when  she  lights 
Her  first  young  crescent  on  the  holy  .stream — 
When  wandering  youths  and  maidens  watch  her 

beam. 
And  number  o'er  the  nights  she  hath  to  run. 
Ere  she  again  embrace  her  bridegroom  sun. 
While  o'er  some  mystic  leaf,  that  dimly  lends 
A  clue  into  past  times,  the  student  bends. 
And  by  its  glimmering  guidance  learns  to  tread 
Back  through  the  shadowy  knowledge  of  the  dead — 
The  only  skill,  alas,  I  yet  can  claim 
Lies  in  deciphering  some  new  loved-one's  name — 
Some  gentle  missive,  hinting  time  and  pLice,. 
In  language,  soft  as  Mcmphian  reed  can  tr^ce. 


318 


MOOEE'S  WOHKS. 


And  where — oh  vvherc's  the  heart  that  could  with- 

st;ind 
Th'  unnumber'd  H-itcheries  of  this  sun-born  land, 
Where  first  young  Pleasure's  banner  was  uiifurl'd, 
And  Love  hath  temples  ancient  as  the  world ! 
Wiere  mystery,  like  the  veil  by  Beauty  worn, 
Hides  but  to  win,  and  shades  but  to  adorn  ; 
Where  that  luxurious  melancholy,  born 
Of  passion  and  of  genius,  sheds  a  gloom 
Making  joy  holy  ; — where  the  bower  and  tomb 
Stiind  side  by  side,  and  Pleasure  learns  from  Death 
The  instant  value  of  each  moment's  breath. 

Couldst  thou  but  see  how  like  a  poet's  dream 
This  lovely  land  now  looks  ! — the  glorious  stream. 
That  late,  between  its  banks,  was  seen  to  glide 
'Jlong  shrines  and  mnrble  cities,  on  each  side 
Glitt'ririg  like  jewels  strung  along  a  chain, 
Ilath  now  sent  forth  its  waters,  and  o'er  plain 
And  valley,  like  a  giant  from  his  bed 
Rising  with  outstretch'd  limbs,  hath  grandly  spread ; 
While  far  as  sight  can  reach,  beneath  as  clear 
And  blue  a  heaven  as  ever  bless'd  our  sphere, 
Gardens,  and  pillar'd  streets,  and  porpliyry  domes, 
And  higl)-built  temples,  fit  to  be  the  homes 
Of  mighty  Gods,  and  pyramids,  whose  hdWr 
Outlasts  all  time,  above  the  waters  tower! 

Then,  too,  the  scenes  of  pomp  and  joy,  that  make 
One  Theatre  of  this  vast,  peopled  lake, 
Where  all  that  Love,  Religion,  Commerce  gives 
Of  life  and  motion,  ever  moves  and  lives. 
Here,  up  the  steps  of  temples  from  the  wave 
Ascending,  in  procession  slow  and  grave, 
Priests  in  white  garments  go,  with  sacred  wands 
And  silver  cyml)als  gleaming  in  their  hands  ; 
While  there,  rich  barks — fresh  from  those  sunny 

1 raet » 
Far  (iff,  beyond  the  sounding  catar.icts — 
Glide,  with  their  precious  lading  to  tiie  sea, 
I'lumes  of  bright  birds,  rhinoceros  ivory. 
Gems  from  the  Isle  of  Jteroe,  and  those  grains 
Of  gold,  wnsh'd  down  l)y  ;\byssinian  rains. 
Here,  where  the  waters  wind  into  a  bay 
Shadowy  and  cool,  some  |)ilgrims,  on  their  way 
To  SaVs  or  Bubaatus,  among  beds 
Of  lotus  flowers,  that  close  above  their  heads, 
Push  their  light  barks,  nnd  there,  as  in  a  bower. 
Sing,  talk,  or  sleep  away  the  sultry  hour  ; 
Oft  dipping  ill  the  Nile,  when  faint  with  heat, 
'I'hat  leaf,  from  which  its  waters  drink  most  sweet. — 
While  hajily,  not  far  off,  beneath  a  bank 
Of  bloswiniing  ncaciai,  many  a  prank 
fs  piny'd  In  the  cool  current  by  a  train 
Of  Inughing  nymphs,  lovely  an  she,'  whoso  chain 


Around  two  conquerors  of  the  world  was  cast, 
But,  for  a  third  too  feeble,  broke  at  last. 

For  oh,  believe  not  them,  who  dare  to  br.and, 
As  poor  in  charms,  the  women  of  this  land. 
Though  darken'd  by  that  sun,  whose  spirit  flows 
Through  every  vein,  and  tinges  as  it  goes, 
'Tis  but  th'  embrowning  of  the  fruit  that  tells 
How  rich  within  the  soul  of  ripeness  dwells — 
The  hue  tiieir  own  dark  sanctuaries  wear. 
Announcing  heaven  in  half-caught  glimpses  there. 
And  never  yet  did  tell-tale  looks  set  free 
The  secret  of  young  liearts  more  tenderly. 
Such  eyes ! — long,  shadowy,  with  that  languid  fall 
Of  the  fringed  lids,  which  may  be  seen  in  all 
Who  live  beneath  the  sun's  too  ardent  rays — 
Lending  such  looks  as,  on  their  marriage  days. 
Young  maids  cast  down  before  a   bridegroom's 

gaze. 
Then  for  their  grace — mark   but   the  nymph-like 

sh.apes 
Of  the  young  village  girls,  when  carrying  grapes 
From  green  Anthylla,  or  light  urns  of  flowers — 
Not  our  own  Sculpture,  in  her  happiest  hours. 
E'er  imaged  forth,  even  at  the  touch  of  him' 
Whose  touch  was  life,  more  luxury  of  limb; 
Then,  canst  thou  wonder  if,  'mid  scenes  like  these, 
I  should  forget  all  graver  mysteries, 
All  lore  but  Love's,  all  secrets  but  that  best 
In  heaven  or  e.irth,  the  art  of  being  blest ! 
Yet  are   there  times — though  brief,  I  own,  thcit 

stay. 
Like  Summer  clouds  th.-it  shine  themselves  away — 
Moments  of  gloom,  when  even  these  pleasures  pall 
Upon  my  sadd'ning  heart,  nnd  I  recall 
Th.at  Garden  dream — th.at  promise  of  a  power — 
Oh,  were  there  such  I — to  lengthen  out  life's  hour. 
On,  on,  as  through  a.vista,  far  away 
Opening  before  us  into  endless  day ! 
And  chiefly  o'er  my  spirit  did  this  thought 
Come  on  that  evening — bright  .is  ever  brought 
Light's  golden  fari-wcll  to  the  world — when  first 
Th'  eternal  pyramids  of  .Memphis  burst 
Awfully  on  my  sight — standing  sublime 
'Twixt  earth  and  heaven,  the  walch-towcvs  of  Time 
From    whose   lone  siiininil.  when   his    reign  hath 

)iass'd 
I''riim  cartli  for  ever,  he  will  Innk  his  last! 

There  hung  a  calm  and  solemn  sunshine  round 
Tho'^e  inighly  monuments,  a  hushing  sound 
In  (he  still  air  that  circled  them,  which  stolo 
Like  music  of  past  limes  into  my  soul. 
I  thought  what  myriads  of  the  wise,  and  brai  e. 
And  br'nutiful,  hnd  sunk  int  ■  the  grave, 


ALCIPHHON. 


319 


Since  earth  first  saw  those  wonders — and  I  said, 

*  Are  thiniTs  eternal  only  for  the  Dead  ? 

"Hath  man  no  loftier  hope  Ihan  this,  which  dooms 

"His  only  lasting  tropliies  to  be  tombs? 

"  But  'tis  noi  so — earth,  heaven,  all  nature  shows 

"  He  may  become  immortal — tnay  unclose 

"The  wings  within  him  wrapt,  and  proudly  rise. 

"  Redeem'd  from  earth,  a  creature  of  the  skies! 

"And  who  can  say,  among  the  written  spells 

"  From  Hermes'  hand,  that,  in  these  shrines  and 

cells 
"  Have,  from  the  Flood,  lay  iiid,  there  may  not  be 
"  Some  secret  clue  to  immortality, — 
"  Some  amulet,  vvliose  spell  can  keep  life's  fire 
"  Awake  within  us,  never  to  expire! 
« 'Tis  known  that,  on  the  Emerald  Table,'  hid 
"  For  ages  in  yon  loftiest  pyramid, 
"The  Thrice-Great'  did  himself  engrave,  of  old, 
"  The  chymic  mystery  that  gives  endless  gold. 
"  And  why  may  not  this  mightier  secret  dwell 
"Within  the  same  dark  chambers?  who  can  tell 
"  But  that  those  kings,  who,  by  the  written  skill 
"Of  th'  Emerald  Table,  eall'd  forth  gold  at  will, 
"And  quarries  upon  quarries  heap'd  and  hurl'd, 
"  To  build  them  domes  that  might  outstand  the 

world — 
"  Who  knows  but  tliat  the  heavonlier  art,   wl)ich 

shares 
"The  life  of  Gods  with  m.an,  was  also  theirs — 
"That  they  themselves,  triumphant  o'er  the  power 
"  Of  fate  and  death,  are  living  at  this  hour ; 
'  And  these,  the  giant  homes  they  still  possess, 
'  Not  tombs,  but  everlasting  palaces, 
■  Within  whose  depths,  hid  from  the  world  above, 
"  Even  now  they  wander,  with  the  few  they  love, 
"Through  subterranean  gardens,  by  a  light 
"  Unknown  on  earth,  which  hath  nor  dawn  nor 

-    night ! 
"Else,  why  those  deathless  structures?   why  the 

grand 
"  And  hidden  halls,  that  undermine  this  land  ? 
"  Why  else  hath  none  of  earth  e'er  dared  to  go 
"  Through  the  dark  windings  of  that  realm  be- 
low, 
"  Nor  aught  from  heav'n  itself,  except  the  God 
"  Of  Silence,  through  those  endless  labyrinths  trod  ?" 
Thus  did  I  dream — wild,  wandering  dreams,  I  own, 
But  such  as  haunt  me  ever,  if  alone. 
Or  in  that  pause,  'twixt  joy  and  joy  I  be 
Like  a  ship  hush'd  between  two  waves  at  sea. 
Then  do  these  spirit  whisperings,  like  the  sound 
Of  the  Dark  Future,  come  appalling  round  ; 
Nor  can  I  break  the  trance  that  holds  me  then. 
Till  high  o'er  Pleasure's  surge  I  mount  again ! 


Even  now  for  now  adventure,  new  delight, 
My  heart  is  on  the  wing; — this  very  night. 
The  Tcnijile  on  that  Island,  half-way  o'er 
From  Memphis'  gardens  to  the  eastern  shore, 
Sends  up  its  annual  rite'  to  her,  whose  beams 
Bring  the  sweet  time  of  night-flowers  and  drcama; 
The  nymph,  who  dips  iicr  urn  in  silent  lakes. 
And  turns  to  silvery  dew  each  drop  it  takes;— 
Oh,  not  our  Dian  of  the  North,  who  chains 
In  vestal  ice  the  current  of  young  veins, 
But  she  who  haunts  the  gay  Bubastian'  grove. 
And  owns  she  sees,  from  her  bright  heaven  above, 
Nothing  on  earth  to  match  tliat  heaven  but  Love. 
Think,  then,  what  bliss  will  be  abroad  to-night! — 
Besides  those  sparkling  nymphs,  who  meet  the  sight 
Day  after  day,  familiar  as  the  sun. 
Coy  buds  of  beauty,  yet  unbreathed  upon. 
And  all  the  hidden  loveliness,  that  lies 
Shut  up,  as  are  the  beams  of  sleeping  eyes. 
Within  these  twilight  shrines— to-night  shall  bo 
Let  locse,  like  birds,  for  this  festivity ! 

And  mark,  'tis  nigh;  already  the  sun  bids 

His  evening  farewell  to  the  Pyramids, 

As  he  hath  done,  age  after  age,  till  they 

Alone  on  earth  seem  ancient  as  liis  ray ; 

While  their  great  shadows,  stretching  from  the  light 

Look  like  the  first  colossal  steps  of  Night, 

Stretching  across  the  valley,  to  invade 

The  distant  hills  of  porphyry  with  their  shade. 

Around,  as  signals  of  the  setting  beam. 

Gay,  gilded  flags  on  every  house-top  gleam : 

While,  hark  ! — from  all  the  temples  a  rich  swell 

Of  music  to  the  Moon — iivrewell — farewell. 


LETTER  III. 

FROM    THE    S.tME    TO    THE    S.tXE. 

Mempk  i#. 

Thef.e  is  some  star — or  it  may  be 

That  moon  we  saw  so  near  last  night — 
Which  comes  athwart  my  destiny 

For  ever,  with  misleading  light. 
If  for  a  moment,  pure  and  wise 

And  calm  I  feel,  there  quick  doth  fall 
A  spark  from  some  disturbing  eyes, 
That  through  my  heart,  soul,  being  flies, 

And  makes  a  wildfire  of  it  all. 
I've  seen — oh,  Cleon,  that  this  earth 
Should  e'er  have  giv'n  such  beauty  birth  ; — 
That  man — ^but,  hold — hear  all  that  pass'd 
Since  yesternight,  from  first  to  last. 


820 


MOORE'S  WOEKS. 


riie  rising  of  the  Moon,  calm,  slow, 

And  beautiful,  as  if  she  came 
Fresh  from  the  Elysian  bowers  below, 

Was,  with  a  loud  and  sweet  acclaim, 
Welcomed  from  every  breezy  height, 
NVhere  crowds  stood  waiting  for  her  light. 
And  well  might  they  who  view'd  the  scene 

That  lit  up  all  around  them,  say. 
That  never  yet  had  Nature  been 

Caught  sleeping  in  a  lovelier  ray, 
Or  rivall'd  her  own  noontide  face, 
With  purer  show  of  moonlight  grace. 

Memphis — still  grand,  though  not  the  same 

Unrivall'd  Memphis,  that  could  seize 
From  ancient  Thebes  the  crown  of  Fame, 

And  were  jt  bright  through  centuries — 
Now,  in  the  moonshine,  that  came  down 
Like  a  last  smile  upon  that  crown, — 
Memphis,  still  grand,  among  her  lakes, 

Her  pyramids  and  shrines  of  fire, 
Rose,  like  a  vision,  that  li.ilf  breaks 
.)n  one  who,  dreaming  still,  awakes. 

To  music  from  some  midnight  choir : 
liViiile  to  the  west — where  gradual  sinks 

In  the  red  sands,  from  Libya  roll'd. 
Some  mighty  column,  or  fair  sphynx. 

That  stood  in  kingly  courts,  of  old — 
It  seem'd,  as,  'mid  the  pomps  that  shone 
Thus  gayly  round  him,  Time  look'd  on, 
Wailing  till  all,  now  bright  and  bless'd. 
Should  sink  beneath  him  like  the  rest. 

No  sooner  had  the  setting  sun 
Procbim'd  the  festal  rite  begun. 
And,  'raid  their  idol's  fullest  beams, 

The  Egyptian  world  was  all  afloat. 
Than  I,  who  live  upon  these  streams, 

Like  a  young  Nile-bird,  turn'd  my  boat 
To  the  fair  island,  on  whose  shores. 
Through  leafy  palms  and  sycamores, 
Already  shone  the  moving  lights 
Of  pilgrims  hastening  to  the  rites. 
While,  far  around,  like  ruby  sparks 
Upon  the  water,  liglited  barks 
Of  every  form  and  kind — from  those 

That  down  Syene's  catnract  shoots, 
To  the  grand,  gilded  barge,  that  rows 

To  tambour's  bent  and  breath  of  llutet 
And  wears  nt  night,  in  words  of  flame. 
On  the  rich  prow,  its  master's  name  ; — 
All  were  .illvc,  and  made  this  sea 

Of  cities  busy  as  n  hill 
Of  summer  nnts,  caught  suddenly 

In  the  overflo-rinp  of  n  rill. 


Landed  upon  the  isle,  I  soon 

Through  marble  alleys  and  small  groves 

Of  that  mysterious  palm  she  loves, 
Reach'd  the  fair  Temple  of  the  Moon  ; 
And  there — as  slowly  through  the  last 
Dim-lighted  vestibule  I  pass'd — 
Between  the  porphyry  pillars,  twined 

With  balm  and  ivy,  I  could  see 
.•\  band  of  youthful  maidens  wind. 

In  measured  walk,  half  dancingly. 
Round  a  small  shrine,  on  which  was  placed 

That  bird,'  whose  plumes  of  black  and  white 
Wear  in  their  hue,  by  nature  traced, 

A  type  of  the  moon's  sh.adow'd  light. 
In  drapery,  like  woven  snow. 
These  nymphs  were  clad ;  and  eacli,  below 
The  rounded  bosom,  loosely  wore 

A  dark  blue  zone,  or  bandelet, 
With  little  silver  stars  all  o'er. 

As  are  the  skies  at  midnight,  set. 
While  in  their  tresses,  braided  through, 

Sparkled  that  flower  of  Egypt's  lakes. 
The  silvery  lotus,  in  whose  hue 

As  much  delight  the  young  Moon  takes, 
As  doth  the  Day-God  to  behold 
The  lofty  bean-flower's  buds  of  gold. 
And,  as  they  gracefully  went  round 

The  worshipp'd  bird,  some  to  the  beat 
Of  castanets,  some  to  the  sound 

Of  the  shrill  sistrum  timed  their  feet 
While  otlicrs,  at  each  stop  they  took, 
A  tinkling  chain  of  silver  shook. 

They  seem'd  all  fair — but  there  was  one 
On  whom  the  light  had  not  yet  shone, 
Or  shone  but  partly — so  downcast 
She  held  lier  brow  as  slow  she  pass'd. 
And  yet  to  me,  there  seem'd  to  dwell 

A  charm  about  th.at  unseen  face — 
A  something  in  the  shade  that  fell 

Over  that  brow's  imagined  grace. 
Which  won  nie  more  than  all  the  best 
Outshining  beauties  of  the  rest. 
And  hci-  alone  my  eyes  could  sec, 
Enchain'd  by  this  sweet  mystery; 
And  her  alone  I  watch'd,  as  round 
She  glided  o'er  that  marble  ground. 
Stirring  not  more  tli'  unconscious  air 
Than  if  a  Spirit  were  moving  there. 
Till  suddenly,  wide  open  flew 
The  Temple's  folding  gates,  and  tlirew 
A  splendor  from  within,  n  flood 
Of  glory,  where  these  maidens  stood. 
While,  with  that  light — as  if  the  .same 
Rivih  Rouice  gave  birth  to  both — there  cauif 


ALCU^illlOiN. 


821 


A  sv\ell  of  liannony,  as  f,'rand 
As  e'er  was  boni  ol'  voice  and  liand, 
Filling  tlie  gorgeous  aisles  around 
Willi  luxury  of  light  and  sound. 
Then  was  it,  by  the  Hasli  that  blazed 

Full  o'er  her  features — oh  'twas  then, 
As  startingly  her  eyes  she  raised, 

But  quick  let  fall  their  lids  again, 
I  saw — not  Psyche's  self,  when  first 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  skies 
She  paused,  while  heaven's  glory  burst 

Newly  upon  her  downcast  eyes. 
Could  look  more  beautiful,  or  blush 

With  holier  shame,  than  did  this  maid, 
Whom  now  I  saw,  in  all  that  gush 

Of  splendor  from  the  aisles,  display'd, 
Never — though  well  thou  know'st  how  much 

I've  felt  the  sway  of  Beauty's  star — 
Never  did  her  bright  influence  touch 

My  soul  into  its  depths  so  far; 
And  had  that  vision  linger'd  there 

One  minute  more,  I  should  have  flown. 
Forgetful  who  I  was  and  where, 

And,  at  her  feet  in  worship  thrown, 

Proffer'd  my  soul  through  life  lier  own. 

But,  scarcely  had  th.nt  burst  of  light 
And  music  broke  on  ear  and  sight. 
Than  up  the  aisle  the  bird  took  wing. 

As  if  on  heavenly  mission  sent. 
While  after  him,  with  graceful  spring. 

Like  some  unearthly  creatures,  meant 

To  live  in  that  mi.x'd  element 

Of  light  and  song,  the  young  maids  wont ; 
And  she,  who  in  my  heart  had  thrown 
A  spark  to  burn  for  life,  was  floun. 
In  vain  I  tried  to  follow; — bands 

Of  reverend  chanters  fill'd  the  aisle : 
Where'er  I  sought  to  pass,  their  wands 

Motion'd  me  back,  while  many  a  file 
Of  sacred  nymphs — but  ah,  not  they 
Whom  mv  eyes  look'd  for  ihrong'd  the  way. 
I'eiple.x'd,  .'mpatient,  'mid  this  crowd 
Of  faces,  'ights — the  o'erwhelming  cloud 
Of  incense  round  me,  and  my  blood 
Fuji  of  its  new-born  fire — I  stood. 
Nor  moved,  nor  breathed,  but  when  I  caught, 

.•V  glimpse  of  some  blue,  spangled  zone, 
Ur  wreath  of  lotus,  which,  I  thought. 

Like  tho.se  she  wore  at  distance  shone. 

Out  no,  'twas  vain — hour  after  hour, 
Till  my  heart's  throbbing  turn'd  to  pain, 

And  my  strain'd  eyesight  lost  its  power, 
I  63"ght  her  thus,  but  .'.ll  in  riin. 
vcL.  11.-— 41 


.'\t  length,  hot— wilder'd— in  despair, 

I  rush'd'into  the  cool  night-uir. 

And,  hurrying,  (though  with  many  a  look 

Back  to  the  busy  Temple,)  took 

Jly  way  along  the  moonlight  shore, 

And  sjirung  intcj  my  boat  once  more. 

Tlieru  is  a  Lake,  that  to  the  north 
Of  Memphis  slretches  grandly  forth. 
Upon  whose  silent  shore  the  Dead 

Have  a  proud  City  of  their  own,' 
With  shrines  and  pyramids  o'erspre.-id — 
Wliere  many  an  ancient  kingly  head 

Slumbers,  immortalized  in  slone; 
Aiui  where,  through  m.irble  grots  beneath, 

The  lifeless,  ranged  like  sacred  thing.s. 
Nor  wanting  aught  of  life  but  breath, 

Lie  in  their  p.ainted  coverings. 
And  on  each  new  successive  race, 

That  visit  their  dim  haunts  below. 
Look  with  the  same  unuithcring  face. 

They  wore  three  thousand  years  ago. 
There,  Silence,  thoughtful  God,  who  loven 
The  neighborhood  of  death,  in  groves 
Of  Asphodel  lies  hid,  and  weaves 
His  hushing  spell  among  the  leaves — 
Nor  ever  noise  disturbs  the  air. 

Save  the  low,  humiuing,  mournful  sound 
Of  priests,  within  their  shrines,  at  prayer 

For  the  fresh  Dead  entomb'd  around. 

'Twas  tow'rd  this  place  oi"  death — in  mood 

Made  up  of  thoughts,  half  bright,  half  dark- 
I  now  across  the  shining  flood 

Unconscious  turn'il  my  light-'.ving'd  bark 
The  form  of  that  young  maid,  in  all 

Its  beauty,  was  before  me  still ; 
And  oft  I  thought,  if  thus  to  call 

Her  image  to  my  mind  at  will, 
If  but  the  memory  of  th.at  one 
Bright  look  of  her.s,  for  ever  gone, 
W.as  to  my  heart  worth  all  the  rest 
Of  woman-kind,  beheld,  posscss'd — 
What  would  it  be,  if  wholly  mine, 
Within  these  arms,  as  in  a  shrine, 
Hallow'd  by  Love,  I  saw  her  shine — 
An  idol,  worshipp'd  by  the  light 
Of  her  own  beauties,  day  and  night — 
If 'twas  a  blessing  but  to  see 
And  lose  again,  what  would  iJiis  be! 

In  thoughts  like  these — but  often  cross'd 
By  darker  threads — my  mind  was  lost, 
Till,  near  that  City  of  the  Dead, 
Waked  frii:n  mv  trance,  I  saw  o'erheicL— .. 


822 


MOOEE'S  WORKS. 


As  if  by  some  enchanter  bid 

Suddenly  from  the  wave  to  rise — 
Pyramid  over  pyramid 

Tou'cr  in  snccessioii  to  the  skies; 
While  one,  aspii'ing,  as  if  soon 

'Twould  touch  the  heavens,  rose  o'er  al. ; 
And,  on  its  summit,  the  white  moon 

Rested,  as  on  a  pedestal ! 

The  silence  of  the  lonely  tombs 

And  temples  round,  v/here  naught  was  heard 
But  the  high  palm-tree's  tufted  plumes, 

Sliaken,  at  times,  by  breeze  or  bird, 
Form'd  a  deep  contrast  to  the  scene 
Of  revel,  where  I  late  had  been ; 
To  those  gay  sounds,  that  still  came  o'er. 
Faintly,  from  many  a  distant  shore. 
And  Ih'  unnumber'd  lights,  that  shone 
Far  o'er  the  flood,  from  Mempliis  on 
To  the  Moon's  Isle  and  Babylon. 

My  oars  were  lifted,  and  my  boat 

Lay  rock'd  upon  the  rippling  stream ; 
While  my  vague  thouglits,  alike  afloat, 

Drifted  through  many  an  idle  dream. 
With  all  of  which,  wild  and  unfix'd 
As  was  their  aim,  that  vision  mix'd, 
That  bright  nymph  of  the  Temple — now, 
With  the  same  innocence  of  brow 
She  wore  within  the  lighted  fane — 
Now  kindling,  througli  eacli  pulse  and  vein, 
With  passion  of  such  deep-felt  fire 
As  Gods  might  glory  to  inspire; — 
And  now — oh  Darkness  of  the  tomb, 

That  mu3t  eclipse  even  light  like  hers ! 
Cold,  dead,  and  black'ning,  'mid  the  gloom 

Of  those  eternal  sepulchres. 

Scarce  had  I  tnrn'd  my  eyes  away 

From  that  dark  death-place,  at  the  thought, 
When  by  the  sound  of  dashing  spray 

From  a  liglit  oar  my  car  was  caught. 
While  past  me,  through  the  moonlight,  aail'd 

A  little  gilded  bark  that  bore 
Two  female  figures,  closely  veil'd 

And  mantled,  towards  that  funeral  shore. 
They  landed — and  the  boat  again 
Put  off  across  the  watery  plain. 

Shall  I  confess — to  thee  I  may — 
That  never  yet  linth  come  the  chance 

Of  a  new  music,  a  new  roy 

P'rom  woman's  voice,  from  woman's  glance, 

Which — let  it  find  me  low  it  might, 
Ir  Jny  cr  gri?f— I  i\i  not  Hcr*. 


And  wander  after,  as  a  light 

Leading  to  unureamt  happiness. 
And  chiefly  now,  when  hopes  so  vain 
Were  stirring  in  my  heart  and  brain. 
When  Fancy  hu.i  allured  my  soul 

Into  a  chase,  as  vague  and  far 
As  would  be  his,  who  fi.\'d  his  goa. 

In  the  horizon,  or  some  star — 
Any  bewilderment,  that  brought 
More  near  to  earth  my  high-flown  thought— 
The  faintest  glimpse  of  joy,  less  pure, 
Less  higli  and  heavenly,  but  more  sure, 
Came  welcome — .ind  was  then  to  me 
W'hat  the  first  fli;wery  isle  must  be 
To  vagrant  birds  blown  out  to  sea. 

Quick  to  the  shore  I  urged  my  bark. 

And,  by  the  bursts  of  moonlight,  shed 
Between  the  lofty  tombs,  could  mark 

Those  figures,  as  with  hasty  treaH 
They  glided  on — till  in  the  shade 

Of  a  small  pyramid,  which  through 
Some  boughs  of  palm  its  peak  display'd, 

They  vanish'o  instant  from  my  view. 


Of  life  was  in  that  lonely  place  ; 
And,  had  the  creed  I  hold  by  taught 
Of  other  worlds,  Imight  have  thought 
Some  mocking  spirits  had  from  thence 
Come  in  this  gui.=e  to  cheat  my  sense. 

At  length,  exploring  darkly  round 
The  Pyramid's  smooth  sides,  I  found 
An  iron  portal— opening  high 

'Twixt  peak  and  base — and,  with  a  praye> 
To  the  bliss-loving  Moon,  whoso  eye 

Alone  beheld  me,  sprung  in  there. 
Downward  the  narrow  stairway  led 
Tlirough  many  a  duct  obscure  and  dread, 

A  labyrinth  fr>r  mystery  made, 
With  wanderings  onward,  backward,  round, 
And  gathering  siill,  where'er  it  wouikI, 

But  deeper  density  of  shade. 

Scarce  had  I  asU'd  myself,  "Can  aught 

"That  man  delights  in  sojourn  here?" — 
When,  suddenly,  far  ofi",  I  caught 

A  glimpse  of  light,  remote,  but  clear — 
Whose  welcome  glimmer  seem'd  to  pour 

From  some  alcove  or  cell,  that  ended 
The  long,  steep,  marble  corridor. 

Through  which  I  now,  all  hope,  descended 
Never  did  Spartan  to  his  bride 
With  wnriar  foot  nt  midnight  gliici 


ALCIPHRON 


823 


It  seeci'd  as  echo  s  self  wer?  dead 
In  tliis  d:ii-li  place,  so  mute  my  tread. 
Weaching,  at  length,  that  lig'it,  I  saw — 

Oh  listen  to  the  scene,  now  raised 
Qefore  my  eyea — then  guess  the  awe, 

The  still,  rapt  awo  with  which  I  gazed. 
Twas  a  small  cliapel,  lined  around 
vVitli  the  fair,  spangling  ni,i."ble,  found 
fn  many  a  ruin'd  shrine  that  stands 
Half  seen  above  the  Liby.in  ijands. 
The  walls  were  richly  sculptured  o'er, 
And  character'd  with  that  dark  lore. 
Of  times  before  the  Flood,  whose  key 
Was  lost  in  tli'  "  Universal  Sea."— 
While  on  the  roof  was  pictu/ed  bright 

The  Theban  beetle,  as  he  shines. 

When  the  Nile's  mighty  flow  declines. 
And  forth  the  creature  springs  to  light, 
With  life  regenerate  in  his  wings : — 
Emblem  of  vain  imaginings' 
Of  a  new  world,  when  this  is  gone. 
In  which  the  spirit  still  lives  on ! 

Direct  beneath  this  type,  reclned 

On  a  black  granite  altar,  lay 
A  female  form,  in  crystal  shriued. 

And  looking  fresh  as  if  th«)  ray 

Of  soul  had  lied  but  yesterday. 
While  in  relief,  of  silv'ry  huo, 

Graved  on  the  altar's  front  were  seen 
A  br.anch  of  lotus,  broken  in  two, 

As  that  ftiir  creature's  life  had  been. 
And  a  small  bird  that  from  its  spr.ay 
Was  winging,  like  her  soul,  away. 

But  brief  the  glimpse  I  now  could  spare, 

To  the  wild,  mystic  wonders  round  ; 
For  there  was  yet  one  wonder  there. 

That  held  mo  as  by  witch'ry  bound. 
The  lamp,  that  through  the  chamber  shed 
Its  vivid  beam,  was  at  the  K^ad 
Of  her  who  on  that  altar  slept ; 

And  near  it  stood,  when  f.rst  I  came — 
Bending  her  brow,  as  if  she  kept 

Sad  watch  upon  its  silent  dame — 
A  female  form,  as  yet  bo  placed 

Between  the  lamp's  strong  glo\v  and  me, 
Tliat  I  but  saw,  in  outline  traced, 

The  sliadow  of  her  symmetry. 
Yet  did  my  heart — I  scarce  knew  why — 
Even  at  that  shadow'd  shape  beat  high. 
Nor  was  it  long,  ore  full  in  sight 
The  figure  turn'd  ;  and  by  the  light 
That  touch'd  her  features,  as  she  bent 
Over  the  crystal  monument, 


I  saw  'twas  she — the  same — the  same — 
That  lately  stood  before  me,  bright'ning 

Tlie  holy  spot,  where  she  but  came 

And  went  again,  like  summer  liglitningl 

Upon  the  crystal,  o'er  the  breast 
Of  her  who  took  that  silent  rest. 
There  was  a  cross  of  silver  lying — 
Another  type  of  that  blest  home. 
Which  hope,  and  pride,  and  fear  of  dying- 
Build  for  us  in  a  world  to  come: — 
This  silver  cross  the  maiden  raised 
To  her  pure  lips ; — then,  having  gazed 
Some  minutes  on  that  tranquil  face. 
Sleeping  in  all  death's  mournful  grace. 
Upward  she  turn'd  her  brow  serene. 

As  if,  intent  on  heaven,  those  eyes 
Saw  then  nor  roof  nor  cloud  between 

Their  own  pure  orbits  and  the  skies ; 
And,  though  her  lips  no  motion  made. 

And  that  fi.Y'd  look  was  all  her  speech, 
I  saw  that  the  rapt  spirit  pray'd 

Deeper  within  than  words  could  reach. 

Strange  power  of  Innocence,  to  turn 

To  its  own  hue  whate'er  comes  near. 
And  make  even  vagrant  Passion  burn 

With  purer  warmth  within  its  sphere ! 
She  who,  but  one  short  hour  before, 
Had  come,  like  sudden  wildfire,  o'er 
My  heart  and  brain — whom  gladly,  even 

From  that  bright  Temple,  in  the  face 
Of  those  proud  ministers  of  heaven, 

I  would  have  borne,  in  wild  embrace 
And  risk'd  all  punishment,  divine 
And  human,  but  to  make  her  mine ; 
She,  she  was  now  before  me.  thrown 

By  fate  itself  into  my  arms — 
There  standing,  beautiful,  alone, 

With  naught  to  guard  her,  but  her  charms. 
Yet  did  I,  then — did  even  a  breath 

From  my  parch'd  lips,  too  pareh'd  to  move, 
Disturb  a  scene  where  thus,  beneath 
Earth's  silent  covering,  Youth  and  Death 

Held  converse  through  undying  love  ? 
No — smile  and  taunt  me  as  thou  wilt — 

Though  but  to  gaze  thus  was  delight, 
Yet  seera'd  it  like  a  wrong,  a  guilt, 

To  win  by  stealth  so  pure  a  sight: 
And  rather  than  a  look  profiine 

Should  then  have  met  those  thoughtful  eyes, 
Or  voice  or  whisper  broke  the  chain 

That  link'd  her  spirit  with  the  skies, 
I  would  have  gladly,  in  that  place, 
From  which  I  wati-h'd  her  h.eavenward  face, 


324 


MUUIIE'S  WORKS. 


Let  my  heart  break,  without  one  beat 
That  could  disturb  a  prayer  so  sweet. 
Gently,  as  if  on  every  tread, 

lly  life,  my  more  than  life,  depended, 
Back  through  the  corridor  that  led 

To  this  bless'd  scene  I  now  ascended. 
And  with  slow  seeking-,  and  some  pain, 
And  many  a  winding  tried  in  vain. 
Emerged  to  upper  air  again. 

The  sun  had  freshly  risen,  and  down 

The  marble  hills  of  Araby, 
Scatter'd,  as  from  a  conqueror's  crown, 

His  beanjs  into  that  living  sea. 
There  seem'd  a  glory  in  his  light 

Newly  put  on — as  if  for  pride 
Of  the  high  homage  paid  this  night 

To  his  own  Isis,  his  young  bride, 
Now  fading  feminine  away 
In  her  proud  Lord's  superior  ray. 
My  mind's  first  impulse  was  to  fly 

At  once  from  this  entangling  net — 
New  scenes  to  range,  new  loves  to  try, 
Or,  in  mii'th,  wine,  and  lu.Kury 

Of  every  sense,  that  night  forget. 
But  v;un  the  elTort — spell-bound  still, 
I  linger'd,  without  power  or  will 

To  turn  my  eyes  from  that  dark  door. 
Which  now  enclosed  her  'mong  the  dead 

Oft  fancying,  through  the  boughs,  that  o'er 
The  sunny  pile  their  flickering  shed, 
'Twas  her  light  form  again  I  saw- 
Starting  to  earth — still  pure  and  bright. 
But  wakening,  as  I  hoped,  less  awe. 

Thus  seen  by  morning's  natural  light, 

Tlian  in  that  strange,  dim  cell  at  night. 

But  no,  alas — she  ne'er  rclurn'd  : 

Nor  yet — though  still  I  watch — nor  yet. 
Though  the  red  sun  for  hours  hath  burn'd, 

And  now,  in  his  mid  course,  liath  met 
The  peak  of  that  eternal  pile 

He  pauses  still  at  noon  to  bless, 
Standing  beneath  his  downward  smile. 

Like  a  great  Spirit,  shadowless ! — 
Nor  yet  she  comes — while  here,  alone, 

Saunl'ring  through  this  death-peopled  place, 
Where  no  heart  beats  c.wept  my  own. 
Or  'neath  a  p.alm-trce's  shelter  thrown. 

By  turns  I  watch,  and  rent,  and  trace 
'I'hcse  lines,  that  arc  to  waft  to  thee 
My  last  night's  wondrous  history. 

DojI  thou  remember,  in  that  Isle 
Of  our  own  Sen,  where  limn  .iihI  I 


Linger'd  so  long,  so  happy  a  while, 
Till  all  the  summer  flowers  went  by — 

How  gay  it  was,  when  sunset  brought 
To  the  cool  Well  our  favorite  maids — 

Some  we  had  won,  and  some  we  sought— 
To  dance  within  the  fragrant  shades. 

And,  till  the  stars  went  down,  attune 

Their  Fountain  Hymns'  to  the  young  moon  ? 

That  time,  too — oh,  'tis  like  a  dream — 

When  from  Seamander's  holy  tide 
I  spnmg  as  Genius  of  the  Stream, 

And  bore  away  that  blooming  bride. 
Who  thither  came,  to  yield  her  charms 

(As  Phrygian  maids  are  wont,  ere  wed) 
Into  the  cold  Seamander's  arms. 

But  met,  and  welcomed  mine,  instead — 
Wondering  as  on  my  neck  she  fell. 
How  river-gods  could  love  so  well ! 
Who  would  have  thought  that  he,  who  rovei 

Like  the  lirst  bees  of  summer  then. 
Rifling  each  sweet,  nor  ever  loved 

But  the  free  hearts,  that  loved  again, 
Readily  as  the  reed  replies 
To  the  least  breath  that  round  it  sighs — 
Is  the  same  dreamer  who,  last  night. 
Stood  awed  and  breathless  at  the  sight 
Of  one  Egyptian  girl ;  and  now 
Wanders  among  these  tombs,  with  brow 
Pale,  watchful,  sad,  as  though  he  just. 
Himself,  had  risen  from  out  their  dust' 

Yet  so  it  is — and  the  same  thirst 

For  something  high  and  pure,  above 
This  withering  world,  whii'li,  from  the  first, 
Made  mc  drink  deep  of  woman's  love — 
.\3  the  one  joy,  to  heaven  most  near 
Of  all  our  hearts  can  meet  with  here — 
Slill  burns  mc  np,  still  keeps  awake 
A  fever  naught  but  death  can  slake. 

Farewell;  whatever  m.'iy  befall — 
Or  brigiit,  or  dark — thou'lt  know  it  all 


LETTER  IV. 
ruoM  oncuB,  man  riiiEST  ok  memi-ui9,  to  Dk«iO^ 

THE    rR.KTOnlAN    IMIEH!IX 

Rejoice,  my  fiicnd,  rejoice: — the  youthful  Chief 
Of  that  Ijijht  Sect  which  mocks  at  all  belief. 
And,  gay  and  godless,  makes  the  present  hour 
IIh  only  hi'.'ivon.  ii  now  williin  our  power. 


ALCli'liliON. 


825 


Smoolli,  iiiipiou:!  acliool ! — not  nil  tlio  weapons  aim'd 
At  priestly  creeds,  since  first  a  creed  was  framed, 
E'er  struck  so  deep  as  that  sly  dart  they  wield, 
The  Bacchant's  pointed  spear  in  hinj^hing  flowers 

conceal'd. 
And  oh,  'twere  victory  to  this  heart,  as  sweet 
As  any  thou  canst  boast — even  when  the  feet 
Of  thy  proud  war-steed  wade  through  Christian 

blood, 
To  wrap  tliis  scoffer  in  Faith's  blinding  hood. 
And  bring  him,  tamed  and  prostrate,  to  implore 
The  vilest  gods  even  Egypt's  saints  adore. 
What ! — do  these  sages  think,  to  Ihem  alone 
The  key  of  this  world's  happiness  is  known  ? 
That  none  but  they,  who  make  such  proud  parade 
Of  Pleasure's  smiling  favors,  win  the  maid, 
Or  tliat  Religion  keeps  no  secret  place. 
No  niche,  in  her  dark  fanes,  for  Love  to  grace? 
Fools ! — did  they  know  how  keen  the  zest  that's 

given 
To  earthly  joy,  when  season'd  well  with  heaven  ; 
How  Piety's  grave  mask  improves  the  hue 
Of  Pleasure's  laughing  features  half  seen  through, 
And  how  the  Priest,  set  aptly  within  reach 
Of  two  rich  worlds,  traffics  for  bliss  with  each. 
Would  they  not,  Uecius — thou,  whom  th'  ancient 

tie 
Tu'ixt  Sword  and  Altar  makes  our  best  ally — 
Would  they  not  change  their  creed,  their  craft,  for 

ours? 
Leave  the  gross  daylight  joys  that,  in  their  bowers, 
Languish  with  too  much  sun,  like  o'erblown  flowers, 
For  the  veil'd  loves,  the  blisses  undisplay'd 
That  slyly  lurk  within  the  Temple's  shade  ? 
And,  'stead  of  haunting  the  trim  Garden's  school — 
Where  cold  Philosophy  usurps  a  rule. 
Like  tlie  pale  moon's,  o'er  Passion's  heaving  tide. 
Till  Pleasure's  self  is  chill'd  by  Wisdom's  pride — 
Be  taught  by  us,  quit  shadows  for  the  true. 
Substantial  joys  we  sager  Priests  pursue. 
Who,  far  too  wise  to  theorize  on  bliss. 
Or  Pleasure's  substance  for  its  shade  to  miss. 
Preach  other  worlds,  but  live  for  only  this: — 
Thanks  to  the  well-paid  Mystery  round  us  flung. 
Which,  like  its  type,  the  golden  cloud  that  hung 
O'er  Jupiter's  love-couch  its  shade  benign. 
Round  human  frailty  wraps  a  veil  divine. 

Still   less  should  tliey   presume,  weak   wits,  that 

they 
Alone  despise  the  craft  of  us  who  pray  ; — 
.  Still  less  their  creedless  vanity  deceive 
With  the  fond  thought,  that  we  who  pr.ay  believe. 
Believe  ! — Apis  forbid — forbid  it,  all 
Ye  monstci  Gods,  before  whose  shrines  we  fall — 


Deities,  framed  in  jest,  as  if  to  try 

How  far  gross  Man  can  vulgarize  the  sky; 

How  far  the  same  low  fancy  that  combines 

Into  a  drove  of  brutes  yon  zodiac's  signs. 

And  turns  that  Heaven  itself  into  a  place 

Of  sainted  sin  and  deified  disgrace, 

Can  bring  Olympus  even  to  shame  more  deep, 

Stock  it  with  things  that  earth  itself  holds  cheap. 

Fish,  flesh,  and  fowl,  the  kitchen's  sacred  brood. 

Which  Egypt  keeps  for  worship,  not  for  food — 

All,  worthy  idols  of  a  Faith  that  sees 

In  dogs,  cats,  owls,  and  apes,  divinities ! 

Believe! — oh,  Decius,  thou,  who  feel'st  no  care 
For  things  divine,  beyond  the  soldier's  share. 
Who  takes  on  trust  the  faith  for  which  he  bleeds," 
A  good,  fierce  God  to  swear  by,  all  he  needs — 
Little  canst  thou,  whose  creed  around  tliee  hangs 
Loose  as  thy  summer  war-cloak,  guess  the  panjjs 
Of  loathing  and  self-scorn  with  which  a  heart. 
Stubborn  as  mine  is,  acts  the  zealot's  part — 
The  deep  and  dire  disgust  with  which  I  wade 
Through  the  foul  juggling  of  this  holy  trade — 
This  mud  profound  of  mystery,  where  the  feet, 
At  every  step,  sink  deeper  in  deceit. 
Oh  !  many  a  time,  when,  'mid  the  Temple's  blaze. 
O'er  prostrate  fools  the  sacred  cist  I  raise. 
Did  I  not  keep  still  proudly  in  my  mind 
The  power  this  priestcraft  gives  me  o'er  mankind — 
A  lever,  of  more  might,  in  skilful  hand. 
To  move  this  world,  than  Archimede  e'er  plann'd — 
I  should,  in  vengeance  of  the  shame  I  feel 
At  my  own  mockery,  crush  the  slaves  that  kneel 
Besotted  round ;  and — like  that  kindred  breed 
Of  reverend,  well-dress'd  crocodiles  they  feed. 
At  famed  Arsinoe'" — make  my  keepers  bless, 
With  their  last  throb,  my  sharp-fong'd  Holiness. 

Say,  is  it  to  be  borne,  that  scoffers,  vain 
Of  their  own  freedom  from  the  altar's  chain, 
Should  mock  thus  all  that  thou  thy  blood    hast 

sold. 
And  I  my  truth,  pride,  freedom,  to  uphold  ? 
It  must  not  be: — think'st  thou  that  Christian  sect. 
Whose  followers,  quick  as  broken  waves,  erect 
Their  crests  anew  and  swell  into  a  tide, 
That  threats  to  sweep  away  our  shrines  of  pride — 
Think'st  thou,  with  all  their  wondrous  spells,  even 

they 
Would  triumph  thus,  had  not  the  constant  play 
Of  Wit's  resistless  archery  clear'd  their  way  ? — 
That  mocking  spirit,  worst  of  all  the  foes. 
Our  solemn  fraud,  our  mystic  mummery  knows, 
Whose  wounding  flash  thus  ever  'oiong  the  signs 
Of  a  fast-falling  creed,  prelusive  shines, 


326 


MOOEE'S  WOKKS. 


Threat'ning  such  change  as  do  the  awful  freaks 
Of  summer  lightning,  ere  the  tempest  breaks. 

But,  to  my  point — a  youth  of  this  vain  School, 
But  one,  wliom  Doubt  itself  hath  fail'd  to  cool 
Down  to  that   freezing   point  wliere  Priests  de- 
spair 
Of  any  spark  from  tli'  altiir  catching  there — 
Hath,  some   nights   since — it   was,  raethinks,  the 

niglit 
That  follow'd  the  full  iloon's  great  annual  rite — 
Through  the  dark,  winding  ducts,  that  downward 

stray 
To  these  earth-hidden  temples,  track'd  his  way. 
Just  at  that  hour  when,  round  the  Shrine,  and  me, 
The  choir  of  blooming   nymphs   tliou  long'st  to 

see. 
Sing  tlieir  last  night-hymn  in  the  Sanctuary. 

The  clangor  of  the  marvellous  Gate,  that  stands 
At    the   Well's    lowest   depth — wliich   none    but 

hands 
Of  new,  unt.tught  adventurers,  from  above, 
Wlio  know  not  tjie  s.afe  path,  e'er  dare  to  move — 
Gave  sign.!!  that  a  foot  profane  was  nigh  : — 
'Twas  the  Greek  youlli,  who,  by   that  morning's 

sky, 
Had  been  observed,  curiously  wand'ring  round 
The  mighty  fanes  of  our  sepulchral  ground. 

Instant,  th'  Initiate's  Trials  were  prepared, — 
The  Fire,  Air,  Water ;  all  tliat  Orplieus  dared, 
Tliat  Plato,  tliat  the  briglit-liair'd  Saniiaii"  pass'd, 
Witli  trembling  hope,  to  come  to — what,  at  last  ? 
Go,  ask  tlie  dupes  of  Priestcraft !  question  him 
Who;  'mid  terrific  sounds  and  spectres  dim, 
Walks  at  Eleusis;  ask  of  those,  who  brave 
The  dazzling  miracles  of  Jlithra's  Cave, 
With  its  seven  starry  gates ;  ask  all  who  keep 
Tliose  terrible  niglit-mysterics,  wliere  lliey  weep 
And  howl  sad  dirges  to  the  answering  breeze, 
O'er  their  dead  Gods,  their  mortal  Deities — 
Amphibious,  hybrid  things,  tli.it  died  as  men, 
Drown'd,  hang'd,  emp.aled,  to  rise,  as  gods,  again  ; — 
Ask  Oiem,  what  mighty  secret,  lurks  below 
This  seven-folil  mystery — can  they  tell  lliee  ?    No  ; 
Gravely  Iliey  keep  tliat  only  secret,  well 
And  fairly  kept — that  they  have  none  to  tell  ; 
And,    duped    theniKelvcs,  console    their    humbled 

pride 
Uy  duping  thenceforth  all  mankind  beside. 

And  such    tli'   advance   iO   fraud    since   Orpheus' 

;imc — 
Tlial  cnrlii"'t  master  c\'oiir  criifl  sublimu — 


So  many  minor  Mysteries,  imps  of  fraud. 
From  the  great  Orpliic  Egg  have  wing'd  abroad. 
That,  still  t'  uphold  our  Temple's  ancient  boast, 
And  seem  most  holy,  we  must  cheat  the  most ; 
Work  the  best  miracles,  wrap  nonsense  round 
In  pomp  and  darkness,  till  it  seems  profound ; 
Play  on  the  hopes,  the  terrors  of  mankind. 
With  changeful  skill ;  and  make  the  human  mind 
Like  our  own  Sanctuary,  where  no  ray. 
But  by  the  Priest's  permission,  wins  its  way — 
Where  tlirough  the  gloom  as  wave  our  wizard- 
rods. 
Monsters,  at  will,  are  conjured  into  Gods  ; 
While  Reason,  like  a  grave-faced  mummy,  stands, 
With  her  arms  swathed  in  hieroglyphic  bands. 
But  chiefly  in  that  skill  with  which  we  use 
Man's  wildest  passions  for  Religion's  views. 
Yoking  them  to  her  car  like  fiery  steeds. 
Lies  the  main  art  in  which  our  craft  succeeds. 

And  oh  !  be  blest,  ye  men  of  yore,  whose  toil 
Hath,   for    her    use,   scoop'd    out    from   Egypt'i 

soil 
This  hidden  Paradise,  this  mine  of  fanes, 
Gardens,  and  palaces,  where  Pleasure  reigns 
In  a  rich,  sunless  empire  of  her  own, 
With  all  earth's  luxuries  lighting  up  her  throne ; — 
A  realm  for  mystery  made,  which  undermines 
The   Nile   itself,   and,  'neath   the    Twelve   Great 

Shrines 
That  keep  Iiiilialion's  holy  rite. 
Spreads  its  long  labyrinths  of  unearthly  light, 
A   light  that  knows   no   change — its   brooks  that 

run 
Too  deep  for  day,  its  gardens  without  sun, 
Where  soul  and  sense,  by  turns,  are  charm'd,  sur- 
prised. 
And  all  that  bard  or  prophet  e'er  devised 
For  man's  Elysium,  priests  have  realized. 

Here,  at  this  moment — all  his  trials  past. 
And  heart  and  nerve  unshrinking  to  the  last— - 
Our  new  Initiate  roves — as  yet  left  free 
To  wander  through  this  realm  of  mystery  ; 
Feeding  on  such  illusions  as  jwepare 
The  soul,  like  mist  o'er  waterfalls,  to  wear 
All  shapes  and  hues,  at  Fancy's  varying  will. 
Through  every  shifliiig  aspect,  vapor  still  ; — 
Vague  glimpses  of  the  Future,  vistas  shown, 
By  scenic  skill,  into  that  world  unknown, 
Which  saints  and  sinners  claim  alike  their  own  ; 
And  all  those  other  witching,  wildering  arts, 
!  Illusions,  terrors,  that  make  human  hearts, 
Ay,  even  the  wisest  and  the  hardiest,  qu.ail 
To  any  goblin  Ihroni'd  luliiml  n  veil. 


ALCIPflRON. 


827 


Yea — such  tlie  spells  shall  haunt  his  oyo,  his  ear, 
Mix  with  his  nighUdieams,  form  his  atmosphere  ; 
Till,  if  our  Sage  be  not  lamed  down,  at  Icngtli, 
His  wit,  his  wisdom,  sliorii  of  all  their  strength, 
Like  Phrygian  priests,  in  honor  of  the  shrine — 
If  lie  become  not  absolutely  mine, 
Body  and  soul,  and,  like  the  tame  decoy 
Which  wary  hunters  of  wild  doves  employ, 


Draw  converts  also,  lure  his  brother  wits 
To  the  dark  cage  where  his  own  spirit  flits, 
And  give  us,  if  not  saints,  good  hypocrites — 
If  I  effect  not  this,  then  be  it  said 
Tlie  ancient  spirit  of  our  craft  hath  fled, 
Gone  with  that  serpent-god  the  Cross  hath  chased 
To  hiss  its  soul  out  in  the  Theban  waste. 
*  *  «  *  « 


NOTES. 


<\)  Cleopatra. 

(2)  Apellcs. 

\S}  See  Notes  on  the  Epicurean. 

li)  Tho  Hermes  Triamegistug, 

(5)  Tlie  great  Festival  of  the  Moon. 

(6)  BubastiSj  or  Ibis,  was  the  Diana  of  tho  Kgyptian  my- 
tlclogy. 


0)  The  Ibia. 

(8)  Necropolis,  or  the  City  of  the  Dead,  to  the  south  of 
Memphis. 

(9)  These  songs  of  the  Well,  as  they  were  called  by  the  an- 
cients, are  still  common  in  the  Greek  isles. 

(10)  For  the  trinkets  with  which  the  eacrod  Cn  tcodilea  were 
ornamented,  see  the  Epicurean,  chap.  x. 

(11)  Pythagoras. 


«R]|    BITB 


^-U5'i^' 


UC  SOUTHERN  HtCIONW  I IBRAR'  rWIITY 


D  000  979  260    7 


m- 


..n\> 


\ 

|^^".>,/'"  .^\..'^'      r 

;^kjv^  S'^v   '  #  ^. , 

i 

w'^;:^ -:%' 

i 

« 

:4 

If: 

"  X^?. 


mwnvjMs 


(.■■  \  I 


.'   • 

ii-  jl 

1   L         !  i 

) 

•■X.' ' 

» 

■  ■•■'    <  i 

\  .1  \ 


l/\.  \  I 


m 

fM 

I     , 

''\  %  \ 

-\\\ 


1-^  M  ( 


. :  i 


-j;.^:^  i";^ 


9i^%v%  »/<bnii  f  «».-,i.i  .^ '^ r t iWPt^^f 


V.<  ..  - 


